I heard a voice. A voice of a boy. Young boy, whose voice had yet to break. He was humming a nursery rhyme. I could feel my skin prickle. It was the feeling one would get when watching a horror movie.
I lifted my head higher, 'Jamie? Jamie, is that you?' I waited for an answer. 'Jamie, please say it is you! Jamie!' I shouted. I started taking deep breaths. Suddenly, breathing had become difficult. 'Jamie?' I somehow let out. That was the power of fear.
My body gave in, and I slumped to the floor. I could feel my eyes slowly closing. I was trapped, and knew that I would pass out any time soon. Then, I saw it. There was light, but I had lost my voice. Nothing would come out. The room began to grow brighter and brighter. No lamp had such power. I took another deep breath, and slowly attempted to untangle myself from everything on the floor, and stand up.
I grabbed a wooden leg, to haul myself up, but I ended back onto the ground. My hand was covered in oil and blood. The glass had cracked and some had penetrated into my hand.
'Argh!' Fear was replaced by frustration. Ignoring the pain, I somehow wiped my hands on my clothes and managed to stand up.
I looked towards the open door, a lamp lay upright on the ground. Although, there was no one in sight. This started worrying me. There must have been someone here. This would mean that, 'Jamie,' I whispered, as panic set in, once more.
I jumped, barged, pushed, raced past everything. I needed to see if my little brother was alright. Running down the corridor and down the stairs, all I could think about was him. I grabbed the handle and pushed the door, but the door was still closed. The only option that bounced in my head was bashing the door; an action that I carried out.
The door slowly opened, and a very sleepy Jamie stood, looking up at me. 'What happened? Why are you pulling me away from my dreams?!' He didn't seem rattled at all. My behaviour should have widened his eyes. Worry should have been etched across his face. But, nothing. If he did not want to show compassion, then I would. I pulled him into a tight embrace and felt the tears on my cheeks.
'Kelly, you're bleeding,' he smiled. It was not a sweet smile.
'Are you happy that I am bleeding?' I was baffled by his response.
He gave a short laugh, took a step back and slowly shut the door. The next thing I heard was the piano. I tried to open the door, but he had locked it again.
'Go to sleep, Jamie, or come and eat dinner,' I shouted through the key hole.
I needed to clean myself up, so I made my way back downstairs, carefully. Darkness was dangerous. If he did not want to eat, then I'll let him be, but I felt like someone was slicing my heart in half. Was it because of guilt or because of the image of him smiling? The smile was engraved in my mind. His eyes seemed to pass on a message. I stood still and thought back. His room was bright too. Why had I not asked him about the lamp? If he was not the one placing the lamp outside the door, then who was it?
'No. I'll think about this later,' I said to myself. Finally reaching the kitchen, I switched on the lights. Electricity! I warmed up my food and started eating. The cuts were not deep, but I had to pick out the shards of glass. That was the most painful part. The best part, however, was that I was clean. I continued pushing the thoughts of the events to the back of my head. Another hour before 9 p.m, I was definitely going back into that room!
Finishing up, I lit another lamp, placed some plasters and tissues in my pocket, then made my way back to the room. I felt like it was calling me. Was that weird?
The sound of a young boy singing was back. As I walked towards the sound, I realised that it was coming from Jamie's room. Maybe he was the one who placed the lamp outside. The very lamp that I was carrying. I did not knock on his door, the kid was singing and playing the piano. 'Back again,' I said to the portraits. They were still covered. The only difference between the paintings and the furniture was that the painting seemed to be nicely stacked to the side, whilst the furniture scattered. I decided to use my imagination, you never know, I could be right. The paintings were stacked up, all covered up, so that I could see them. The furniture was scattered, either to injure me, or to block my way to the 'secret' door. I'm going to choose the latter. I pushed everything to the back of my head.
Placing one foot into the room, I suddenly stopped. Maybe, this was not such a good idea. I strained my eyes, once more, to identify anything different. The cracked lamp remained in the same place. I could clean that up in the morning.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I turned towards my own room.
'Shall be dreaming again,' I said to myself, as I walked into my room.
YOU ARE READING
The Boy in the PaintingMystery / Thriller
'Death is our best friend from childhood. It is just lost in this cruel world. When it finds its friend, what happens, only it decides. Has Death found its best friend? We will find out tonight,' Father Jones calmly stated. I like drawing, so yes, t...