The Haunting of Dora Midas

by: Gammon Brooks

She hung on the wall as a brooding reminder of a life lost long ago. Her eyes unforgivingly glared through my soul providing a daily reminder of everything I had and everything I had no more. All that remained was a portrait and the pain every time I walked by the room where it hung. What was once my most prized possession slowly evolved into my greatest regret.

My thought was simple. All I wanted was a picture to encapsulate my wife’s beauty and keep it for eternity; our eternity at least. The picture had to be as realistic as possible, like she was looking in a mirror. I had the means to make this happen, but finding the right guy, well that was nearly impossible. I searched around town looking in every art museum I could, even some smaller galleries, but I couldn’t find the style I was looking for. So I resigned to placing an ad in the paper. It read:

Looking for an artist to paint the most life like portrait of my wife. Will pay handsomely. Inquire with ed.

After a slew of artists came knocking to inquire, and none of them were to the standards that I was looking for, I gave up. I apologized to my wife, who frankly seemed indifferent about the entire project and relieved she didn’t have to pose for more amateur artists.

After several months had passed, a mysterious figure knocked slowly three times on the door. “Is this the home asking for a portrait?” If it wasn’t for the expense of the endeavor I would have forgotten completely about it. He held a tattered newspaper in his hands with the ad I placed showing on the outside. His clothing was mud caked, torn and tattered leaving me to believe that this was his only outfit he had worn weeks. Even his shoes looked peculiar, both different in size and his toes were visible through the left foot’s shoe.

“It is, well it was.” Judging by his dirty appearance this was just another money grab. “We are no longer in need of a portrait, but thanks for coming.” I began to close the door when he stuck his foot in the doorjamb stopping it from sealing.

“Let me guess. You never got what you wanted, gave up, stopped looking, moved on, etcetera, etcetera. Does that sound about right?” It was, but I couldn’t let him know that.

“Can you please remove your foot?” It was time to go. I forced his foot out and quickly shut the door.

“I will return in two weeks time,” he said though the closed door. “I will need two basic things from you when I return. I will require a month’s lodging and I will need all supplies furnished. Until I return, I will leave this painting with you, as evidence of what I can do. Just be careful not to leave it on its side or you will flood your house.” Through the peephole I saw him leave the painting, turn and leave. One thing was for certain, neither him nor that picture was coming in the house.

It sat on the porch, untouched, until my wife, bless her heart, was watering her plants and brought it in. “What’s this?” She asked of me, holding it out like a kid winning a prize. “I kind of like it. Did you know this was outside?”

“Yes, some strange man brought it. I wasn’t going to mess with it.”

“But did you look at it? It’s a vineyard, but not only that, it looks almost real. I’m going to hang it.”

“Don’t hang it.”

“I’m going to hang it.”

“Don’t. I don’t want to keep it. Besides, you always hang things crooked.”

“Too late.”

“Great.” My enthusiasm couldn’t have been lower.

“Um.” She said from the other room.

“What?!”

“It’s leaking.”

“How can a picture that’s been outside for nearly two weeks (has it really been two weeks almost?) be leaking. It should be beyond dry by now.”

“Oh my. Come quick!” She shouted. “It’s pouring wine!” This was the most absurd thing I’ve heard her say, and she has said some crazy things in the past. It wasn’t what she said that made me rush into the room, it was the urgency of how she said it.

“Good God. Stop it!” For once, she was right. “How did you let this happen?”

“I… I Didn’t.” But the floor was already drenched in red wine that was visibly still flowing from the picture.

I grabbed the picture, ran it down the hall, opened the front door and threw it as hard as I could. Wine was spiraling out from both sides, red out of one and white out of the other, as it flew across the yard. A trail of red followed me the entire way. We spent the next few days cleaning the mess and ruining every scrap of fabric we had in the process. Then I heard it: three slow knocks again.

My wife looked at me to go answer the door. I ignored it with every passion in my soul. “Are you going to get that.”

“Don’t answer that door. If it’s who I think it is, he’s caused enough of a mess.”

“What if it isn’t who you think it is?”

“Then they can come back.”

“I’m going to look anyways.”

“Great.” My enthusiasm couldn’t possibly find a lower place.

Moments later she returned, and brought a visitor. “This is Mr. Vascan, and he said he is here to paint my picture?” She let him in. I was wrong, my enthusiasm dug a hole and popped up on the other side of the earth.

“Mr. Vascan, you said?”

“Just Vascan, is fine. And I see you discovered the trick with the vineyard portrait.”

“Trick? That trick flooded an entire room, ruining everything in it!” I shouted in frustration.

“I did try to warn you.”

“You call that a warning? If that is the type of ‘artistry,’ I don’t think we want your services here. Go ahead and pack up and go back wherever you came from.” I stormed out of the room. I was fuming by this point. It wasn’t until my wife beckoned me for dinner did I realize how long I threw my tantrum and came back to the real world. Except he was still here, already eating away.

“I said he could stay,” my wife said as I came into the dining room with a noticeable grimace on my face.

“Shall we discuss art?” He asked as I entered the room.

“Fine,” I felt powerless by this point. “The painting I request is a portrait of my wife, Dora. I placed an ad in the paper for artists who could produce the most realistic images. Unfortunately, none sufficed to my expectations,” I reported.

“Yes, I know. Someone showed me this advertisement. I had a copy that brought me here. It was…” he hesitated with an air of disdain, “quaint.”

“Quaint?” I was shocked. “If you saw it, why come now?” All this time I had been searching, and he ignored the ad; I was fuming again.

“Sir, my art is something of a rare value to me. My art takes substantial energy and exhausts life out of me. I pick my employers by my own inherent value of the project- never the price. I do not simply respond to ads in local tabloids. You see, my art is more than a picture, it is an extension of myself and has a life of its own –”

“Yes,” I groaned, “I’ve seen-”

“That grows and matures after completion. Not like this veal which never had the opportunity, but like,” he picked up his glass, “this wine, which has aged far past simple grapes to make this crimson delicacy.”

“Where did that wine come from?” Wine was not something I itched to see ever again.

“We have a lovely wine stream outside with a little waterfall that I drew it from. Tossing that picture outside was a great improvement. We are the most popular house in the area!” My wife interjected.

“Yes, the wine has a bit of an acrylic taste but one gets used to it fairly quickly.” Vascan said. “As for the portrait you want.”

“Will you do it?” I had long given up, but here we are with a final chance. My wife now suddenly seems enthusiastic about it, for once.

“I will create your picture,” Vascan replied, “but there are conditions.”

“I will do whatever you ask. How much will it cost? How much do you want?” I shouted, “Anything. I can arrange it!”

“My dear sir, my services are contracted with more details than simply money. As you know I will require room and board for over a month. I will leave you entirely to your business and I expect the same granted to me. This also means you, Mrs. Midas, will be at my disposal.”

Room and board for a month?!? “There will be no problem making those arrangements, any others?” I questioned.

“Secondly, you are never to look at any of my work until the finished product is shown. Thirdly, I ask that you furnish all of the supplies that I require for this project. There is a good possibility you have this already from your previous attempts. We will settle on the final payments upon completion and approval: my approval.” When Vascan finished I looked to my wife and sighed. Lord help us, we finally found our painter.

“But I have questions for you, Mr. Midas.” Vascan said pushing away his untouched meal. “What exactly is your occupation and what makes this portrait so important to you to go through such great lengths to have it produced?”

I sat for a moment, contemplating the best way to respond but making it appear I was chewing on a particularly juicy piece of meat. “I own the Midas Grocery Stores. Surely you have come across one of my branches. We are, after all, the gold standard in groceries and household needs. No one has a finer, fresher, or better product than Midas.

“I started at the grocery store as a stock boy when I was 14 years old, back when it was Pan’s Grocery. I worked my way up and began to fall in favor with Mr. Pan. I proved my worthiness to him and within a couple of years he allowed me to marry his daughter. When he started getting ill, he left me in charge. Of course, this was back when he owned one grocery store. He passed away, God rest his soul, and the store was willed to his only child, who is now my wife.

“I worked diligently on changing the way the store ran. This helped me expand into what became the gold standard in grocery stores- Midas Grocery.

“As a tribute to Mr. Pan, and to a larger degree for my wife,” I looked over to my wife who appeared oblivious of the conversation and was engrossed in a game of hockey with the vegetables on her plate, “Dora was instrumental in the allocations and distribution of grocery goods in my infancy of running the store. She helped me see better ways to make improvements on what we were already mastering.”

“I drove the car,” interjected Dora, while I gave her a stern look away from Vascan’s view.

“Yes, you drove the car for the deliveries.”

“And Mrs. Midas? What do you do with your time?” The artist inquired.

“I-“ she started to say before I cut her off.

“Since I took over the store, one of my aims was to give her everything she wanted and never have to work. She stopped deliveries and started knitting and watering her 294 plants (‘They’re all fake’ I whispered) around the house. Right hun?”

“There’s 293 now. A couple of them died.”

“How did-? Nevermind. I don’t think I want to know.”

“I am a little weary from travelling,” Vascan continued, “I would like to rest for the night and begin tomorrow.”

“I guess I will escort you to your room, unless my wife objects for some reason.” I gave her a cold look as I said this. As much as I wanted the picture done, I didn’t want him. Not the guy who left the disaster that ruined a room. I was quite conflicted, but I had no other choice but go with it. This is for my wife after all.

Before dawn broke the next morning, Vascan was heard belting my name through the hallways all while pounding on the doors trying to find me with a curious enthusiasm to begin work. Due to my recent work habits I slept no more than a couple of hours and was incredibly groggy (and a bit grouchy) when Vascan pounded on my own bedroom door.

“Midas, it’s time to start, where are you?!”

“Mr. Vascan, it is hardly morning. For what unearthly reason are you stomping through this house disturbing everything?” I snapped at him.

“I am looking for your wife. I would like to begin.”The apparently well rested artist was dressed and ready to work. “I require a thorough view of your wife, excluding no angle or blade of hair, and in all times of the day to see how the natural light manipulates her. Our arrangement was for everything to be at my disposal. Now, please sir, time is being lost. Where is your wife?”

I slowly processed Vascan’s ultimatum in my groggy mind. “Alright, I guess,” I started down the hall. “She is in the third bedroom down the hall on the left. I will go wake her, get her around. She will be in the study within the hour.”

“No, I must have her now- unprepared, unscathed; natural. I must begin with her as she first begins with herself.” I conceded and led Vascan to my wife’s room and woke her by pulling her out of the bed. “Your artist awaits you, oh muse.” She stumbled to find her night gown which was curiously lying under the bed, dressed, found one house shoe and began to leave the room.

“This is her washroom,” I noted. “She is generally only a moment in there. You may take her after, if you don’t mind.”

The study had the supplies collected in the corner of the room. Vascan had already arranged them, placed a canvas on the easel, and covered it with the same red velvet cloth which hid the empty frame from my wife’s birthday. He placed the remaining canvas by the door to take to his own room to work on when time allotted.

For the following two weeks, Vascan sat my wife in a rickety chair and starred at her for two hours. Sometimes he sat her early in the morning, and other times late into the evening. Each night when he was through inspecting her, Vascan would dine with us. I would inevitably ask how the picture was developing and each night the artist would respond “splendidly.” Dora complained of sitting too much.

After the initial weeks of starring at her under different lights, he became more tactile. One day he did no more than hold her hands. On another day he would braid her hair (this was her favorite) to get a feeling of the hair. One day he even traded clothing with her to have a closer feel of her from the inside (this was her least favorite day as she was quite a bit taller than him and his clothing did not fit comfortably). Still, the canvas remained untouched behind the velvet curtain. I eventually stopped asking about the progress. Vascan refused to acknowledge any headway and Dora was oblivious to the progress.

From the supplies I bought a month earlier, several paintbrushes rested untouched, as did the paints and extra canvases. Vascan made a peculiar decision to surround his room with the blank slates where they rested untouched.

On the next visit with her, Vascan brought out a pair of scissors. “Today I must cut off part of your hair. It is necessary as it will bring life to this lifeless paintbrush, and then you may leave” he said showing her the bristle-less stick. He snipped enough hair to fabricate a paintbrush and Dora left, fingering her scalp for the missing hair on the back of her head.

Vascan spent the next few days and nights in his room, rarely exiting, furiously at work on the extra pieces of canvas he laid around his room. ‘Was this some new method?’ I pondered after failing to see my guest for several days. I decided to take a peek at the hidden slate in the study to see how much he had left to complete only to find the canvas a completely bare. “This man has wasted my time!” I angrily stormed out of the study, inadvertently knocking over some paint. ‘I’ll get to that later,’ I thought to myself.

After days and nights of working in solitude, Vascan joined us for supper. Knowing what was under the velvet, I asked, “How is the painting coming along? By my count we are on the… 37th day is it?”

“My work is nearly completed. Yes, it is coming along splendidly. I will require rest for the next day and then I will put whatever finishing touches on the portrait. Please have little worry that everything will be ready for you by the 40th day.” He said with a sheepish grin. “But I do have one question. Do you have any knowledge of someone disturbing the study while I was away? I noticed the red paint had been spilled.” Vascan starred directly at me. I stumbled in his thoughts for an answer which dissuaded any implication of myself in the room.

“No sir.” I was startled at what I presumed was an accusation. “I have seen no one entering that room.” I buried my guilt behind semantics.

“Then may I suggest, after my leaving of course, that you have someone come inspect a bleeding floor.” Vascan chuckled at his own joke while I nervously swallowed the last bits of my dinner.

“I have retrieved as much of the red paint as I could but I am unsure if I have enough to complete your portrait. If this is the case, then I fear you will be gravely disappointed.” I felt the same anger that I felt when I saw the blank canvas. ‘Was this Vascan’s way of saying he must have more time to finish? Or was nothing going to be finished?’ “Unless there is more at your store, but I failed to see any when I was there the other day.”

“I will check when I am there. Is there anything else you will need?” I grunted.

“On the day after tomorrow,” started Vascan, “I will require a glass of water placed outside the study door, each hour, on the chime. It must be accompanied by two knocks on the door to simply indicate its presence. I was perplexed at such an odd request, knowing there has been no development of the painting, but I had to play along as to lead Vascan in a direction away from suspicions that I looked under the velvet covering. “You will provide a total of 20 glasses of water, knocking three times on the final glass. Place the water on a three foot tall table outside the door. I shall otherwise be undisturbed.”

I accidently scoffed at him. I knew full well he had not begun on the picture, but by this time a few more days is trivial to the past few weeks. “I will personally ensure your request.”

“If everything proceeds according to plan,” Vascan stated as he rose from his chair, “you will be delighted at the final product. If anything is not followed through to the slightest detail, I’m afraid the end product will be less than what you have asked for.” After giving his warning, Vascan disappeared to his room. For the entire following day, his heavy snoring rumbled half of the house. Three passersby knocked on the door requesting information to the thunderous roar coming from the second story window. No one in the house could get any sleep for the full day Vascan lay unconscious in his roaring slumber.

Vascan awoke in the early hours of the morning on the next day while the moon still floated high in the blackened sky. He walked into the study, closed the door, and that was the last I saw of him. Before long I knocked at the door introducing the first glass of water. His eyes appeared closed even while retrieving the water which he used to clean his brush. As Vascan continued his work, my knocks appeared to get closer and closer and the water more frequent until he heard the final third knock. For the first time that day, he opened his eyes to see what he had accomplished, looked at the creation, sighed, and walked out of the room. He grabbed the final water and inhaled his first drink of the day, dropped the glass, shattering it on the floor, and hazily stumbled to his room where he collapsed face down on the bed.

Vascan grumbled and looked around. “I did not have enough supplies. Someone tampered with the room. There was not enough paint. The portrait will be left incomplete.” He stopped himself and rose to his feet. “But I have an idea which might help. Misses, may I see your hand a moment?” Dora gave him her hand and he quickly pricked her finger before she could reconsider her decision. A droplet of blood began to grow over the finger. He rushed to get the same brush he used to work on the entire painting, and poured drops of her crimson blood over the bristles of her hair, then disappeared into the study again.

A few moments later, Vascan returned in the bedroom. “The picture is now complete, sir.” I remained skeptical; everything so far seemed preposterous. “We may now talk about payments.”

I looked at him questioningly. “Shall we see the work first?”

“Before I show you the final image, I must provide you the details of the payment arrangements. For this portrait, I will accept no reimbursement. I simply ask for half of your yearly salary to be donate to charity each year.” My smile began to waiver. “Each year before your wife’s birthday, a message will be sent to you indicating the charity for your donation. If no message is received by the day of her birthday, then your payment will go to the same charity as the previous year.”

I took a moment to ponder this request. I had seen blank canvas a few days ago, and then the unusual display a few moments before, there is no way this image could live up to my expectations. “And what if the painting is not what I want?” There had to be a loophole somewhere.

“Then I will take the image with me and dispose of it as I please, and everything will be settled.” He paused to allow me time to absorb this information. “Shall we proceed to the next room?” We followed the artist into the study. Vascan removed the velvet which covered the canvas for the past forty days.

Her complexion was softened by the fading light from the window, yet the picture provided little sympathy to her wrinkles and age lines. Her hair appeared to move with the breeze as if someone passed by the picture. Her cheeks were full of spirit, roused up with the final strokes of Vascan’s bloody brush. Yet, I was disturbed by her eyes; everywhere I walked in the room, the eyes seemed to follow, tracking me and judging me along the way.

“It’s marvelous,” I praised. “It’s more than I imagined. She looks… she looks more real here, than, well here.” I added pointing to Dora. “This picture is worth half my salary. How did you do this?”

“It may be my work, but it is her soul in the image. But I warn you now that failing to comply with your end of the agreement risks losing everything you love and everything you think you love.”

I offered a final supper to Vascan before his departure but was declined. “Your altruism has exceeded my expectations but my contract with you has expired. I must be on my way now.” Vascan allowed no argument to this and departed the house carrying the same belongings he arrived with: none.

With the prized portrait now in my possession, I thought little of the price I would pay, and chose to display the portrait in the grocery store- her store- watching over everyone. The menacing eyes gave nightmares to several employees of the store, but the faint curl of her grin enticed kids to gawk at the picture, staring and pointing at the picture in pensive horror.

Several months later a letter was delivered by hand to the house. Its contents were instructions to donate the money to a local homeless shelter. My accountant had already prepared an invoice reflecting my salary and how much I would ultimately donate. I was taken aback by the staggering number but still obliged.

As I did the following year.

And the year after.

And for several years to come.

Each year my grocery store was making more money and each year I had to pay more to whichever charity. After the third year of hemorrhaging money, I decided to raise the prices. My lifestyle depended on profits. I decided to raise costs a penny per anniversary of owning the masterpiece.

This plan proved effective. By each anniversary I had practically replenished my lost earnings from the year before. This pattern of increased prices worked well but eventually the customers stopped visiting my stores. As long as my profits stayed strong, I wasn’t too concerned. ‘One or two customers could leave,’ I thought, ‘the store will go on without them.’

By my wife’s 50th birthday no message had been received. I vaguely remembered something about continually sending the salary donation to the same as the previous donation. I reluctantly sent the check to the Orphans for Starving Artist’s Foundation and still raised prices.

The following years still had no letter. By her 55th year, I had decided Vascan had passed away, presumably from starvation or freezing from inclement weather. I decided, with some deliberation, to forgo the donation this year.

After being under the watchful gaze of the portrait for over 15 years, my own paranoia had me thinking its eyes were staring directly at me and I simply refused to accept its condescending glare; especially since I was no longer making donations. I swear the eyes appeared to have more wrinkles and the hair seemed thinner and grayer. MY paranoia led me to ask a few of the staff, but of course they denied noticing any changes. ‘Those liars,’ I thought to myself. ‘Always trying to tell me what I want to hear.’ I refused to allow a guilty conscious to control me so I removed the painting from the store and returned it home. Besides, it was coming up on my own birthday.

Dora’s favorite excursion from home became my birthday. Dora seldom left the house otherwise, unless she accompanied me to some dinner or charity event. We would usually walk to my favorite steakhouse where I received a free birthday steak. That year my birthday came on a particularly wet day. “Are you sure you want to walk in this rain?” she asked.

“The rain has stopped. We’ll be fine. Look,” I said pointing out of the window, “the clouds are opening and letting in some sunlight. See? The sky is clearing up already. Besides, we have an umbrella and we are walking down the street two blocks.”

“I guess you’re right,” she acquiesced; and for the most part I was. The walk to the restaurant was rain free and the clouds appeared to be dispersing. We walked with the umbrella in tow, placed it in the umbrella stand outside the restaurant and went inside for our reservation. This year, I even allowed her to order her own steak and she ordered her favorite: prime rib.

By the time we had finished and were ready to leave the restaurant, it was dark outside and the rain had restarted. Dora stepped out first while I finished paying. I stepped out just in time to watch her lift the umbrella over her head and disappear with the water that had collected inside the closed umbrella. All that was left was her clothes in a wet pile next to the sopping half open umbrella.

I gathered her wet clothes and tried to chase the colored rush of water down the street but it was no use, she was gone. After a long night pleading for help from several people, I felt ignored as a senile old man, and gave up; even my receipt from the restaurant indicated one person ate- prime rib- my favorite.

I sullenly walked home, without the umbrella. I no longer wanted to hold the contraption since I blamed ‘it’ for the disappearance of my wife. Besides, I would rather the rain mask my tears. No one noticed me walking alone, no one stopped me, no one seemed to care about the elderly man walking alone, without an umbrella in the rain, sobbing.

I spent more time dedicated to work, spending eighteen hours or more at the grocery store, trying to find ways to increase the diminishing profits. I was hemorrhaging too much money now and was on my way to bankruptcy. I had already lost the majority of the staff, some of the stores closed and my regular customers began shopping at the new supermarket in town.

I moved to my wife’s room after she disappeared. Her glaring portrait over her bed reminded me of my loneliness. Day by day, the picture appeared to age and somehow money formed in the background- and this was money I desperately wanted in my palms but was unable to touch.

On what would have been her 60th birthday I resolved two things. I was going to close the store and file for bankruptcy. The pomp and circumstance that was prominent when I first expanded the stores seemed trivial. Each day I walked home alone, now penniless, to a room haunted with a portrait of my late wife who was richer than me. After all of these years, it broke me.

I miss her terribly. I missed her smell after a long day of plant watering. I missed her touched, her warmth, after I came home from a bad day at the store. I even missed the sound of her snore, knowing she was deeply and peacefully in comfortable sleep. In a foolish rage of guilt, I took a flame to the mocking portrait. Shock and horror became the portraits expression as her body cowered away from the flames consuming the frame. I no longer wished to see her, staring at her disapproving gaze on me. I tore her off the wall from the slightly scorched corner and threw the portrait on the bed, and left it there to burn.

I ran out of the room, out of the house, to the wine river coming from my yard, straight to the picture and yelled, “Vascan, where are you?!!” I shook the picture so violently that birds flying overhead got sprayed with wine.

I don’t remember much of what happened next. All I did remember was getting pounded in the chest by someone from the fire patrol saying, “There you are. There you are.”

They slowly sat me up before saying they had bad news for me. “Your entire house, Mr. Midas, went too fast for us to stop. It was quite incredible. All at once, whoosh, it went up in flames. We are still looking for how this started!”

“You should ask my wife. It started in her room. She was in there. I left to get help. I…” I stopped when I saw another fireman rush toward us.

“This is all we could save,” the new fireman said. “It looks like the frame is gone, but the picture itself, it looks untouched.” The fireman handed the portrait to my reluctant hands. “We thought you’d want this back, since you wife has been missing for a while. Those must be some special paints, huh?” He said walking away.

As the last embers of the house went out and the firemen left, I sat on the outskirts of my property, homeless, holding what remained of my possessions: A rolled up, fire proof portrait of my late wife flooded with more money than I had ever seen. But there was something new, something was written on the back of the canvas.

May this Portrait remind you of what you cherished most. V.

With picture in hand, I sauntered to the shed in the back of the property. The interior was in complete shambles, as if the building had been condemned and occupied by squatters for some time. Forever haunted, this was my new gold standard.

 
 
About the Author 

Gammon Brooks is currently working on his PhD and in his free time likes to write. He has had two works previously published. He also has two boys that keep him busy when he is not writing.