I know all about the last painting in Irene Burgman’s last show: Number 22, “Nicholas,” a beautiful painting of the artist’s dog against a background of deep blue and purple velvets that look real enough to grasp. I know all about it because I was there when she painted it, and for this reason I also know why the painting wasn’t on the curator’s show-inventory list, or why there was no date on its back. I know all of this because of the dog.
I don’t recall when I first became aware that a dog appeared to be following me. I was out and about one day, doing errands, when I noticed the soft clink of the tags around its neck; a sound that I had seemed to have been hearing for some time, but hadn’t fully registered as following me until that moment. It sounded quite close, so I looked down with a smile to greet my new companion, but I saw nothing there; nothing behind me, either. Shaking my head, I continued on.
The sound continued as well, sporadically, like wind chimes blown by an unfelt breeze. It was almost as if the dog—if indeed it was a dog—would only make itself known when I had fully dismissed, and nearly forgotten, it. Every time I heard the tags I would stop and look around myself; every time I would see nothing but my own foolish shadow mocking my movements.
My errands took me on a foot-journey of about forty-five minutes, but it wasn’t until I neared my home that I fancied I heard the precise click of claws on the sidewalk behind me, along with the quiver of the tags. I stopped once more, this time turning to the sound and bending over as if to greet an actual dog.
“Here, boy,” I offered, holding out my hand for the animal to smell. I heard the scuttle-click of its claws and could well-imagine the dog doing a nervous dance before me, unsure of whether or not to approach. I got the distinct impression that it was a mid-sized dog, even going so far as to envision a black Labrador. It was quite gentle, even harmless, and I barely jumped when something cold and wet brushed against the thumb of my dangling hand.
“That’s it,” I said, recovering from my mild shock. “What do you want, boy?” Most people ask dogs serious questions which, of course, go unanswered, but seeing as this dog had already displayed itself to be anything but an average dog, I allowed that it may break some aural, as well as visual, norms and respond to my question. In a way, I suppose it did.
Just below the knee, where pants hang out in a straight line, I felt a tug on the fabric. A playful, but insistent, growl accompanied this ghostly pull on my pant-leg, so I instinctively straightened back up, ready to move.
“Where to?” I asked in the tone reserved for animals and small children, and I heard a small bark in response and the excited back-tracking of claws away from me.
“Well don’t run off!” I cautioned, glancing around for any spies. “I won’t be able to keep up!”
The possibility of insanity flitted across my mind like the sudden dart of a spring bird, and I considered that acquiring a ghost-dog was surely the least harmful form of the disease. Then the dog barked lightly again and began to click slowly away, stopping every so often to, I imagine, cast a glance over its shoulder at my progress. I quickly followed the now-constant click and jangle back down the street the way I had just come. I tried my hardest not to look as if I was following something that wasn’t there, but the only person I met began to wave, then seemed to think the better of it, giving me instead a curious look. I just smiled politely and hurried after the ghost-dog.
I was led right back into town to a house in the midst of businesses. It is an old structure with a grand porch and wood siding, and may well be the last remnant of the town before the city. I had often admired the building as I passed it from time to time; the wood carvings hanging from the gutters and around the gable windows are an artistry the new, material world seems to have forgotten. Only twice before had I actually been inside the house, save for coffee in the back room: The lower floor now housed an art gallery, and the upper floors, as I understood it, served as the curator’s apartment and storage areas.
Inside it was cool and dark and, as I had expected, between shows. Various covered paintings were leaning against the walls, waiting to be attached to their respective positions; I could hear the curator in the back somewhere, perhaps hanging some of the pieces for the new show. The dog, however, had no interest in the back, trotting instead up the stairs to the second floor. The staircase itself is a work of art, sweeping up out of the small foyer in a graceful, winding arch, giving the space the illusion of grand size, but never had I entertained the thought of going up them. They were not roped off, but to ascend them seemed a violation of some unspoken rule, since neither did they have any notices inviting the public up.
I followed the sound of the dog with my eyes, along the curve of the stairway, until my gaze caught the room at the head of the stairs—a room bleeding an odd red glow that was the only light seeping into the upper floor. The effect was at once disturbing and calming, and I found myself entirely unsure of what to do. As if to solve my dilemma, the dog barked again from directly in front of the room, and the light seemed to momentarily intensify in response to the noise. I wet my lips nervously and cast an ear into the gallery: The curator was still hanging paintings and I could hear no one conversing or moving about in the coffee room. I looked up the stairs again, at that darkness sliced through only by the red glow, and ran my tongue once more over my lips. Placing a steadying hand on the banister and swallowing my nervous guilt, I began my ascent.
The risers creaked casually under my weight, telling tales of time-wear to all who cared to listen; I rose slowly, not wanting them to talk too loudly. Ahead of me I heard the dog’s excited, honest patter; in fact, I may have been repelled from continuing up because of the red luminescence, but with the dog skitting about, it somehow lost its sinister edge and I managed to fully ascend the staircase.
The door was open, allowing the light to spill forth, and I could see that the sign on it read. “storage;” within I could hear the dog clicking on the wooden floor and I took a bashful, curious peek in. I could see a black Labrador plain as day dancing excitedly around an old woman with a cane who was teasing the animal with a treat. I turned to sneak back down the stairs, filled with a strange mixture of guilt, serenity, and foreboding, but then the woman looked up at me, smiling, and allowed the dog to finally snap the treat from her fingers.
“I saw you walking by earlier,” she explained. “So I sent Nicholas after you.” The dog barked proudly at the mention of its name and wagged its tail, gazing at me.
I moved cautiously such that I was fully in the doorway. The red light made it impossible for me to clearly discern color, but it appeared as if the woman had on a light blue housecoat decorated with dark blue flowers. She shifted her position and tapped her cane once on the floor, smiling again. Her short, white hair reflected the red light, much as her soft, white, wrinkled skin did, and the eyes behind her glasses shone happily.
“Come in, won’t you?” she asked. I silently obliged. A brief look around showed me that the room was bare—no source for the red light that I could see—save the two of us and Nicholas, the dog. The only window had a heavy curtain drawn across it, and a glance at the overhead fixture proved that the usual light source—though red, as a preservation technique for stored works— was turned off. When I looked back down to the woman I noticed that, where it had been bare seconds before, there now stood an easel set up with canvas and paints.
“I need your help,” the woman said, drawing my attention back to her. “I am Irene Burgman; that’s my show the curator is setting up.”
“Oh,” I said, my voice sounding odd and hollow in the room.
“I’m too old,” she continued. “I need you to hold the brushes, because I never painted Nicholas…”
“I’m no painter!” I replied, slightly confused; my voice sounded too loud, too full in the red room, but the woman didn’t seem fazed by what I had said, or how loudly I had said it. Nicholas sat down, panting, his eyes still carefully watching me.
“I don’t need a painter,” Irene said nicely with a bright smile. “I just need someone to hold the brushes—I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” Her smile broke when I didn’t respond and her expression dropped. “Please, young man, let me finish my work…I just have to paint Nicholas.”
I sighed and smiled, shrugging and moving quickly to the old woman. What harm could there be in appeasing an aging artist who was probably too arthritic to hold her own brushes? All my suspicions, all my cares about the odd lighting and the former ghost-dog—all the things any person in that situation would normally think of—fled from my mind as if the woman’s grandmotherly smile had hypnotized me in some way. I was so consumed with pleasing the old lady that I hastily sat down and prepared the palate, as per her careful instructions, as she stood sideways to me, pointing with her gnarled old finger, but never touching anything. She quietly told me exactly what to do—all her secrets, I imagine. How to hold which brush or knife, how much color to mix, where to put it and how heavily. She gave explicit directions on every detail of the piece, but never once did she touch me or any of the tools. When I would glance at her from time to time she would be smiling proudly and reassuringly, and Nicholas would add an excited little bark and patter in place beside Irene Burgman. After about a half hour I began to see his form appearing out of the dark background of the canvas: Nicholas was lying, head on paws, face gazing alertly at the viewer. Only twice did Irene find cause to shriek a horrified “No! No! Not there!” and then set about flusteredly telling me how to fix my mistake. Yet even in this frustrated state, she touched nothing.
Within an hour the painting of Nicholas was complete, and I could tell that the color and detail were exceptional. I felt no pride of creation, however, as I fully understood that I had merely been a tool of Irene Burgman’s, no more worthy of credit than the very brush I held. As I stood and backed away from the work—which I had signed with her signature. “Burgie,” flubbing the “B” slightly—I began to feel a deep admiration for the piece, and I knew that it was as much the work of Irene Burgman as any of the other pieces downstairs.
“Thank you,” I heard her say from behind me, with tears in her voice. I turned to offer my thanks to her for allowing me to be privy to her artistry, but the room was empty; neither she nor Nicholas were anywhere to be seen or heard. Confused, I looked back to the painting, but the easel and tools, too, had vanished, leaving in their place a canvas covered with a cheesecloth, leaning against the wall. A corner, bearing the signature of the artist, was exposed, and it was only by seeing the signature’s smeared “B” that I knew it to be the piece I had seconds ago completed. I instinctively went to remove the cloth from the canvas, lest it destroy the wet oils, but all at once the hypnosis—if such there had been—was broken, and as I backed up several steps, toward the door, I began shaking my head, convinced that I had entered some realm of insanity so deep as to seem real, yet knowing just as surely that I was not insane at all.
I turned and bolted out of the room, bounding back down the stairs, almost tripping up on the pile of folded cheese cloths at the foot. I saw that the show was now completely hung, and from the back room I could hear the curator talking to somebody. I walked unsteadily toward the voices and found him conversing with a young brunette girl who looked to be in the process of leaving; neither noticed me at first, which was just as well, as I was trying my best to erase a look of horrified realization from my face. Their conversation ended at that moment with loud “so longs,” as if to indicate that I could safely enter without disrupting them.
“You look lost, friend,” the curator said as the girl brushed past me with a shy glance and smile. “Coffee?”
“No—thanks,” I replied, wanting to ask my questions and leave.
“Umm…Who’s show is that you’ve just hung?”
“Oh…Irene Burgman’s her name,” he answered, motioning for me to sit with him at the window table. I followed him over, but I did not sit, my mind trying to whir through what I needed to know.
“And…she’s…here?” I guessed, trying not to sound too distraught. He narrowed his eyes at me and sipped his coffee, his head twitching with mild disbelief.
“Nooo…I’m afraid she’ll miss her own show… But surely you’ve heard?” He waved at the girl, who had been inside before, as she walked past the window, back up the alley, signifying to us that she had no clue what she’d been thinking to go out the front way.
“Heard what?” I asked, trying to sound curious, not afraid. The curator turned his attention back to me and sighed, his expression a tad suspicious.
“She died last week, you know… Strangest thing really, because her dog died not two hours later. She was famous for loving that dog.” He smiled affectionately, but I just gaped and took a step back, covering my mouth slowly, my eyes wild with impossibility.
“Oh, that’s very sad,” I gasped, catching my breath and managing to marginally recompose myself. The curator cocked his head with concern.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes, yes—fine,” I stammered. “I—uhh—I have to go now, I think.” And then I very rudely turned and dashed down the hall to the front door, casting a glance over my shoulder as I left, to the room upstairs; it was completely dark, and the door was shut tight.
©1998 by David Christopher.
This story was originally published in The MacGuffin.