Free Fishing in Brains for an Eye with Teeth (Thirteen Tales of Terror) by William Markly O'Neal

“First,” said the fiend, “we must punish Peter for the unforgivable way he welcomed you to Paintersville.”
    Windows rattled as wind pounded the church.  Outside, the leading edge of the storm-front arrived, bearing rain.
    Inside the chapel, the Painter took the portrait away from Lummox and, after a hand flourish and a “Ta-dah!” he turned it around for Talytha to see.
    The man in the green cap who went berserk in the store and bashed her in the head with a shovel was, indeed, Peter Proctor.  This portrait of Pete was wearing his green baseball cap; it depicted just his head and shoulders; and the portrait was animated . Peter was holding his painted face in his painted hands and crying his painted eyes out.
    This was the weeping she’d been hearing since Lummox returned.  A living man was trapped in oils.
    So many thoughts struck Talytha’s mind simultaneously, she was dizzied to the point of almost swooning.  Seeing the moving painting was the most mind-boggling, most terrifying sight she’d ever seen.  Pete’s anguish was palpable, rolling out of the portrait like waves of bitter torment.
    All the many things she had seen and heard since she came to Paintersville suddenly made more sense.
    She knew, for instance, Maleeka wasn’t hung on a meat-hook somewhere.
    She was hung flat on a framed canvas.
    Talytha Taylor screamed. 
    When Painted Peter Proctor was startled by her shrieks— he opened his puffy eyes, looking directly at her— and Talytha screamed even louder.
    The Sheriff grabbed Talytha by her shoulders and smacked her face, turning her screams into sobs.
    The Painter tilted his head and stuck a finger in his ear.  “Thank you, Sheriff.”  He sighed. “I’m surprised I’m not deaf by now.”
    Lummox snorted laughter.  “Why do they always have to scream, huh, Boss?”
    The Painter rolled his eyes. “Moron.”
    The naked artist took Peter’s portrait from Lummox and walked to the far side of the stage, away from the baby crib and his current work in progress.  Above a blackened spot on the stage, a long wire was draped over the rafters.  Talytha watched with queasy fascination as the Painter hung the painting on a hook, then pulled the wire and hoisted the portrait a few feet into the air. 
    Meanwhile, the picture of Peter Proctor pled for its life.  “Please, no!  Don’t DO this!  I thought she was going to get away!  I thought you’d want me to stop her!”
    Opening the can of lighter fluid, the Painter walked over to the portrait and calmly replied, “I did want you to stop her.”
    “I knew that,” babbled Peter’s portrait.  “I knew you’d want to paint her, just like you did her sister.  And I knew the troubles Maleeka gave you!  I thought you’d want me to prevent this one from getting away!”
    The Painter squirted lighter fluid on the hanging painting as he skipped around it in a circle. “I do want to paint her.  And I remember, better than anyone, the trouble Maleeka gave me.”
    “Then you don’t need to—!”
    The Painter interrupted the painting, “BUT...”  He glanced at Talytha, then at Lummox.  “What’s the rule when relatives come to town, Lummox?”
    “Subdue but don’t injure.  Don’t bloody ‘em.”
    The Painter repeated, “‘Don’t bloody them.’”  He reached up, underneath his wild hair, and pulled out a match from behind his ear. 
    An hour earlier, after this man bashed Talytha in the skull with a shovel, if someone had offered to hang green-capped Peter Proctor from the highest tree, she would have joyfully provided the rope.  Now, however, she felt none of that need for vengeance.  Certainly this wasn’t justice .  This hideous punishment did not fit his crime.
    So she groaned, “Don’t do it.”
    The Painter stopped, gave Talytha a long look, one eyebrow raised, then he flicked the match afire with his thumb and casually tossed it at the painting.
    A whoosh of fire reverberated through the sanctuary.
    As