The Painting at Redfield Inn
by H. E. Vogl
Samuel Mackenzie first saw it at The Redfield Inn. The painting, an impasto oil mounted in an unremarkable gilt frame, hung askew on the wall adjacent to the landing. Sam stopped and lowered his glasses to get a better look. The painting depicted a stark landscape with a winding road that disappeared into the horizon. And along the side of the road a single cactus. Why would the owner choose to display a scene so bleak? he wondered.
The door to their room creaked open and light spilled onto the top of the staircase. “Come on, Sam,” his wife Joan said. “Don’t you want to get laid?”
“On my way,” he said tearing his eyes from the painting. Sam ran up to the room and launched himself onto the bed.
“What were you doing?”
“Looking at a painting.”
“Better than me,” she said peeling off a stocking.
“Hardly,” he said tugging on a shoe. “It was just unusual, dark, desolate.”
“Enough doom and gloom,” she said wrestling him flat on the bed.
* * *
Sam opened his eyes to see dusty light streaming through the curtains. Joan was awake, her back propped against the headboard reading. “Did you know this place is haunted?” she said.
“All these old places are haunted. It’s good for business.”
Joan dropped the brochure. “I’m going to haunt you unless I get some coffee.”
“Be right back,” he said.
Sam slid his hand along the rail as he scurried down the stairs. When he got to the landing, he stopped. Faint sunlight reflected off the wall where the painting hung, revealing streaks of burnt orange. And closer to the horizon, a second cactus, smaller than the first. Didn’t notice it last night. Must’ve been the light.
Downstairs, he picked up a pot of coffee and a small plate of muffins. He trotted up the stairs and stopped at the door. Balancing the plate, he threaded his fingers through the handle of the pot and twisted the doorknob. Unconsciously, he turned back to the landing. “It’s only a painting,” he mumbled.
After breakfast, they went downstairs to explore the town. Brighter light illuminated the painting. Now, globs of yellow danced under the hellish sky. Sam turned away and hurried down the stairs.
It was late morning when they trudged back to the inn. The manager was at the front desk shuffling papers. He looked over his half-frames and asked, “Pleasant day, isn’t it?”
“The lakefront’s magnificent,” Joan said. “We stopped for a quick lunch. We’re going to play doubles with the couple we met at dinner last night.”
The manager smiled. As Joan started to walk upstairs, Sam stopped and turned back to the manager. “That painting on the landing,” he said, pointing. “Who did it?”
The manager took off his glasses and set them down on the counter. “Funny you should ask. It was painted by an artist named Rubin Hendrot. Well known in his time. He loved his stay at the inn so much that he gave the previous owner the painting.”
“That’s all?” Sam asked.
The manager hung on to the counter and hobbled around to the front. “There is a darker aspect,” he said. “The story goes that the following year when Hendrot visited the inn he had an argument with the owner about an unpaid bill. Hendrot went up the stairs to take the painting back. The owner followed him. They struggled and Hendrot fell down the stairs, breaking his neck. Right about where you’re standing.”
Sam took a quick sidestep and let out an unconvincing chuckle.
“Legend has it that Hendrot has haunted the inn ever since.”
“A story like that’s got to be good for business.”
“It was, long ago. Now, most years we barely break even.”
Sam nodded, and the manager went back to shuffling papers. When he got to the landing, Joan was waiting. “When I looked at the painting this morning, there was only a single cactus,” Sam said.
“Looks like a cross to me,” she said.
“Now look over here,” Sam said pointing. “Doesn’t that look like the start of a second whatever? It wasn’t there yesterday.”
“You probably didn’t notice it. Hurry up; we need to be on the court in twenty minutes.”
Sitting on the bed, Sam spun the racket in his hand. How could he have missed something so obvious?
“What are you doing?” Joan said.
“Just thinking... um about getting a new racket.”
“You’re not going to play better than you have been.”
Sam picked up his jacket and followed Joan down the stairs.
Sam stopped and shouted, “I knew it!”
Joan turned to see Sam staring at the painting. She watched as he leaned closer, his nose almost touching the canvas.
“Come up here,” he said, frantically waving his racket.
“Look,” Sam said extending a finger to a spot near the left side of the painting.
“What?”
“Don’t you see it?”
“There’s nothing there.”
“That’s what I mean. An hour ago, there was the beginning of another whatever.”
Joan shook her head. “You need some air. Let’s go.”
Sam followed, all the while looking back at the painting. His foot caught on the riser, and he grabbed the handrail. Downstairs, the manager was standing behind the counter. “Careful on those stairs, Mr. Mackenzie. They’re old and uneven.”
“The painting... It’s changed.”
The manager smiled. “Yes, people say that. I imagine that’s where the story of the haunting came from. I assure you it’s only an optical illusion.”
Sam was about to disagree, but he saw the manager’s dismissive smile and went out the door to catch up with Joan.
* * *
“Not only was your game awful but you made a fool of yourself ranting about the painting,” Joan said.
“I know what I saw.”
She ignored him and went upstairs to their room.
Sam stopped on the landing. Sweat exploded from his face. Not only was the whatever back, but it was larger. He looked up to the door of their room and yelled to Joan. No response. Sam raced down the steps to find the manager. Halfway down he slipped, and hardwood rang like a bell as his head hit the lobby floor.
A woman coming through the front door screamed, and the manager hobbled from behind the desk to see if Sam was all right. He grabbed the rail and knelt, extending his bony fingers to check for a pulse. Then he stopped. The twisted neck and bulging eyes told him it was useless.
Joan gave the police a tearful account of the events of the day. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “He yelled, then I heard him running down the stairs. He’s been upset about that painting,” Joan said pointing to the landing.
“Mr. Mackenzie did inquire about the painting,” the manager said. “I told him the story of Hendrot, and the incident on the stairs.”
“Heard it all before,” the cop said. “All these old places on the lake have a story, but this guy believed it, huh?”
The cop put his arm on the newly minted widow’s shoulder and escorted her to the patrol car.
After the ambulance pulled away, the manager went to the base of the staircase. He grabbed the railing and pulled his legs up the steps. When he got to the landing he stood in front of the painting. He studied it for a moment. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the canvas. The manager smiled. This would be good for business.
Copyright © 2022 by H. E. Vogl
