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Hey, this is Dane and this is Scary Stories in Rain. Please join my family and follow this podcast on Spotify or Apple. And if you want the ultimate experience, you can get rid of all of the ads and be entered to win all of my giveaways every month by subscribing for just 299amonth. All of the ads gone, every single giveaway automatically entered. And starting now, today, every Sunday, I'm going to release the ultimate episode. 6 to 12 hours long ultimate Scary Stories for a Rainy Night. Subscriber Exclusive and as a reminder, we are now four months away from my first movie release in theaters. Gale Yellow Brick Road A dark and terrifying reimagining of the wizard of Oz. If you want to check out the first trailer, click the link in the description to this episode and if you're not following my other two podcasts, please go check them out. Scary Stories and Fire and Scary Stories After Dark. The links are in the description. Thank you so much for being here and I really hope you enjoy this episode.
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When I was a child I used to have a dream where I would be mauled by a black panther. There are no panthers here. I live in a small town in southern Ontario with nothing to do, filled with do nothings and semi rural town mice. But in my young mind. All the facts I could pick up about the world outside of our community. Any facts about exotic worlds abroad, large and more interesting animals and things generally not seen around these parts could easily meld together in my dreams. It was a dream I had relatively often and I had nightmares regularly. This is one of those vivid dreams that just stuck with me in the back of my head even into adulthood as I sit here and recall it to you now. I grew up with an avid love of the outdoors and subsequently spent the majority of my life, seasons permitting, hiking, camping and swimming in the tame and domestic landscape of my home county along the north shore of Lake Erie. Eventually I got older, left home, and often I would try to plan vacations all around the province. I camped under the stars in Bruce county and listened to the haunting calls of loons as they sang to each other in the cool late summer night. I slept in a one room cabin and fished for my meals on the still and pristine waters of Marshall Lake near Lake Nipissing. I planned my first portage at age 21 in Algonquin park, where I saw moose, black bears and beavers. The outdoors are what I grew to consider my own individual sacred space. I could go there and be human without all the modern humanity, and still to this day, it is something my life basically revolves around. I have never questioned this, save for one time. Now, I have always seen myself as a rational person. I'm not a snob about religion or people who believe in whatever they do, but I tend to lean towards the side of science and logical thinking more than anything. There are many forces at work, and nearly all of them have rational scientific explanations. Those that don't simply don't yet have solid explanations. Yet. But I have no idea what happened to me during the course of the story that I'm about to share, and I have never experienced anything like it since then. All things considered, I really hope I never do. It was a night I'll never forget, a night when I ventured deep into the heart of the northern Ontario wilderness and came face to face with the unimaginable. I won't tell you exactly where it was, simply to ensure that nobody with inclinations to do so might go looking for a similar experience. The forests here are unlike any I had ever encountered before, dense and ancient, with towering pine and spruce trees that seemed to scrape the very heavens. The ground was blanketed in a lush carpet of moss and ferns, and the air was thick with the scent of pine, pine needles and damp earth. I had set up camp by the shores of a serene mirror like lake, its surface reflecting the canopy of stars overhead. The moon cast an ethereal glow on the landscape, but the silence was unsettling, as if the woods held their breath, concealing secrets as old as time itself. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shaft shadows that danced among the trees, I built a small fire to ward off the encroaching darkness. My curiosity had brought me to this remote corner of northern Ontario. Having long sought to visit more isolated locations further north from Algonquin, the thought of following in the footsteps of my own forebears who came to this country as trappers was something I always wanted to pursue. I imagined them traveling through parts similar to these as they portaged through the thick brush on the way to the nearby river, just out of sight in the now darkening treescape. I take pride in my heritage and the country I live in, and I've always been more than keen to get out there and see everything this beautiful wilderness has to offer. I have seen a lot, and I am well traveled, a seasoned woodsman at this point in my life, there's not much that can shock me out here, but any naturalist will tell you that nature always finds a way to humble those who think they have seen it all. And what happened to me next was something that I never would have anticipated in my life, and it shook me to my core. As I sat by the fire, my heart sank beneath a growing unease, a feeling that I was not alone, that unseen eyes were fixed upon me. I dismissed it as mere paranoia, convincing myself that it was the wild imagination of an urban dweller in the wilderness. Yet the unease persisted, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. Then it happened. A blood curdling howl that pierced the silence of the night. It echoed through the forest, a haunting lament that seemed to reverberate through the very trees themselves. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, and I knew that this was no ordinary sound. The howl came again, closer, this time carrying with it a malevolence that seemed to seep into my very bones. Panic surged within me and I fumbled to grab my flashlight, the feeble beam casting trembling shadows on the ancient trees. And then I saw it. A creature emerged from the shadows, A nightmare in the form of sleek night. Its fur was as dark as the depths of of the abyss, and its eyes, two crimson orbs, burned with an otherworldly fire. It moved with a predatory grace, its sleek form almost melting into the enveloping darkness. My flashlight's beam danced over the creature, revealing gleaming razor Sharp claws that seemed to shimmer in the night. In that moment, the very fabric of reality seems seemed to fray, and I could feel an invasive presence in my mind, like tendrils of darkness wrapping around my thoughts. My voice caught in my throat as I tried to scream, but sheer terror propelled me to my feet and I fled from the campsite, leaving behind my possessions and any semblance of reason. Behind me, I could hear haunting laughter, a sound that reverberated through the ancient trees, and sound seemed to mock my feeble escape. I fled from the campsite, my heart pounding in my chest as I made my way through the tangled undergrowth of the northern Ontario wilderness. The creature, the nightmare with gleaming crimson eyes, pursued me relentlessly, its sinister laughter echoing through the trees. In my frantic rush to escape, I tripped over a gnarled tree root hidden beneath the mossy forest floor. I tumbled forward, hitting the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me. Gasping for breath, I tried to push myself up, but a searing pain shot through my ankle, bringing me back down, flat on my face again. As I looked up from the ground, I could not believe my eyes. The creature, the hulking cat like terror seemed to dematerialize right before me. It was as if it had dissolved into the very shadows it came from. Relief washed over me. I let my guard down, thinking I had escaped. I looked around and saw nothing. As I started to calm down, any sense of ease started to wane as I realized the woods around me were still, as if time had stopped. Not a whisper of the wind or a rustling branch made a sound, and the chatter of frogs and crickets fell mute, as if they had all simply vanished. I quickly got back up on my feet and keeping low and as quiet as possible, started to make my way back out towards the valley that held the nearby dirt road that I took to get into these woods. The way out was still a long ways away, but at least on the trail I could put some serious distance between me and the deeper forest and get back into civilization. But then, out of nowhere, the creature seemed to just sort of spawn in its shape, coming into material form from the darkness. It was there, looming over me with those malevolent crimson eyes as if mocking my brief respite. Panic surged through me once more and I scrambled to get out of there. The chase continued, the creature stalking me with an unearthly determination. I pushed through the wilderness, down into the valley and back onto the path, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps like daggers in my lungs. My heart a relentless drumbeat in My chest no longer a concern. As I sped through the wilderness, the trees seemed to close in around me, the night air growing colder and thicker with each passing moment. I couldn't shake the feeling that this creature, this thing, was toying with me, relishing in the fear it had instilled. The forest itself seemed to conspire against me as if it were a part of the creature's design. With every ounce of strength and determination, I pressed on, driven by the primal instinct to survive and the chilling realization that there was no escape from the unknown terror that lurked in the heart of the wilderness. The pathway seemed to stretch to double, maybe even triple its length. It seemed to wind and veer off in ways that I didn't remember it doing before. At this point, I was so stricken with fear, I couldn't even begin to question it. I just kept moving. There was no way this trail was the wrong one. This was the only access into these woods at the valley. It must have been me. If I didn't die in there, I would surely go mad if I did not escape. After what seemed like hours longer than I knew the journey down the trail to take, I finally came to the familiar landmarks telling me the end to the trail and to where I had parked my truck. I emerged from the wilderness shaken and disoriented, but with an overwhelming sense of relief that I had narrowly escaped a fate worse than death. I can't shake the feeling that that thing still watches and waits just beyond the edge of the darkness in the heart of northern Ontario's ancient and untamed wilderness. Years later, I am still wrapping my head around what happened to me. I haven't really found anything outside the realm of urban legends or cougar encounters. Let me say right now that this creature in my mind could not have been a cougar. This thing was massive. I am aware that in parts it sounds like a cougar account, but this thing howled. I'm not sure what it is that chased me that night, but I am dead certain of two things. One, if that thing got a hold of me, I would have been ripped apart. And no more if I were anything less than the luckiest person on the planet. Two, I have way more of those nightmares of being mauled by a panther these days.
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In 1999 I was in my mid-40s and I just escaped from my stressful and joyless career as a management consultant. I needed a project. I loved small, small period buildings and decided to throw my energy into restoring one. I started combing through auction catalogs in search of a place. Having failed to win a number of London houses that didn't much inspire me anyway, I cast the net wider. My father would often give me advice over the phone. He persuaded me to focus on Derbyshire, a county my family has a strong connection to, and helped me identify what my ideal house would be like. Stone built a south facing garden with at least two bedrooms and a workshop. One night we had just finished a long conversation about this elusive dream home when dad, a healthy 75 year old, had a heart attack. He died instantly. I didn't look at any more auction catalogs until after the funeral. When I did, I spotted Lowe's Cottage straight away. Located in the Derbyshire Dales village of Upper Mayfield, it was built late in the 18th century by a stonemason who needed a home with a workshop. It seemed exactly like the place my father had described. I drove out to view it the day before the auction. The cottage was approached over the ominously titled Hanging Bridge and Gallows Tree Lane. The house itself was named after a nearby Iron Age burial mound. Perhaps I should have felt a sense of foreboding, especially when the agent would not let me use my video camera inside the house. But the cottage had everything I had been looking for, with the added attraction of bewitching Peak District views. I was delighted by it. The following day I turned up at the auction to find a camera crew present and a tangible buzz in the room. The hammer came down After I had bid 6,000 over the guide price. I barely had time to process the fact that I had won before I was ushered into an anteroom full of reporters. A microphone was thrust towards me and someone asked, how does it feel to have bought England's most haunted cottage? I had no idea of the house's reputation. There was no hint of it in the description, but I was quickly brought up to speed. A couple, Andrew and Josey Smith, who had bought Lowe's cottage in 1994, had filed a lawsuit against the previous owners for not Telling them the property was haunted. The Smiths claimed that they had been driven out by a number of manifestations, including something they described as a creeping presence like a mist that appeared and thickened into fog. They spoke of sudden pockets of cold, damp patches on the wall and objects inexplicably moving. Their claims were backed up by a vicar who investigated the cottage and and said that he found a pungent odor that moved around and a wall that seemed to weep when he placed his hand on was reported to be the first case relying on the existence of supernatural forces since the Middle Ages. But the judge gave the Smith's claims short shrift. During my first night in Lowe's Cottage, I started to have some sympathy for my predecessors. My colleague Sion was uneasy entering the house and found it hard to settle. Lights switched on and off. There were sudden changes in temperature and my TV would turn itself on. There were further incidents. I was visited by reporters who experienced problems with tape recorders or cameras. I remembered the agent who had forbidden filming when I first visited. And when mysterious patches of glistening moisture started forming on the walls, I recalled the vicar's description of a weeping wall. It felt almost as if Lowe's Cottage had a personality and was testing me in some way. The place seemed capable of changing moods, though I never had any sense of a malignant entity. I later got to meet the Smiths and found them to be solid and authentic people. After a while, Sion seemed to make peace with the house and the perplexing incidents stopped. I spent a happy four years at the cottage before renting it out. Only one of the tenants has reported anything unusual. In the months after the auction. Some people told me the house would be a blessing to me and they were right. In spite of its notoriety, I'm very grateful to Lowe's Cottage. Seemingly prophesied by my father, it acted as a pivot between an unhappy time in my life and my more fulfilling existence. Restoring period properties.
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It was quite a beautiful night when all this happened. I had been working at a hostel in Arkansas and I had met a German national named Emilia. We became a thing rather quickly and spent our nights searching and exploring the city streets and enjoying the lamplights in their orange glow, laughing and joking and kissing and hugging, all that sort of stuff. It was in October, a few nights before before Halloween, and we were on one of our typical nightly escapades. I remember that the moon was bright. I cannot quite recall if it was full or not, but I know that it was light enough to witness all of our surroundings. There was this spot called Foster Pond and her and I frequented a specific bench that seemed to never be occupied, almost as if it were only for us. Her and I sat there gazing up towards the stars, listening to the trickles of pond water, enjoying the strange scenery of the town around us. We felt untouched and unburdened. She and I made plans to visit Germany next year and celebrate Oktoberfest together. It was an innocent time really. After a while, Emilia leaned her head back more and more and stared up towards the constellations and I fixated my eyes out towards the pond and the area that enveloped it. At first it was just movement, motion, a lone figure walking down the path. Not unusual at midnight in this particular part of town. However, something grabbed at me in my slim to nothing attention span about this particular wayward walker. The walk was deliberate, methodical, angry and fast. The first impression I had was that this guy really had something going on. Perhaps it was a Halloween party, or perhaps he had just been relieved from work and just wanted to get some Something about the gate really got my attention and I could not stop fixating on this man just charging through the park in a mad, dashery sort of way. Within a few seconds it sprung on Me? Why? I was so fixated on the guy. It was what was in his right hand. It was a hatchet. Definitely a hatchet. Now, my first thought was, ah, cool. A Halloween costume. Hatchet wielding psycho. Well done, sir. Well done. But another few seconds passed by and I thought to myself, maybe not. Upon further inspection, it appeared as if he wasn't really in a costume. And it did not seem seemed to be a mere prop. To be clad in nothing but shorts and a hoodie whilst wielding a hatchet would not be inappropriate for Halloween. I had to remind myself that it was not quite Halloween yet. In fact, it was two days before Halloween. This was no costume, and that hatchet was no mere prop. It dawned on me in the dark that this was straight up. A guy walking across the park with a hatchet and coming straight at Amelia and myself. At the moment, I wasn't quite sure as to what to do, but I figured it would be best to do something. Something like get out of there. I turned to Amelia and whispered, hey, don't worry about it and please don't ask any questions. Questions yet, but just get up and let's go right now. Let's go back to the hostel now. Okay, she said. Fortunately for me, she didn't ask any questions or present any disagreements. She stood up off the bench and I put my arm around hers and we walked back towards the hostel. While I said, nothing's wrong.
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Keep it cool. I wanted her and I to walk as if we had not a care in the world, as if nothing was wrong. Okay, okay, she repeated over and over as I felt myself nervously picking up the pace while trying to seem chill and nonplussed. We got to the door of the hostel and I opened the door and made sure she went in first and I followed and then locked the door behind me tight. I peered out of the darkness out by the pond. What is it? Amelia asked. She knew something was up by now. What's wrong? Feeling safer behind locked doors, I felt a responsibility to inform her of the situation. But I didn't want to freak her out. For all I knew, I was not the only person who was freaked out. But still. There's some guy out there with an axe, I said. A what? Amelia asked. Just look, I said. Just wait. Sure enough, the man with the hatchet came right up to the bench where Amelia and I had been sitting. He looked left, he looked right up, down past him, behind, in front, all over. He even looked down on the ground and scoured the place. Then this figure emitted the most terrifying scream I had ever witnessed escape a human body before. It was filled with torment and anguish, anguish and frustration behind closed, locked doors. The scream was loud enough to give me goosebumps. The hell? Emilia asked. After shaking his arms at the stars in the sky as if the gods had wronged him, the figure with the hatchet sunk his hooded head down low and began to walk off back towards whence he came. We were safe, presumably after reading the newspapers and talking to a few neighbors. The day after, no information came. Nobody had known anything about this strange, solitary figure who paraded Foster Pond with a hatchet. I pray it was an isolated incident. Emilia and I never went to that pond after dark ever again. It's okay not to be perfect with finances Experian is your big financial friend and here to help did you know you can get matched with credit cards on the app? Some cards are labeled no Ding Decline, which means if you're not approved they won't hurt your credit scores. Download the Experian app for free today. Applying for no Ding Decline cards won't hurt your credit scores. If you aren't initially approved. Initial approval will result in a hard inquiry which may impact your credit scores.
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The painting had been put up for auction at a local event raising money for charity. It was an original, according to the auctioneer, by an obscure but talented artist from the early 1900s. It was almost the end of the day and I had yet to see anything that caught my fancy. But the moment the painting was unveiled I felt something stir in my chest and I knew I had to have it. Nobody else seemed quite as enthused as me about the portrait and winning it had been a relatively simple affair. After countering a few other vaguely interested buyers, I managed to secure it for myself. I had it wrapped up in a piece of old moth eaten cloth that was found in the auction warehouse and I stowed it in the back of my car, excited to find a place for it in my home. I was a collector of sorts, mostly of antiques and other knick knacks so it would fit right in with the assortment of old ceramic pots and tarnished clocks and statues that that I had sitting in my display cabinet on the way home from the auction. I started to feel restless. I wasn't sure if it was because the auction had lasted longer than I expected or because I was tired or something else, but I struggled to focus on driving and almost pulled out right in front of another car as I turned at the junction leading left towards my house when I finally pulled into the the driveway of my semi detached. I cut the engine and sat for a moment behind the wheel, taking a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind. When I flicked a glance up towards the rear view, I thought for just a moment that I had glimpsed a shadow pressed against the back seat of the car. Between one blink and the next, however, the shadow had disappeared and I rubbed my eyes, realizing I must have been more tired than I thought. I twisted around to double check the back seat just in case, but there really was nothing there. I stepped out of the car. I headed round to the trunk of the car and popped it open. The painting was where I had left it, nestled safely in its bandage of thick yellow cloth. Gripping the edges of the floor frame, I hoisted it out of the car, careful not to knock the corners against the trunk. Balancing it on one knee, I used my free hand to slam the trunk closed and locked the car behind me, heading up the drive towards the front door. Somewhere behind me, I felt the strange sensation of being watched. Assuming it was one of my neighbors, I turned around to wave, but there was nobody there. The street was empty, deserted. I was the only one out here. Shrugging it off, I headed inside. Laying the covered painting down on the mahogany dining table, I carefully stripped the cloth away to unearth the portrait. It was even more beautiful seeing it up close instead of across the auction hall. I wasn't a painting connoisseur by any means, but even I could appreciate the balance of colors and the masterful brushstrokes used to create the dichotomy between the subject's face and the backdrop. The signature in the corner, scrawled in black ink, read Thomas Mallory. That was the name of the painter. I had never heard of him before the auction, but the painting itself was a masterful piece of portraiture that held up against even more well known names. I wasn't entirely sure who the depicted subject was, but judging by the brush and palette he was holding and the easel in front of him, the subject must have been a painter too. Perhaps it was even a self portrait of Thomas Malory himself. The frame was a deep brass with golden highlights, but there was a faint layer of dust and grime on the edges of the frame, suggesting it had been stored somewhere damp prior to the auction. So I got some low chemical cleaning supplies and tried my best to clean it up. By the time I was done, the frame was glistening in the swaths of the fading sun pouring in through the window. It wouldn't be long until dusk fell. I must have been sitting here for hours polishing the frame, and my wrist had grown sore. Satisfied with my work, I took the painting over to the display cabinet in my sitting room. Despite the wide array of antiques, I did dust regularly, and the air was tinged with the scent of lemon and rose disinfectant. I hadn't quite decided where I would hang the painting yet, so instead I propped it up on the mantelpiece beside the cabinet above the bricked up fire that hadn't been used in years. Sometimes, when I hadn't dusted in a while, I could still smell the tinge of ash and smoke embedded within the bricks. Making sure the painting was secure between the wall and the mantel shelf, I stepped back and admired the portrait in the light of the fading sun. There was something almost melancholy about the painter's face. Those eyes that sparkled with an unusual, almost corporeal luster seemed to be filled with a longing of sorts, a yearning for something that was just out of reach. But maybe I was just seeing things that weren't really there, like the shadow in the car. The light outside was fading rapidly, but part of me couldn't draw my eyes away from the painting or the man's woeful expression. Why had the painter portrayed him this way? What was the story behind each stroke of the brush? I don't think I or anyone would ever truly understand what was going through the painter's mind as he created this piece of art. That, after all, was the beauty and pain of subjectivity, of art, of interpretation. Nobody shared the same idea of inference and understanding, especially when it came to something like this. But perhaps I was overthinking it. I shook myself out of my daze, realizing that the sun had already set, dusk painting the edges of the sky in shades of dark purple. I should get something to eat before I go to bed, I thought vaguely as I left the room, closing the door behind me. That night I awoke to darkness and the feeling that I wasn't alone. I lived on my own, as I had done since separating from my partner a few years ago, and didn't have any pets. There was no probable reason why I would feel like there was someone else here with me. But it was something I felt with a strange sort of certainty, that there was someone here in the dark, lurking just out of sight. My heart began to flutter in my chest, panic rising up through my stomach, but I swallowed it down. I was being silly. Of course there was nobody else here. I had locked all the doors and windows before I went to bed I was sure of it. But I still couldn't quite shake that feeling of unease that tiptoed along the back of my neck, making sweat bead along my skin. Breathing softly through my nose, I fumbled through the dark until my fingers closed around the light switch, clicking it on. Bright yellow light flooded the room, and I threw up a hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Squinting between my fingers, I looked around the room. Empty. As I expected, there really was nobody here. But then I noticed something that made my throat, throat clench up once more. The bedroom door was open. I always slept with it closed, the way I had done since I was a child. I very rarely went to bed with it open, even by accident. Had someone really been in my room? Or was this one of those very rare occurrences where I had forgotten to close it? No, I was certain I had shut it. I remembered the creak and the click of the old door against the frame. It had become an almost bedtime ritual, and I would have felt something was off earlier in the night if I had left it open. I gazed at the crack in the doorframe, shadows pooling around the edges, fear tightening in my chest. Was there someone in the house? Should I call the police? No, not without investigating first. I didn't want to waste their time if it really was just my imagination conjuring threats from nothing. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoed over to the open door, my fingers trembling as they gripped the handle, pulling it open wider. Light from the bedroom spilt out into the landing, illuminating the rest of the corridor. I couldn't see anything immediately out of place. I held my breath for a few seconds and listened. Above the pounding of my own heart, I could hear nothing, just the faint moan of the wind and the rustle of the leaves. The house was deathly silent. Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I stepped out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs. I wanted to make sure there really was nobody else in the house before I went back to bed. Downstairs was silent, too, except for the faint, intermittent drip of the kitchen tap. I had gotten a glass of water before bed, so perhaps I hadn't twisted the faucet all the way. I padded into the kitchen, switching on the lights as I went, and tightened the leaky tap until it stopped dripping. Feeling somewhat less terrified, I went through each room, checking behind doorways and in closets to make sure nobody was hiding. Every room proved empty. The last place to check was the living room, where the painting was. In a brief lapse of judgment, I considered the possibility that a thief had broken into the house to steal the painting. But who would steal a painting by a less known artist after I had only owned it for a day? Shaking away the thought, I approached the living room door and froze. It was one of those old fashioned doors with a frosted glass window. On the other side of the window stood stood a shadow. A shadow that wasn't supposed to be there. Fear stabbed my chest, my heart racing. Was there someone on the other side? The shadow wasn't moving. Maybe it was nothing after all, but I had never noticed it before, and I was sure there was nothing on the other side of the door that could be casting it. Heart thundering in my chest, I went back to the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer and hurried back. The shadow was still there. With a short, sharp breath, I shoved the door open and swung the knife around the edge of the door. Nothing. There was nothing there. A bead of sweat cooled on my brow. All that panic for nothing. Maybe I really was just overthinking it all. I checked the painting just to be sure, but it hadn't moved an inch. In the dark, the eyes seemed to glisten like obsidian, eerily realistic. I took a moment to calm my racing heart and rationalize the situation, then left the room, closing the door behind me. This time, when I glanced back, the shadow was gone. The next morning, I decided to do some research and see what I could dig up about Thomas Mallory and his work. I thought it odd that last night's experience had come right after bringing the painting into my home. Perhaps I was being paranoid and making connections where there weren't any, but I was still curious to see what I could find out. Surely someone, somewhere must know something about him, even if he was a more obscure name in the art world. I searched for the name on the Internet, but all I could immediately find were articles about Thomas Mallory, the writer, not the painter of the portrait. Sitting in my living room after school, scrolling through countless websites and forums, I finally managed to find a page dedicated to the right Mallory. There was an old black and white depiction of him, and I recognized him immediately as the same figure in the painting. It was a self portrait after all. I was sitting with my laptop on the couch in the living room and my gaze lifted to the painting. Mallory gazed somberly down at me, making my chest pinch. Returning my attention to the webpage, I read through a brief history of his life. According to the text, Thomas Mallory had never managed to succeed as a painter during life and had died in poverty without selling more than one or two of his works. Towards the end of his life life, Mallory had begun to rant about how he had been able to find his muse and that he would keep searching for her even after death. He blamed the muses forsaking him as the reason he had been so unsuccessful and had apparently passed away in a state of bitter despair. When I scrolled down to the bottom, a soft gasp parted my lips. There was a section titled Mallory's Last Work, and the picture attached was the very same one that now sat on my mantel. Mallory's self portrait, the last ever painting he created before his death. Was that the reason for his despondent look? Had he been unhappy with his career? At a loss? Abandoned by the Muses? Was that the message the portrait portrayed? I studied it from across the room, raking my eyes over the paintbrush poised against the painted canvas, the palette of muted colors almost drooping in his hand. Was this when he was on the verge of abandoning his passion altogether? Or was that searching, longing look in his eye a plea to the muses to hear his desperate call? I shook my head, closing my laptop with a sigh. Thomas Mallory, despite being a wonderful artist, had suffered the same fate as so many artists had. Unappreciated, unrewarded, dying, nameless and poor. It was only after death that they truly found fame. The following night, I woke up once more to the feeling that I was being watched from the dark. The room was pitch dark. Through the netted curtains, there was not even a glimpse of the moon, only the dark, starless sky, like the open maw of a beast. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. It was just after 3 o' clock in the morning, according to my watch. Using one hand to switch on the lamp, I squeezed my eyes closed against the light, waiting a few seconds for my eyes to stop watering and finally adjust. The air in the room was still undisturbed. The door was closed. Nothing felt out of place except for the strange prickle of un unease tiptoeing down my spine. I gazed around the room for a few minutes, waiting in silence for something to happen. But nothing did. Once again, it was all in my head. I reached for the lamp again, my fingers brushing the switch. The moment the room plunged into darkness was the moment I heard it. Footsteps. Soft, muted footsteps coming from somewhere deeper in the house. I held my breath, my pulse racing beneath my ribcage. Was I hearing things? There against the quiet of the night, was the sound of retreating footfalls. Someone was inside the house. This time there was no mistake. Fighting the rising panic in my chest, I fumbled to switch on the light and slipped out of bed. The air was cold against my legs and I shivered. Tiptoeing towards the door, I wrapped my fingers around the handle and tugged it open. As quietly as I could, I peered out. Nothing. The footsteps grew fainter, moving further away, until eventually I could hear them no more. Had they already left? I didn't want to leave anything to chance. Keeping close to the wall, I padded down the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs, peering down. I couldn't see anything. Nothing stirred amongst the shadows. Silence pressed against me like something tangible, broken only by my short, panicked pants. Taking the stairs slowly, I reached the bottom and peered around the edge of the banister. My vision swam in the darkness and I tried to ignore the feeling that there was something crouched in the shadows, waiting to catch me off guard. Guard. It's all in your head this time. I passed by the kitchen and the dining room and went straight to the living room, straight to the painting. The door was open. Inside, the darkness felt thick, suffocating. I reached blindly through the dark until I found the light switch, flipping it on. The room felt warmer than the rest of the the house. The air felt disturbed, like someone had been here recently. There was nobody hiding behind the doorway. Nobody crouched behind the sofa. Everything was in its place. Closing the door behind me, I walked up to the painting and gasped. My legs wobbled, feeling like they were about to give way. My head began to spin, not quite willing to believe what I was seeing. The painting had changed. The painter, Thomas Mallory, had disappeared, leaving an empty space, a dark, mottled void where he once stood. The paintbrush and palette had been discarded, and the canvas that had before been turned the other way was now facing me, containing a new painting, a new portrait. A portrait that looked exactly like me.