Free The Painted Darkness by Brian Keene, Brian James Freeman Page A

made entirely of metal and asbestos. Although the middle is still firmly attached to the floor, the twisting pipes have transformed into scaly arms—dozens of them, reaching and twisting and pulling. The boiler’s metal door on the fat belly grins at Henry, showing a frightening hint of the raging fire inside.
    The monster says: “Hello, Henry.” Henry gasps as the memories come pouring back: the woods that snowy day when he was five, the tree house, the river, his father’s apparent death, and most importantly, his father’s return that evening, alive and well with not a mark on him. Henry had locked these memories into the furthest corner of his mind, behind a wall of stone he didn’t realize was there.
In this moment, as Henry faces another monster, he understands those events were all true—not necessarily real, but true. Everything may not have happened exactly the way he thought it was happening—his imagination was a wild place—but there was an underlying truth to what he saw. Which means…
“None of this is real,” Henry whispers.
“Silly little boy. You accepted me as real when you were still wetting the bed. You can’t back out now.”
Henry considers this and says: “I don’t want this to be real.”
“Henry, I didn’t call myself into this world. That beautifully twisted mind of yours did. You called me, you keep me. That’s the way life works.”
“Then go away. I’ll make you go away.”
One of the monster’s scaly arms rises and points at the flaming mop, which looks much less impressive in the light of the boiler’s flaming belly. The monster says: “You think a little fire will stop me from eating your family? I’m a fat bear with my own fire in my belly, you silly little boy.”
The boiler shivers as the asbestos continues the transformation into sharp scales. The top of the boiler bulges into a meaty hunchback, the flesh writhing and twitching. The metal door grins at Henry, showing off newlygrown fangs.
Henry realizes the mistake he has made. Fire isn’t going to do anything to stop this creature. It loves fire and heat. It lives for the fire.
Henry takes a step backwards, throws the flaming mop in desperation, and then he sprints up the stairs again. The boiler swallows the mop in one big gulp.
“You can run from me, Henry,” the monster calls, “but I’ll always find you. I’ll always be with you, no matter how far or how fast you run! You called me, remember?”
Henry hears this but he doesn’t really hear it. He’s bounding up the steps two at a time and through the first floor, not even seeing the smashed furniture and broken plaster and all the damage the boiler inflicted upon the house with those dreadful arms.
Once in the attic, Henry slams the door and falls to his knees. His heart is pounding and tears are dotting his face. He holds his head with his hands, pulling at his hair, and he studies what remains of his studio.
Paintings are shredded—including the Princess in the Dungeon series he never liked anyway—and paint is spilled everywhere. There are splashes of red on the walls, white on the ceiling, blue on the floor, green on the window.
A single blank canvas remains untouched in the middle of the room.
Just start at the beginning, Henry’s father whispers in his mind, and the rest will take care of itself.
“The beginning? What does that mean?”
Just start at the beginning.
“This afternoon when I couldn’t paint?”
Further back.
Henry closes his eyes. “The Princess in the Dungeon?”
Further.
Henry pulls his hair. The pain is sharp and his mind flashes on an image of a tree house and the coldness of the snow and the ice on the river and….
“The day when I was five?”
Yes! is the thunderous reply.
And finally Henry understands. The answer was there in his father’s advice all along. He grabs a blank canvas and his paint palette and he shoves a brush into his pocket. He runs downstairs toward the cellar, again taking the steps two at a time,