Blot

It was him! I know it was! Something in his face spoke to me inaudibly, "I'm still here,". As we passed one another he shot a knowing glance my way before shoving a cardboard box into my hands. He didn't remain long enough to exchange words, and was gone just as quickly as he had appeared. For what reason did he seek me out in a public space? What lied within that box I clutched so tightly against my chest?

The thing was heavy and very large, and I could hear liquid sloshing from inside. It took a great deal of effort to walk home through the crowd without spilling the package's contents across the ground. When at last I returned to my apartment I saw the box had collected a considerable amount of mold, which made me uneasy.

Covering my face with an old shirt, I produced a knife to open my gift. Zip, slash, zip, slash. The noise made me shudder, bringing to mind unpleasant thoughts of strange, wheel-like creatures ruling over dark seas. Just a moment later they were gone and the box was open. Canvases. Four of them.

Now my mind came to realize what my heart already knew: He had come to give me a present. More than anything else he loved to paint. And in the center of the box was a jar of orange pigment, upon which brushes and a palette were balanced. Everything seemed to be in working order for me to start painting on the spot. However, I faltered when I found the letter.

It was in his handwriting, and recalled a memory I had long since forgotten. We were children. Snow covered the landscape as far as the eye could see, the gentle crest of the hill falling sharply into a little valley where his mother could be seen watching us contentedly. The playground atop the hill was a jungle to us, rife with antediluvian predators to be avoided. Beware the tricky dilophosaur, its biting venom will claim you in moments!

To escape we used our sleds to ride down to the guardian, shouting all the while about our pursuers. I spun out and started panicking, breaking the illusion. All I could think about was the humiliation of the moment, wanting to go home then and there.

On the other side of the paper was a set of instructions detailing how to use the paint. They were really quite simple: All I had to do was draw and imbue it with some sort of thought, some primal feeling from within. I drew a toad, like the ones near the wetlands I used to roam in days gone by. Nostalgia filled my lungs with the smell of fresh water and of flowers among tall grass.

Out of this trance I broke, startled by the nearby sound of croaking. It sounded like it had come from my drawing but I dared not believe it. My shock turned to dread as the image oozed a sort of tar that reeked of crude oil. Without a second thought I hastily took it in my hands and threw it in the garbage.

Despite my inclination to rid myself of the box and its contents, I felt a strong urge to continue using it so I did. The orange ink seemed to carry my thoughts and wash them away in the tides of oblivion. It felt good to have them leave me. At the same time it filled the new cavities with itself, a veritable O'Brien in its own right.

The more I wrote and drew, the more it took. My soul became simultaneously empty and bloated with fervor. Each painting became more elaborate and macabre, each scene more alien. Something felt familiar about them, drawing memories from a mind other than my own. How long had I been awake? What time was it? All of the windows, like every other surface in my home, were covered by my paintings.

No matter how many I made or how good they got, they always paled in comparison to his. His skill remained unmatched. I became convinced he had done this to taunt me. This gift was a trap, and trapped I was. My mind has become sick. So has my body. Who could be so cruel to do this to me? Something is inside of me, and it wants to take me over from within. I must remove it.

✦ ✦ ✦

The South Milland apartment complex was in shambles, burnt to the ground. I mean it was gone. Nothing left. My wife, she loves true crime, but this is something else. Arsonists are rarely sane individuals, but they don't hold a candle to this guy. When I found his body, he was completely naked in the bathroom, covered in unholy sigils. His stomach was cut open, tar bubbling inside. In his hands was an array of knives and scissors. Based on everything I saw, the only conclusion I could come to was that he had tried to burn something out of himself.