The cameraman turned to the news reporter that was busy fixing his hair. “We’re live in 3...2...”
“We are standing here this evening in the Marquis Galleria for the latest art exhibition of a hot new artist, Thomas Morrow!” the reporter stated as the camera slowly panned along the crowded room filled with paintings. “Becoming famous seemingly overnight, Mr. Morrow has created these interesting paintings gracing the senses of the art community and taking the media by storm.” The man then spotted the artist. “Ah, there is the man of the hour now. Mr. Morrow, do you have a moment to answer a few questions?”
“Oh, uh–”
“Wonderful,” the reporter interjected as he held the microphone up to his mouth. “Your artwork has captivated thousands as galleries across the world are requesting your pieces. What inspired your masterpieces?”
“Oh, w-well...” The artist looked towards one of the paintings before looking at the reporter that was smiling a bit too much for his liking. “I had this dream–”
“A dream?” The reporter looked back towards the cameraman. “Well, you’ve heard it here, folks. If you dream big, you can end up like Mr. Thomas Morrow here! Back to you at the station!” He continued to smile until the red light stopped blinking on the camera before sighing irritably. “I need a goddamn smoke,” he uttered as his attention went towards the artist that was eyeing one of the paintings then back to his cameraman. “How much longer do we have to cover this crap?”
“You don’t want to stay for the afterparty? Free drinks?” his cameraman questioned. “He’s big in the art—”
“I don’t care if he’s the newest thing in the art community. I rather shoot myself in the foot than to cover some freaking paintings.” He received a pointed look. “Some of them are disturbing as hell. Take me back to the station.”
“They’re just paintings,” the cameraman called after the reporter as he snagged the rest of his equipment.
Listening to the last of the complaints as the reporter exited the showing, Thomas stood in front of one his seaside paintings. He stared long and hard at the scenery before sensing the presence of another. He surmised it to be another gallery owner wanting to host his works.
He had at least seven approach him about it.
Two others were art museum curators, one flying all the way in from Paris no doubt.
But the man found it strange when the person said nothing.
The others had been quick to ask him for a price or a moment of his time to speak of potentially getting a one-of-a-kind piece. Whoever this was, however, had yet to utter a single word, much to the curiosity of the man.
Casually looking to his left, he spotted a striking woman staring at the painting. The art gallery had insisted on cocktail attire, black tie if you will, considering how large of name Thomas Morrow had become seemingly overnight; however, this woman was dressed in a striking, yellow dress that created a distinct silhouette as it hugged her curves. Her white hair was cut into an asymmetrical bob that had several streaks of the same color and both colors contrasted greatly against her dark skin.
Despite the contrast, it was a warm welcome compared to the mostly black and white attire the attendees wore.
It reminded him of a sunflower.
“This is an interesting piece, Mr. Morrow.” He hadn't expected the woman to have a such a soothing voice. “The picture seems so calm yet the brush strokes seem urgent, almost feverish. They have a very distinct pattern to them,” she mused as she traced a well-manicured nail in the as if to mimic said pattern. “I’ve noticed the pattern in your other pieces as well. What inspired this painting?”
Thomas looked back at the artwork almost shuddering as he did so. “A dream.”
“A dream, Mr. Morrow?” The man nodded before looking back at the woman to see her removing a pair of shades. “Interesting.”
He was taken aback momentarily when met with a honey-colored gaze. “Forgive me but you’re not going to go on a tangent about dreaming big, are you?”
A coy smile crossed the woman’s lips as she went back to observing the painting. “No, dreams are amazing yet cryptic things.”
“Not mine,” he mused quietly as he gazed at the pictures.
“Even nightmares can be amazing,” she replied thoughtfully as she traced her finger in the air once more. “You never know what you find in them and the world seems eager to see what you will give them next. Will you be painting more, Mr. Morrow?”
Watching the peculiar woman, Thomas allowed himself a brief moment of amusement as he dwelled on the woman’s words. “Perhaps I will, Ms...?”
“Hastur.”
“Hastur?” The woman glanced at him. “Right, well, feel free to call me Tom,” he replied. “Perhaps I will see you at the n—”
“Mr. Morrow!” Said person turned to see a stout man hurrying over to him. “My, you were a hard person to get alone,” the newcomer said between breaths as he dabbed his sweat on a handkerchief. “I wanted to touch base with you on procuring one of your pieces and potential commissioning you for another.”
“Oh, well, can we discuss this a little later? I’m not exactly alone at this moment.”
The potential patron continued to dab his face. “What do you mean?”
“No, I’ve been talking to Ms. Hastur,” Thomas replied as he gestured to the woman at his side. He then looked over his shoulder to see that the woman in yellow had vanished. “Well, she was just here.”
The larger man stared at the artist before giving a hearty chuckle. “You jest, my boy.” The artist stared almost dumbfounded until the other stopped laughing altogether. “Mr. Morrow, you’ve been talking to yourself for nearly ten minutes.”
The sound of paint being hastily applied to the canvas was the only noise that resonated throughout Thomas’s workshop. His palette was a mess of colors yet the painting he was finishing was the making of his newest soon to be masterpieces.
Shortly after the art exhibition, the man had been plagued with abhorrent visions at a seaside. Over the past few canvases, he had painted the same scene with gradual distinctions before they became blatantly apparent. The first few showed a peaceful seaside with gentle waves and blue skies. As the series progressed, with little change, one could note how the skies had gradually grown darker. The once gentle waves increased in height and seafoam. Eventually there was a break in the water that would also gradually grow darker.
In the break was something horrendous. To try to put the dream into words threatened to make the painter drop his brush in desperate need to grab a cigarette.
He recalled himself standing on the shore with a large piece of driftwood in the darker panels during the break in the water. From there, he saw something large rise from the ocean. The way the creature’s white eye was illuminated by sea mist casted an eerie glow in the stormy blue backdrop. Long, matted hair hung over its face while gnarly arms grasped at ships and nearby shore structures. It didn’t speak but emitted a low rumbling that managed to drown out the foghorns in the distance. As its vacant gaze panned over to view the man standing on the beach, Thomas couldn’t help but scribble runes into the sand.
The instinct to run was at the forefront of his mind but every time he stopped scribbling the symbols, the creature would steadily get closer to the shore. Even then, he had this unworldly compulsion to stay there and continue. As he did so, something similar to tentacles creeped into his peripheral though it was a pair of hands that rested upon his shoulders.
“Draw,” a husky voice beckoned.
One of the hands would then turn his head for him to catch a glimpse of yellow before being saved by the sweet embrace of the waking world.
However, the consciousness could not save him when all he could see was glimpses of his nightmare.
He tried tea.
He tried listening to peaceful music and meditation before bed.
Insomnia then began to set in with the frequency of his visions before he took to the canvas.
This all had started nearly four months after the exhibition and the more he painted, the less horrendous the dreams became.
But there was something he couldn’t free himself of.
There was just this lingering weight of hands resting upon his shoulders, almost urging him to continue his work when he wanted to stop.
The cold touch of fingers tilting his head to the side, bidding him to turn his gaze from the water to be met by the sight of yellow, gave him shivers as he painted the etchings in his dream into the sands on the canvas.
The paintings were now done but he’d have to get rid of them lest his mind continue to be plagued by these visions during the waking hours.
“Not even seven months ago, Thomas Morrow graced the art world with style and now he’s back to remind us with what put him on the map in the first place!” the reporter exclaimed as she gestured for the cameraman to pan over at the different paintings covering the walls. The camera then focused on the woman. “The detail of –oh! There he is now! Mr. Morrow! Can we get a moment of your time?”
The man looked over to see a microphone being held up to his mouth. “Uh–”
“Wonderful! Can you tell us what inspired this latest collection of pieces?” she questioned.
The painter looked at his works before facing the blinking red light of the camera. “Dreams.”
“Dreams?” she repeated baffled before her nude painted lips pulled upwards to form a smile. “You heard it hear folks! Dream big and you too can make it like Mr. Morrow!” The mic went back to the man. “Any closing comments?”
Thomas fidgeted as he looked towards one of the paintings nearby before facing the smiling woman.
He had heard that saying several times now when patrons, curators or the likes asked him for his muse.
It was like a broken record continously playing the same part of a song.
Over and over.
“I –”
“Mr. Morrow, a word!”
“Look this way!” There was a flash of a camera. “Mr. Morrow, smile!”
“Mr. Morrow, do you have a moment?”
Wringing his hands, Thomas pushed through the throngs of people to get the furthest corner of his exhibition. Pulling out a pocket square to dab his brow, he inhaled deeply and exhaled shakily before turning his attention to the painting in front of him.
An eerie white eye loomed from the stormy backdrop. It looked at him – through him. He was sure he could hear the low rumbling coming from it as he gazed upon the cursed image. The droning sound grew louder and louder before he dropped to his knees to cover his ears.
This did nothing but muffle the sound.
He gnashed his teeth and swear he’d foam at the mouth if he had to stay in proximity to this thing any longer.
Thomas could only imagine what he looked like at that moment.
The world’s newest painter was kneeling on the floor like a child.
He must have been a spectacle.
What he wouldn’t give to just have it all stop.
“Draw...” That husky voice from his dream beckoned him to do its bidding. “Draw....”
“N...no,” Thomas muttered to himself as he pulled at dark locks”
“Draw...”
“No!”
In that moment, it seemed so quiet.
The soft, classical music did not fill the air.
The incessant chatter of patrons also fell deaf.
Raising his head to look around, Thomas was met with darkness before focusing on the painting mounted on the wall. It had changed somewhat from how he remembered.
The creature had shifted; two eyes were focused on him.
The seafoam around it churned and uneven waves crashed along the shoreline as the entity made its way closer.
“Draw...”
“No!”
“Draw...” The flight instinct told him to run through Thomas remained rooted in place on the tile. “Draw...”
“With what!?” he shouted as he tried to turn away from the painting.
“Draw...”
The man tried turning his head before noting what looked like tentacles creeping into his peripheral. A familiar weight settling upon his shoulders had him tensing as a shiver ran up his spine. Something cold then guided his head to turn to see a cloaked figure.
The heavy hood casted their face in shadow while their long, yellow garments shrouded any hint of their body. The tentacles that the man had seen protruding from beneath the hems of the robes and wavered about as if floating in water. One then reared up to point at something behind the painter to show that the creature was closer to the shore. Its gnarly arm was outstretched in an ominous manner.
Despite this, Thomas remained rooted in place.
“Stay back!” The entity in the frame drew near. “Stay back!” he shrieked as he buried his face into his hands.
Another set of hands lowered his own before he peered into the shadows of the hooded figure. He could not see a face even with their close proximity. Their breath was nonexistent and it remained silent between them until the low rumbling seeped out of the painting, causing the man to panic once more.
“Draw...”
“No, I c-can't!”
He shook his head feverishly before one of the tentacles wrapped around his hand. It brought it down to the floor and began guiding the man as if he was painting back at his workshop. The more this continued, the quieter the rumbling became.
“Draw...”
Looking back at the painting to see the creature retreating somewhat, Thomas began to drag his finger in familiar patterns until he could no longer hear the sounds. He continued his maddening pace until his hand ached. He continued until the thing was back in its original position, with that eerie eye peering through its matted, sea-drenched hair.
The paralysis of fear then set in once more when the tentacles pointed down at the symbols etched in blood in front of him. His gaze then drifted back towards the hooded being to see that it was now gone.
Classical music filtered through the air.
The incessant chattering of patrons having bid wars continued.
It was as if no one noticed his whole episode.
How could no one notice that... that thing trying to get out of the painting?!
Was it all in his head?
Turning his gaze back to the picture hanging, Thomas slowly clambered to his feet before being startled by the ruffles of a long, yellow dress. Following the silhouette upwards, he was met with familiar gestures of the woman he met some time ago as she eyed the painting.
A finely manicured, yellow nail drew symbols in the hair, seemingly following the brush strokes of the painting before honey-colored eyes panned over to the man that was now grasping a bloody hand. Her eyes shifted towards the blood trickling onto the tile before a slight smile pulled at her lips.
“A pleasure seeing you again, Thomas,” she greeted.
“Hastur, a pleasure,” he returned as he held his hand tighter, “however; I must get going.”
“Going? Where could you possibly go at your showing, Thomas?” Hastur inquired. “So many people want to speak with you. So many want to buy your works.”
“They’re nightmares,” he confessed as he shuddered away from the closest one. “Nothing good comes from them. I want to burn them”
Hastur merely hummed as she took the man’s injured hand into her. “No, we can’t have that now can we?” she mused. “Those nightmares, as you so lightly put it, need to be shared amongst the masses, Thomas.”
“These monstrosities need to be burned or at the very least hidden away.”
“Nonsense, Thomas, as a painter; you want them to be seen. You need them to be seen.” She then leaned in. “The nightmares go away for a while when you do, right?”
“H....How do you...?”
“You’re a frazzled mess and no one even notices. You never thought that was a tad strange?” Her hand tightened around his. “Surely you would be sent to an institution if anyone else ever saw you act the way you’re acting.”
“You know about the–”
“But of course,” she replied, “and I know how to keep this wonderful illusion going so you don’t wind up in a padded room.”
“How?!” The woman hummed thoughtfully. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace. I can’t sleep and when I do, I’m plagued with horrible visions. I can’t escape them even when I’m in the waking world!” Hastur merely stared at the man. “Tell me how to make it go away, Hastur!”
The man’s pale pallor whitened as a tentacle dabbed a napkin against the bloodied digits. “Draw for me.”
Thomas tried to pull away instinctively before looking around to see that all the patrons and guests were frozen in place. They all wore medallions matching the symbols the man had painted into so many of his painting while their mouths were agape and yellow tentacles creeped out in writhing masses.
Facing the woman once more, Thomas was met by the towering figure in yellow that had been plaguing him in his dreams for the past few years.
“Y... you! This is all your doing! Make it stop!”
The familiar rumbling started up in the distance before the waters in the surrounding paintings started to churn.
“This will not stop because you wish it. That is insinuating that you had a choice at all,” the husky voice chided in amusement. “I will allow you the illusion if it will satisfy your need for such control.” The hooded entity leaned forward, face still in shadow. “This can stop one of two ways, Thomas. You can take matters into your own hands and end it all,” they suggested, “or you can draw for me.”
ns 172.70.134.26da2
