Apophyge: The small hollow curvature given to the top or bottom of the shaft of a column where it expands to meet the edge of the fillet called also the scape
Prescapula: The part of the scapula in front of or above the spine or mesoscapula (like lymph node)
Donatist: A follower of Donatus the leader of a body of North African schismatics and purists who greatly disturbed the church in the 4th century They claimed to be the true church
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Picture the scene:
The artist commissioned to paint your portrait hasn’t been seen for months and has presumably disappeared with your money. Upon breaking and entering into his studio, you find a letter addressed specifically to you. It states that the artist made a deal with a spirit and rightfully fears for his life. There is no signature.
This was the exact situation that Mr William Withers found himself in on the 17th morning of March, 1863.
Withers scrunched the letter into a chrysalis with his right hand and let it fall to the stone floor. The room was dark and stagnant, dust motes hung lazily in the air as though held by invisible spider webs. A terrible stench of rotting milk pervaded the air, from the apophyge of the Doric support columns down to the crusty grout upon the floor. Withers held his handkerchief up to his nose and looked around the small, dimly lit studio. The walls were covered in paintings that had been hung about with white muslin sheets. It looked as though no-one had been here for weeks.
The devilish swine, thought Withers with indignation, jiggling the few remaining coins in his trouser pocket subconsciously. A pittance. When he found the artist, there would be more than money to repay.
As though expecting to find a clue to the artist’s location, Withers began ripping the white sheets from the paintings. He was disturbed by their content and shocked to find in each image a recognisable likeness of the artist staring back at him. A hideous half-man, half-dog creature with bulbous tumours sprouting from its prescapula and fore-shoulders. A heretic being burnt at the stake by an ebony crowd of Donatist separatists. A man stretched upon a rack covered in spikes. A wretch nailed to a crucifix atop a mountain peak, eagles with bloody beaks feasting on his gizzards.
Withers turned away, fearful and disgusted by the paintings. Yet rather than the graphic subject material, he was more alarmed by look of pain and fear that shone from the pigments of the artist’s face in each scene. So much depth and resonance; the bulging whites of the eyes, flecks of white spittle smeared across his face, taut and tense muscles that strained as though they were being ripped from the bone. It was as if he were actually feeling his tortures, as though they were more than simple paintings, but momentary glimpses into some distant occult scene.
Highly disturbed, Withers turned to leave but as his hand touched the door handle, a scream of pure agony ripped through the small studio. Drenched in a sudden cold sweat, Withers looked about the room but could see nothing. He removed his shaking hand from the handle. Averting his gaze from the uncovered paintings, Withers hurried towards the artist’s desk, grabbed the crumpled letter from the floor and shoved it in his pocket. Without looking back he left the studio, the echo of a scream forevermore ringing behind him.
Stories On The Sofa 