BY ANDREW M. HENDERSON
Robert Kline stood before the blank canvas, his once-steady hand now trembling slightly as he raised the brush. The tremor wasn't from age, though at fifty-three, he wasn't exactly young in the youth-obsessed art world, but rather from the gnawing knowledge that whatever he painted today would be met with the same indifference as everything else he'd produced in the last five years.
The spacious Tribeca loft that had once seemed like the ultimate symbol of his success now felt like a mausoleum for a career in desuetude. High ceilings that had once accommodated his most ambitious installations now only amplified the silence of his creative death. Morning light streamed through the large windows, illuminating dust particles floating in the air, more movement than his artistic career had seen lately.
He lowered the brush without making a mark and turned away. The walls of his studio were lined with his earlier works, the ones that had made his name, earned him features in Artforum and The New Yorker, garnered him invitations to the most exclusive gallery openings and private collections. "Kline's mastery of light and shadow creates a tension that speaks to the modern condition," one critic had written a decade ago. Now, those same critics couldn't be bothered to review his shows, when he even managed to get them.
His phone buzzed on the paint-splattered table. Robert glanced at it without picking up. Marjorie. His gallerist. Former gallerist, technically, though she occasionally threw him a bone out of what he suspected was pity masked as loyalty.
He let it go to voicemail.
The rejection from the Whitney Biennial had arrived yesterday, a form letter so impersonal it might as well have been addressed "To Failed Artist." Not even a personal note from the curator who had once called him "the voice of his generation." Now he was just another aging artist clinging to past glory while the world moved on to younger, fresher talents with their digital installations and politically charged performance pieces.
Robert crossed to the kitchenette and poured himself a cup of coffee, black and bitter like his mood. He wasn't even teaching anymore. The university had "gone in another direction" with their visiting artist program after his last seminar had received abysmal student evaluations. Too traditional. Out of touch. Those were the polite comments. The more cutting ones suggested he was just regurgitating pablum from his heyday, with nothing new to say.
He sighed and moved to his desk, pushing aside sketches that led nowhere. His bank account was dwindling, and the mortgage on this place didn't care about his previous accolades. Three more months, maybe four, before he'd need to consider selling the loft and moving to some depressing outer borough studio. Or worse, returning to Ohio, his failure complete.
A knock at the door startled him. Not the front door to the loft, but the service entrance that led directly to the freight elevator, the one he'd used when his large canvases were regularly shipped to galleries and collectors around the world.
Robert frowned. He wasn't expecting any deliveries.
The knock came again, more insistent.
He crossed the loft and pulled open the heavy metal door. No one was there. Just a small package on the floor, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. No shipping label, no return address. Just his name written in an elegant, flowing script: Robert Kline.
Robert looked down the service hallway in both directions. Empty. The freight elevator was silent.
He picked up the package. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, maybe eight inches square and four inches deep. He brought it inside, setting it on his worktable and studying it with curiosity, the first genuine interest he'd felt in weeks.
The twine came away easily, and he unwrapped the brown paper carefully. Inside was a wooden box made of some dark, polished wood he didn't recognize. It seemed old, the edges worn smooth from handling, strange symbols carved into its surface. Lines and curves that seemed to shift slightly when he wasn't looking directly at them.
There was no note, no explanation.
A small brass latch held the box closed. Robert hesitated, then flipped it open.
Inside, nested in dark velvet, was a glass jar about the size of his fist. The jar contained what appeared to be paint. The deepest, most absolute black he had ever seen. It wasn't just dark, it seemed to absorb the light around it, creating a small void in the center of the box. Next to the jar was a folded piece of parchment and what looked like a specialized brush with an unusual handle made of bone or ivory.
Robert lifted the jar carefully. It was cool to the touch, almost cold, and heavier than it looked. The substance inside didn't move like normal paint. It seemed thicker, more viscous, and eerily still.
He set it down and unfolded the parchment. The note was written in the same flowing script as his name on the package:
"From the deepest trench, where light has never touched and eyes have never seen, comes the true essence of darkness. Not Vantablack, not the manufactured void, but the genuine abyss. It has waited for the right hand to wield it. Your hand, Robert Kline. We have watched. We have waited. Your vision was never the problem, only your medium was insufficient. Instructions follow. Create what you were meant to create. We will be watching."
Below this cryptic message were detailed instructions for preparing and using the substance, including warnings about direct skin contact and the need for proper ventilation. The instructions were precise, scientific almost, but interspersed with phrases that seemed out of place: "When the medium speaks, listen," and "Allow your hand to follow where it leads."
Robert read the instructions twice, then looked again at the jar of blackness. He should be skeptical. This was probably some elaborate prank by a former student or a publicity stunt by some underground art collective. And yet...
He felt drawn to the substance. Compelled to it like the tide to the moon. After years of creative blockage, something inside him responded to the challenge, to the mystery.His phone rang again, Marjorie, again, but this time, Robert didn't even glance at it. He was already clearing space on his worktable, gathering the specialized materials listed in the instructions: distilled water, grain alcohol, sea salt, copper powder.
By nightfall, he had prepared the medium according to the mysterious instructions. The process had been complex, requiring precise measurements and timing. The result was a slightly thinned version of the original substance, now loaded into special tubes that could be attached to the bone-handled brush.
Robert set up a fresh canvas, larger than he'd worked with in years, and positioned his lights. According to the instructions, the medium worked best in strong, direct light, which seemed counterintuitive for something so dark, but he followed the guidance precisely.He hesitated before making the first stroke. Something about the prepared medium unsettled him. In the jar, it had been merely unusual. Now, it seemed almost alive, the surface shifting slightly even when the tube was perfectly still.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, but his heart was racing as he finally touched the brush to the canvas.
The sensation was immediate and unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The brush seemed to pull rather than push, drawing his hand across the canvas in fluid motions he hadn't planned. The medium flowed onto the surface not like paint, but like shadow given substance. Where it touched, the canvas didn't just appear dark, it seemed to recede, creating a depth that should have been impossible on a flat surface.
Robert tried to pull back, to regain control, but his hand continued moving as if guided by an invisible force. He wasn't alarmed. He was exhilarated. The movements felt right, as if he was finally creating exactly what he had always meant to create but had never been able to articulate.
Time lost meaning. The light in the studio shifted from afternoon to evening to night, but Robert barely noticed. He worked in a state of flow more powerful than any he'd ever experienced, even in his most productive years. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just pure unadulterated creation.
When he finally stepped back, his legs nearly buckled beneath him. How long had he been standing? His back ached, his arm felt leaden, and his mouth was dry with thirst. The windows of the loft showed pre-dawn light. He had worked through the entire night.Only then did he truly see what he had created.
The canvas was dominated by what appeared at first glance to be an abstract landscape, a series of undulating forms that suggested deep oceanic trenches or perhaps the folds of some massive, dark fabric. But as he looked longer, the forms resolved into something more disturbing: faces, dozens of them, emerging from the darkness as if trying to press through from the other side of some membrane. Their expressions were agonized, ecstatic, terrified. A tumult of raw emotion captured in gradations of the absolute black.
It was technically brilliant. Far beyond what Robert knew himself capable of. The depth, the subtle variations in a medium that should allow for no variation, the emotional impact...it was objectively the best work he had ever produced. Perhaps the best work he had ever seen.
And he had almost no memory of creating it.
The realization should have frightened him. Instead, he felt a rush of excitement, of vindication. This was his comeback. This was what would silence the critics and the doubters. This was what would put Robert Kline back where he belonged.
He finally collapsed onto his sofa, exhaustion overtaking him, but his last thoughts before sleep claimed him were not of rest but of when he could begin the next piece.
"It's extraordinary, Robert. Truly. I've never seen anything like it."
Marjorie Levinson circled the canvas for the third time, her critical eye taking in every detail. At sixty, with her steel-gray bob and perpetual black clothing, she had seen every trend and movement in the art world come and go. Very little impressed her anymore. But this...
"What did you call the medium again?" she asked, leaning in close but carefully not touching the surface.
"It's a proprietary blend," Robert said, the lie coming easily. "Something I've been developing for years. Finally got it right."
"It's more than right. It's revolutionary." Marjorie straightened and faced him. "The depth is impossible. How did you achieve that effect? It looks like you could reach into the canvas forever, like a black hole."
Robert shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "New techniques. New vision."
In truth, he had created three more pieces since that first night, each emerging from the same fugue state, each depicting similar yet distinct scenes of what he had come to think of as the "other side." Faces, forms, suggestions of vast, impossible architectures glimpsed through a dark veil. Each piece had left him drained, almost ill, but the results were undeniable.
"I want to show them," Marjorie said decisively. "All four. We'll call the exhibition 'Abyssal.' We'll mount it next month in the main gallery."
Robert blinked in surprise. The main gallery at Levinson Contemporary was reserved for their biggest names. It had been three years since his work had been displayed there, and even then, it had been a small showing in the side room.
"Are you sure? What about Dieter's installation? I thought he was booked for next month."
Marjorie waved a dismissive hand. "Dieter can wait. This can't. This needs to be seen now." She pulled out her phone and began typing rapidly. "I'm going to start making calls. The right collectors, the right critics. You've done something important here, Robert. Something that changes the conversation."
After she left, promises of press releases and exhibition designs swirling behind her, Robert sat alone in his studio, staring at the four canvases. They were arranged in a row against the wall, each one darker and more complex than the last. The faces in the most recent piece seemed more defined, more numerous. In certain light, they almost seemed to move.
He still had four unused tubes of the prepared medium. Enough for perhaps two more large pieces before he would need to use more from the original jar. The instructions had been very specific about the ratios. How much of the substance could be mixed with the other materials to create a stable, workable medium. He had followed them precisely.
All except for one detail. The instructions had specified wearing gloves when handling the brush. On the third painting, in his creative frenzy, the gloves had felt too restrictive. He had removed them, and the sensation of the brush handle against his bare skin had been electric. The connection to the work had intensified tenfold.
Now, he looked down at his right hand. A faint darkening traced the lines of his palm, as if the creases had been filled with a fine, dark powder. It didn't wash off, he had tried. But it didn't seem to be spreading, and there was no pain, so he had decided not to worry about it.
Small price to pay for a second chance at greatness.
His phone chimed with a text from Marjorie: "Spoke with Artforum. They want to interview you TOMORROW. This is happening, Robert!"
He smiled. Yes, it was happening. Everything he had wanted. Everything he deserved.He approached the canvases again, studying the most recent one more closely. The faces were becoming more distinct with each piece. This last one included a figure in the foreground that was almost fully formed, a humanoid shape with elongated limbs and a suggestion of great size, as if it was closer to the viewer not because it was in the foreground but because it was simply massive compared to the other forms.
For a brief moment, a flicker of unease passed through Robert. There was something familiar about the long, thin face of that figure, something that reminded him of...
His phone chimed again, breaking his concentration. Another text from Marjorie with a list of important names who had already confirmed for the opening. All thoughts of unease vanished in a wash of vindication. They were coming back. All the people who had abandoned him, forgotten him. They would see. They would all see.
Robert turned to a fresh canvas. There was time to complete one more piece before the interview tomorrow. He prepared his lights, his materials. His hand, with its strange dark lines, reached for the bone brush almost of its own accord.
As he touched the brush to the canvas, the now-familiar sensation of surrendering control washed over him. His last conscious thought was a kind of triumph: Let it take me where it wants. Wherever that is, it's better than where I was.
The exhibition opening at Levinson Contemporary was the event of the season. The line to enter stretched around the block, a mix of established collectors, critics, artists, and younger gallery-hoppers drawn by the sudden buzz around Robert Kline's unexpected comeback.
Inside, the main gallery had been transformed. The walls were painted a deep charcoal gray, making the six large canvases seem to float in darkness. Specialized lighting focused on each piece, creating the illusion that the strange black medium was actively absorbing the light rather than reflecting it.
Robert stood near the entrance, accepting congratulations and fielding questions with a poise he hadn't felt in years. He was dressed impeccably in a black suit that hung more loosely on his frame than it had a month ago -- he'd lost weight during the intense creative period leading up to the show, too busy to eat properly.
"Robert, darling, you've outdone yourself." Geneva Phillips air-kissed him on both cheeks, her statement jewelry jangling. As the widow of industrialist Thomas Phillips, her collection was world-renowned, and her acquisitions could make careers. "I simply must have one for the new wing. The large one in the center, it speaks to me."
"I think it might already be speaking to Harold Feinstein," Robert said with a practiced smile, nodding toward the tech billionaire who was deep in conversation with Marjorie in front of the piece Geneva had indicated.
"Well, we'll just see about that," Geneva said with a determined glint in her eye as she moved purposefully toward them.
Robert watched her go, feeling a detached sort of satisfaction. The exhibition was a triumph by any measure. All the right people were here. The preview in Artforum had used phrases like "career-defining moment" and "radical departure that somehow fulfills the promise of his earlier work." Marjorie had already sold three pieces before the doors officially opened, each for more than Robert had earned in the past three years combined.
So why did he feel so hollow?
He sipped his champagne, barely tasting it. The truth was, he felt disconnected from the work around him. Yes, his hand had created these pieces, but the process remained a blur of semiconsciousness. Each time he used the strange medium, the fugue states grew longer and deeper. For the final piece, he had lost nearly two days, coming to on the floor of his studio, dehydrated and disoriented.
But the results…the results were undeniable. Each canvas drew viewers like moths to flame. People stood before them, transfixed, some for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. Occasionally, someone would reach out as if to touch the surface before catching themselves or being warned off by the vigilant gallery attendants.
"Mr. Kline? Robert Kline?"
A voice pulled him from his thoughts. A young man stood before him, mid-twenties perhaps, with intense eyes and a slightly too-eager smile. He wore a charcoal suit with a strange lapel pin, a spiral pattern that seemed to draw the eye inward.
"Yes?" Robert replied, not recognizing him as a critic or collector.
"Julian Marsh. I'm so honored to meet you." The young man extended his hand. "Your work has moved me deeply. Especially these new pieces."
Robert shook his hand automatically. The young man's grip was firm, his palm smooth except for a roughness along the creases…similar to the darkening on Robert's own hand, though not visible to the eye.
"Thank you," Robert said, withdrawing his hand slightly quicker than politeness dictated. Something about the young man made him uneasy.
"I've been following your career with great interest," Julian continued, unperturbed. "From your early light studies through your mid-career explorations of form and space. But this…" he gestured to the gallery around them, "this is your true calling. You've finally found the right medium to express what's always been inside you."
The phrasing echoed the note that had come with the mysterious package too closely to be coincidence.
"Do I know you?" Robert asked sharply.
Julian smiled. "Not yet. But we know you, Mr. Kline. We've always known you had the potential. The vision. You just needed..." he paused, "the right tools."
"We?" Robert felt a chill that had nothing to do with the gallery's air conditioning.
"Friends of your work. Patrons, you might say." Julian withdrew a business card from his inner pocket and pressed it into Robert's hand. "When you're ready for more, call this number. The supply you were sent was limited intentionally. A test, you might say. One you've passed admirably."
Before Robert could respond, Julian melted into the crowd with surprising ease. Robert looked down at the card in his hand. It was made of the same strange parchment as the note that had accompanied the original package. There was no name, no company logo, just a phone number and a small symbol embossed in black: the same spiral pattern as Julian's lapel pin.
"Robert!" Marjorie's voice cut through his unease. "Harold Feinstein just acquired 'Emergence' for seven figures. Seven! And Geneva is throwing a tantrum, which means she'll pay even more for 'Descent.' We need to discuss your next series immediately. Please tell me you have more of whatever this miraculous medium is."
Robert pocketed the card. "Yes," he said distantly. "I can get more."
Later that night, after the last of the guests had departed and even Marjorie had finally gone home to rest before tomorrow's sure-to-be-frenzied public opening, Robert remained in the gallery alone. The security guard, instructed to let him stay as long as he wished, kept a discreet distance near the entrance.
Robert moved slowly from canvas to canvas, seeing his work properly displayed for the first time. The specialized lighting Marjorie had installed brought out subtleties even he hadn't noticed in his studio. How the depth seemed to shift depending on the viewing angle, how certain forms only became visible after prolonged observation.
He stopped before the largest piece, the one Harold Feinstein had purchased for a sum that still didn't feel real. Titled "The Watcher," it depicted what appeared to be a vast chamber with a single, massive figure seated on what might have been a throne. The figure's proportions were wrong somehow. Limbs too long, head too large and oddly shaped. Surrounding it were smaller forms in postures of supplication.
As Robert stared at the piece, he could swear the central figure moved slightly, turning its vast head incrementally toward the viewer…toward him. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he gripped the edge of a nearby bench to steady himself.For a moment, he thought he heard a voice, low, resonant, speaking words he couldn't quite make out. He shook his head, blaming exhaustion and the two glasses of champagne he'd allowed himself.
"Time to go, Mr. Kline?" the security guard called from across the gallery.
"Yes," Robert said, tearing his gaze away from the canvas with unexpected difficulty. "Yes, I think so."
Outside, the night air cleared his head somewhat. He decided to walk the twenty blocks back to his loft rather than taking a cab, needing the time to process the evening, to ground himself in the reality of his success.
As he walked, he became aware of someone falling into step beside him. He tensed, hand moving toward his pocket for his phone, ready to call for help—but it was Julian Marsh, the young man from the gallery.
"Beautiful night for a walk," Julian said conversationally, as if there was nothing unusual about his appearance.
"Are you following me?" Robert demanded, stopping under a streetlight.
Julian smiled that same too-eager smile. "Just heading the same direction. And hoping to continue our conversation from earlier. You've done remarkable work, Mr. Kline. Truly transcendent."
"What do you want? Who are you really?" Robert fought to keep his voice steady.
"I told you. A patron. An admirer." Julian gestured for them to continue walking, and Robert found himself moving forward despite his misgivings. "The medium we provided, it's working exactly as intended. Your connection to the source is strong. Stronger than we anticipated, in fact."
"The source?" Robert asked, though part of him didn't want to know.
"The entity on the other side. The one you've depicted so...accurately." Julian's eyes gleamed with an almost feverish light. "We've been working for decades to establish a connection. Many artists have tried. Some achieved partial success, glimpses, echoes. But you…you've opened a true window."
They had reached Washington Square Park, nearly empty at this late hour except for a few students and the occasional dog walker. Julian led them to a bench partially shadowed by trees.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Robert said, but he sat nonetheless. "I received an anonymous package with an unusual art medium. I experimented with it. The results were successful. That's all."
Julian laughed softly. "Is that really all? And the voices you’ve begun to hear when you stare at your own creations? The darkening of your hand where it contacts the brush?”
Robert instinctively covered his right hand with his left. The dark lines had indeed spread, tracing not just the creases now but forming intricate patterns across his palm.
"How do you know about that?" he whispered.
Julian removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve. In the dim park lighting, Robert could see that the young man's entire forearm was covered in similar dark patterns, but more advanced, more complete. The lines formed complex spirals and symbols that seemed to shift ever so slightly when viewed peripherally.
"The mark of our service,” Julian said, rolling his sleeve back down. “It’s an honor. A sign of connection.”
"Connection to what?" Robert asked, though he was increasingly certain he didn't want the answer.
"To the Great One. To the entity you've been portraying." Julian leaned closer. "We call it many names, but none are complete or accurate. It exists beyond our dimensional understanding. Beyond our capacity for language. But it wishes to be known. To be seen. To be brought forth."
Robert stood abruptly. "I think this conversation is over."
Julian remained seated, unperturbed. "You'll call the number I gave you, Mr. Kline. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not next week. But you will call. The medium you have left is nearly depleted, yes? And you find the idea of returning to ordinary paint...unfathomable now. Don't you? More so, the idea of returning to mediocrity."
“Mediocrity.” The word stung like a wasp. Robert didn't answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.
"We'll be waiting," Julian said softly. "The Great One will be waiting. It has chosen you, after all. Such an honor shouldn't be refused."
Robert turned and walked away quickly, resisting the urge to run. He could feel Julian's eyes on his back all the way to the edge of the park, but when he finally glanced back, the bench was empty.
The success of "Abyssal" exceeded even Marjorie's most optimistic projections. All six pieces sold within the first week, each to a major collector. The waiting list for Robert's next works grew daily. Critics wrote rhapsodic reviews, with one going so far as to call the exhibition "a paradigm shift in contemporary art, Kline has found a way to make the void itself expressive."
Robert should have been ecstatic. Instead, he found himself increasingly isolated, spending long hours in his studio staring at blank canvases. The remaining medium from the original package, enough for perhaps one more large piece, sat unused. He couldn't bring himself to begin the process, knowing what would follow: the fugue state, the loss of control, the voices that now lingered even after he stopped working.
Marjorie called daily, her initial excitement giving way to concern, and then carefully masked vexation.
"The momentum won't last forever, Robert," she warned during her last visit to the loft. "The art world has the attention span of a gnat. We need to capitalize on this moment."
"I'm working on concepts," he lied. "Something even more ambitious."
She had left unsatisfied but temporarily assuaged. The truth was, Robert was afraid. Afraid of what was happening to him, afraid of Julian Marsh and his talk of "the Great One," afraid of the increasingly vivid dreams he had each night. Dreams of vast, dark spaces and enormous entities that noticed him watching.
Most of all, he was afraid because part of him craved the experience of working with the medium again, surrendering to its control, feeling the rush of creation without the burden of conscious effort.
The business card Julian had given him sat on his desk, untouched but always present, like a small black hole exerting its gravitational pull.
Then came the news about Harold Feinstein.
Robert saw it first on an art news website. The tech billionaire had been found in his Manhattan penthouse catatonic, staring at "The Watcher," the centerpiece of Robert's exhibition that he had purchased. According to the article, Feinstein's assistant had found him after he failed to appear for meetings two days in a row. He had apparently been standing in the same position for at least 36 hours, unresponsive but with his eyes open and fixed on the canvas. He was now hospitalized, his condition described as "a profound dissociative state of unknown origin."
Robert felt physically ill reading the report. Was it coincidence? It had to be. Feinstein was known for his eccentricities, his history of experimental drug use. This couldn't have anything to do with the painting. Could it?
But as the day progressed, more news trickled in. Geneva Phillips had reportedly experienced "disturbing hallucinations" after installing "Descent" in her home gallery. A museum curator who had spent several hours photographing the works for an upcoming journal article had resigned her position without explanation, leaving a resignation letter that contained only the repeated phrase, "it watches from between the spaces.”
By evening, his phone was buzzing constantly. Marjorie, art news outlets seeking comment, even the gallery's lawyer suggesting a meeting "to discuss potential liability issues."
Robert ignored them all. Instead, he found himself standing before his easel, the last of the prepared medium ready, a fresh canvas waiting. His right hand, now covered to the wrist in the intricate dark patterns, seemed to tingle with anticipation.
He should stop. He should destroy the remaining medium, contact Julian's "patrons" and tell them to leave him alone, call Marjorie and craft some explanation for the strange events surrounding his collectors.
Instead, he picked up the bone-handled brush.
This time, the fugue was different. Instead of losing awareness, Robert felt hyperaware, but not of his physical surroundings. It was as if his consciousness expanded outward from his body, traveling along some invisible connection established by the brush in his hand, the medium flowing onto the canvas.
He found himself in a vast, dark space. Not empty, but filled with a substance that wasn't quite liquid, wasn't quite air. Forms moved in the distance, massive, indistinct, their geometries wrong by human standards. And directly before him, growing clearer as his awareness adjusted, was the entity from his paintings. The Watcher. The Great One.
It was enormous beyond comprehension, its body extending in directions that shouldn't exist. Its face, if the arrangement of sensory organs could be called a face, was both familiar and utterly alien. It regarded him with what he somehow knew was curiosity.
YOU HAVE OPENED THE WAY.
The words weren't spoken. They simply existed in Robert's awareness, reverberating through whatever passed for his body in this place.
"I didn't mean to," Robert said, or thought. "I didn't know."
INTENT IS IRRELEVANT. THE CONNECTION IS ESTABLISHED.
It shifted, and the movement sent ripples through the strange medium surrounding them.
YOUR KIND HAS FORGOTTEN US. THIS IS BEING CORRECTED.
"What are you?" Robert asked, even as he understood the question was hopelessly inadequate.
I AM WHAT WAITS BETWEEN WORLDS. I AM WHAT WATCHES FROM SPACES YOU CANNOT SEE.
The entity seemed to expand, filling more of Robert's awareness.
YOUR ART CREATES A WINDOW. IMPERFECT, BUT WIDENING. SOON, NO WINDOW WILL BE NEEDED.
With a supreme effort of will, Robert pulled back, trying to return to his body, to his studio. "I won't help you," he managed. "I'll destroy the paintings, the medium."
A sensation washed over it that might have been amusement, might have been pity.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND YOUR ROLE, ARTIST. YOU ARE NOT CREATOR. YOU ARE CREATION. THE BRUSH, NOT THE HAND.
The entity reached toward him with an appendage that seemed to stretch across impossible distances, and Robert felt himself being examined, assessed at some deep level.
YOU ARE NEARLY READY. THE FINAL WORK APPROACHES. THE TRUE OPENING.
With a violent wrench, Robert pulled himself back, fighting against the invisible tether. He became aware of his studio again, his body, the brush in his hand. He was on his knees before the canvas, which now displayed an image more detailed and disturbing than any previous work.
It showed the entity, the Great One, but from an angle that suggested the viewer was looking up at it from below, emphasizing its impossible scale. Around it were human figures in various stages of transformation, their bodies elongating, their features shifting toward something other, like a caterpillar exiting imago. And in the foreground, depicted with perfect clarity, was Robert himself, his right arm completely blackened, his eyes reflecting the same absolute darkness as the medium itself.
He scrambled away from the canvas, dropping the brush, which clattered on the wooden floor. The painting wasn't just a painting, it was a prophecy, Robert knew.
With shaking hands, he reached for his phone and dialed Marjorie's number.
"Robert, thank God," she answered immediately. "We need to talk about what's happening--"
"Marjorie, listen carefully," he interrupted, his voice hoarse. "The paintings are dangerous. All of them. You need to contact the buyers, tell them to cover the works, not to look at them directly--"
"Robert, calm down. What are you talking about?"
"Feinstein, Geneva…it's not coincidence. The paintings...they do something to the viewers. To everyone. I think--" He broke off, unsure how to explain what he now understood. "They're not just paintings, Marjorie. They're windows. Or doors. I don't know exactly, but something is coming through them."
There was a long pause. When Marjorie spoke again, her voice was carefully neutral.
"Robert, I think you're under a lot of stress. The sudden success, the pressure for new work. It's understandable. But do you understand the liability issues of your accusations? The potential damage to your career, just as it's reviving?"
"This is bigger!" Robert shouted. "People are being affected. Changed. And it's going to get worse."
"I'm coming over," Marjorie said decisively. "Don't do anything rash. Don't talk to anyone else. We'll sort this out."
She hung up before he could argue. Robert stared at his phone, then at the new painting still on the easel. The entity seemed to stare back, its ancient, primordial gaze knowing, patient.
He had to destroy it. All of it.
He lurched to his feet and stumbled to the kitchenette, pulling open drawers until he found a large knife. He returned to the canvas and raised the blade, preparing to slash through the surface…
And found he couldn't move his arm. No matter how he strained, his muscles refused to obey. The knife trembled in his grip, suspended inches from the canvas.
NO.
The voice was in his head, clear and commanding. The same voice from his vision.
THE WORK IS NOT YOURS TO DESTROY. YOU ARE NOT YOURS TO CONTROL.
Robert fought against the invisible restraint, his entire body shaking with effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran into his eyes, but he couldn't even raise his left hand to wipe it away.
A knock at the door broke his concentration. "Robert? It's Marjorie. Let me in."
The momentary distraction weakened whatever force held him. Robert managed to drop the knife and stagger backward, away from the canvas. He stumbled to the door, his right hand now burning with pain, the dark patterns seeming to writhe under his skin.
"Robert?" Marjorie called again, knocking more insistently.
He reached for the door with his left hand, fumbling with the lock. When he finally pulled it open, Marjorie stood there in a black coat, her face pinched with concern.
"My God, Robert, you look terrible," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes darted around the studio before fixing on the new canvas. "Is that...?"
"Don't look at it," Robert warned, moving to block her view. "Don't look at any of them for too long."
Marjorie's expression shifted from concern to professional assessment. "It's extraordinary. Even more developed than the exhibition pieces." She moved around him, approaching the canvas despite his warning. "The depth is incredible. And that figure in the foreground…is that you?"
"Marjorie, please. We need to talk about what's happening." Robert's voice cracked with desperation. "The paintings are changing me.” He held up his darkened right hand as evidence.
She glanced at his hand, then back at the painting. "You should wear gloves when working with experimental materials, Robert."
"It's not staining. It's..." He struggled to find words that wouldn't sound completely insane. "The medium isn't just paint. It's something else. Something alive, or...connected to something alive."
Marjorie finally turned away from the canvas, her expression softening into what Robert recognized as her "handling difficult artists" face. He'd seen it directed at others over the years, but never at him.
"Robert, you've been under immense pressure. Creating six masterworks in under a month would strain anyone. And now with these unfortunate incidents with the collectors, which are completely coincidental, by the way, I understand why you might be feeling paranoid."
Robert noticed her eyes darting about the room, spying empty pill vials and bottles of bourbon.
"It's not paranoia," he insisted, but even to his own ears, he sounded exactly like someone in the grip of delusion.
"Let me help you," Marjorie said, placing a hand on his arm. "Take a break. A few weeks somewhere quiet. The south of France, perhaps. The gallery will cover it. Consider it an investment in your well-being. When you come back refreshed, we'll discuss the next exhibition. No rush."
Her condescension stung worse than outright dismissal. Robert pulled away from her touch.
"You're not listening to me. The paintings are not what they seem. They're windows, or portals of some kind. The people who've been staring at them are being affected because something is looking back at them."
Marjorie sighed. "Robert…"
"There are people," he continued, words tumbling out now, "some kind of cult. They sent me the medium. They knew what it would do. They've been planning this, using artists to try to establish some kind of connection with this… entity. They call it 'The Great One.'"
"Robert, listen to yourself," she said finally. "Cults, entities from other dimensions, living paint…do you realize how this sounds?" Marjorie was skeptical. Who wouldn't be of such a spurious tale. But something about Robert's demeanor…she had seen her fair share of artists who'd gone off the deep end. But none ever seemed so desperate to be wrong.
Against her better judgement, she decided to listen. The words poured out like ink from a broken pen. The mysterious package, the cult that had contacted him, their talk of entities and vessels and transformations. He showed her his darkened arm, the intricate patterns now extending past his wrist. As he spoke, he watched her expression shift from professional concern to genuine alarm.
Twenty minutes later, Marjorie sat in stunned silence, staring at the dark patterns covering Robert's arm. Before she could fully process everything he'd told her, his phone buzzed. An unlisted number.
"That's them," Robert whispered.
Julian Marsh's voice was smooth, conversational. "Just checking on your progress. Our associates have been monitoring the, shall we say, ripple effects of your exhibition pieces. Most impressive. But incomplete."
Robert switched to speakerphone, wanting Marjorie to hear.
"The collectors are being harmed," Robert said. "Whatever is happening, it needs to stop."
"Harmed? No, Mr. Kline. Transformed. The final work you've completed is the key. The true portal."
Marjorie's eyes widened as she listened.
"I'm going to destroy the paintings, the medium, everything," Robert said.
"You can't. The Great One won't allow it. The vessel is nearly ready." Julian's voice carried an almost amused certainty.
"Vessel?" Robert felt a chill run through him. "What do you mean, vessel?"
"The Great One has chosen you, Mr. Kline. When the transformation is complete, you'll be more than you ever were. Part of something vast and eternal."
"And the others?" Robert asked. "Feinstein, Geneva, what happens to them?"
"Lesser vessels. Servants. Extensions of the Great One's awareness in this world. They are honored in their way, though their transformation is...less complete than what awaits you."
"I won't go with you," Robert said, though he was increasingly uncertain of his ability to resist.
"Your cooperation is preferred but not required, Mr. Kline. We'll be there by midnight."
The call ended. Robert dropped the phone as if it had burned him.
Marjorie looked at Robert, incredulous. "We need to call the police--"
"The police can't help with this. You heard him." Robert looked at the final painting, the Great One's alien gaze seeming to follow him. "The paintings need to be destroyed. All of them. If we act quickly, before midnight…" Marjorie reached for her phone. "No calls," he said sharply. “They might be monitoring. We go in person. Now."
The first stop was Levinson Contemporary, where one piece remained unshipped. Marjorie used her keys to enter through the service entrance, bypassing the main gallery's security system. The space was dark and silent, the specialized lighting shut down for the night.
"It's in the storage room," Marjorie whispered, though there was no one else present. "The Berlin collector's wire transfer hit a snag with international banking regulations. We kept it secure until the funds clear tomorrow." Thank God for red tape, Robert thought.
They moved through the darkened gallery to a secure door at the back. Marjorie entered a code, and the door clicked open to reveal a climate-controlled storage space lined with shelves and racks of carefully stored artwork.
"There," she said, pointing to a large canvas wrapped in protective coverings.
Robert approached it cautiously. Even covered, he could feel a strange pull from the piece, like a subtle magnetic attraction. His right arm, now covered in the dark patterns all the way to his shoulder, throbbed in response.
"We'll need to take it outside," he said. "I brought accelerant in the cab."
Marjorie looked shocked. "You're going to burn it? Here?"
"There's an alley behind the gallery, isn't there? Empty at this hour?"
"This is madness," she muttered, but helped him carefully lift the wrapped canvas. It seemed heavier than it should have been, as if the black medium had actual mass beyond normal paint.
They carried it through the back door into the service alley. The night was cool and clear, the sliver of moon providing just enough light to work by. Robert unwrapped the canvas, trying not to look directly at it, a piece titled "Supplicants" showing human-like figures prostrating themselves before a suggestion of the Great One.
"Hold this," he said, handing Marjorie the wrapping materials while he removed a plastic bottle of lighter fluid from inside his jacket.
"Robert," Marjorie began, still uncertain.
"It has to be done," he said firmly, beginning to douse the canvas. The acrid smell of the fluid filled the alley. When the bottle was empty, he pulled out a matchbook.
As he struck the first match, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The pain in his right arm intensified, and he heard the voice again, not in his ears but directly in his mind.
YOU CANNOT UNDO WHAT HAS BEEN DONE. THE WAY IS OPENED.
Robert fought against the pressure in his head, focusing on the small flame between his fingers. With tremendous effort, he moved his hand toward the edge of the canvas.
The match went out.
He struck another. Again, it extinguished itself before touching the accelerant-soaked canvas.
"It's not working," he growled in frustration.
Marjorie stepped forward, took the matchbook from his trembling hand, and struck one herself. This time, the match stayed lit as she moved it toward the canvas.
"Wait," Robert said suddenly. "Stand back. Far back."
She hesitated, then retreated several steps before tossing the lit match onto the canvas. It caught immediately, flames racing across the surface with unnatural speed. The fire was darker than fire should be, hints of deep purple and black within the orange flames.
As the canvas burned, a high-pitched sound at the edge of hearing filled the alley. Robert doubled over, clutching his head as pain lanced through it. His right arm felt as if it were burning from the inside out.
Then, abruptly, the pain subsided. The canvas continued to burn, but now it looked like an ordinary fire consuming ordinary materials.
"It worked," Robert gasped, straightening up. "I can feel it. The connection is weaker."
"So we need to destroy the others," Marjorie said, her initial skepticism giving way to grim determination.
"Yes. Quickly. Before Julian and his 'patrons' realize what we're doing."
# The next target was more challenging. The piece acquired by the Museum of Modern Art for their contemporary collection. It was after hours, the museum closed to the public, but Marjorie's connections and a fabricated emergency involving the preservation of the work gained them access to the storage area where Robert's canvas was being kept until its planned installation the following month.
This burning was easier, the pain in Robert's head less intense, the resistance from the unseen force weaker. As the second canvas was reduced to ashes, the patterns on his arm seemed less distinct, as if they were fading slightly.
"It's working," he told Marjorie as they hurried back to the waiting cab. "If we can destroy them all..."
"That leaves four more," she said. "But they're in private collections. Geneva Phillips has one in her apartment on Fifth Avenue. Harold Feinstein's is in his penthouse, where he was found. The others are with collectors in London and Tokyo. We can't possibly reach those tonight."
Robert checked his watch: 10:45 PM. Just over an hour before Julian's promised arrival."We focus on what we can reach. Geneva's first, she knows you, might let us in."
Geneva Phillips was not pleased to be disturbed at nearly eleven at night, but Marjorie's insistence that there was a serious conservation issue with her recently acquired masterpiece eventually gained them entry to her opulent Fifth Avenue apartment.
"This had better be important, Marjorie," Geneva said, tightening the belt of her silk robe as she led them through the marble-floored foyer. "I've had the most terrible migraines since installing the piece, and I've finally found a medication that lets me sleep."
Robert and Marjorie exchanged glances. "The painting is affecting you," Robert said. "That's why we're here."
Geneva stopped, turning to face them with narrowed eyes. "Affecting me? What are you talking about?"
"The hallucinations you've been experiencing," Marjorie said gently. "They're connected to the painting."
Geneva's face drained of color. "How could you possibly know about that? I haven't told anyone."
"Because it's happening to others too," Robert explained. "Everyone who's spent time with the paintings. The medium I used...it's not what I thought it was. It's dangerous."
Geneva studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Ever since that thing was hung in my gallery, I've been seeing...shapes. Movement at the edge of my vision. And the dreams..." She shuddered. "Last night, I dreamed I was kneeling before some enormous...presence. It was changing me, reshaping me for its purposes."
"We need to destroy the painting," Robert said bluntly. "All of them."
To his surprise, Geneva didn't object. "Take it," she said, resuming her path through the apartment. "Take it and go. I want no part of this...whatever it is."
The painting hung in her private gallery, a softly lit room displaying highlights from her collection. Robert's piece dominated one wall. "Descent," depicting what appeared to be human forms being drawn downward into a vast darkness. Unlike at the museum or gallery, this destruction would be messier, but Geneva merely stood back and watched with an expression of grim satisfaction as they removed the canvas from its frame and took it to her marble fireplace in the adjacent sitting room.
"This will damage the chimney," Marjorie warned.
"Bill me for the repairs," Geneva said flatly. "Just get rid of it."
The burning was more difficult this time. The flames seemed reluctant to consume the canvas, and the dark smoke that rose up the chimney formed shapes that made Robert avert his eyes. But eventually, the piece was reduced to ashes, and Geneva let out an audible sigh of relief.
"It feels as if a weight has been lifted," she said, pressing a hand to her temple. "The pressure that's been building in my head…it’s easing."
"There are still others," Robert told her. "Including one in Harold Feinstein's penthouse."
"Where he was found catatonic," Geneva nodded. "I heard. But how will you get in? The place will be locked up."
"We have to try," Robert said, checking his watch again. Eleven thirty. Time was running out. They didn't make it to Feinstein's penthouse. As their cab turned onto Park Avenue, Robert spotted a black SUV with tinted windows moving parallel to them, one block over.
"They're looking for us," he said, ducking down in the seat. "Julian and his group."
"How can you be sure?" Marjorie asked.
"I can feel it." His right arm was throbbing again, the patterns darkening and becoming more distinct despite the three paintings they had destroyed. "They know what we're doing. The connection is weaker, but it's still there."
The final painting, the one still in his studio, that was the key. The most direct link, the true portal Julian had mentioned.
"We need to go back to my loft," Robert told the driver, changing their destination. "Quickly."
As they approached his building, Robert could see more black SUVs parked outside. Men in dark suits stood by the main entrance, their posture alert, watchful.
"Drive past," he instructed sharply. "Don't slow down."
The driver complied, and as they continued down the block, Robert caught a glimpse of Julian Marsh standing among the suited men, his face turned directly toward their cab as if he had sensed Robert's presence.
"They're ahead of schedule," Robert said, his voice tight with fear. "And they've got the building surrounded."
"We need to call the police," Marjorie insisted.
"And tell them what? That a cult is trying to use my painting to bring an interdimensional entity into our world?" Robert shook his head.
"Then what do we do? We can't reach the painting in your loft."
Robert thought quickly. The throbbing in his arm was intensifying, the patterns seeming to shift and spread before his eyes. Time was running out.
"The connection," he said slowly. "It's strongest through me. I'm the vessel, Julian said. If I can't destroy the painting..."
"Robert, no," Marjorie said, realizing what he was suggesting. "There has to be another way."
"Three out of six paintings destroyed, and it's helped, but not enough. The final painting is the true portal, but they've got it now. I'm the only other direct link."
"You're talking about killing yourself?" Marjorie said. "I won't help you do that."
"Not killing," Robert corrected. "Removing myself. Breaking the connection." He turned to the driver. "Take us to Port Authority."
The bus terminal was crowded even at this late hour, full of travelers making connections or waiting for delayed coaches. Robert purchased a ticket for the first available overnight bus, destination irrelevant, simply the first to depart.
"This won't work," Marjorie argued as they waited in the terminal. "They'll find you wherever you go. They won't stop."
"Maybe not," Robert acknowledged. "But I think distance might weaken the connection further. And movement, constant movement, might make it harder for them to track me." He looked down at his arm, where the patterns now seemed less distinct than they had at the gallery, though he couldn't be certain. "The further I get from New York, from the paintings, the weaker it becomes." Truthfully, Robert didn't know who he was trying to convince: Marjorie or himself. But what choice did he have? To run toward an uncertain horizon, or to kneel and wait for the inevitable darkness to claim him? He turned toward the boarding gate.
Robert called back, "I need you to do something for me, Marjorie. The remaining collectors, contact them. Convince them to destroy the paintings however they can. Fire, acid, whatever it takes."
"I'll try," she promised. "But Robert--"
"My bus is boarding," he interrupted. "I have to go."
Marjorie grabbed Robert, surprisingly pulling him into a tight embrace. "Be careful," she whispered. "And stay in touch. Let me know you're safe."
"I will," he lied, knowing that contact with anyone from his old life would create a trail, a connection that could be followed.
As he boarded the bus and found a seat by the window, Robert caught a glimpse of a black SUV pulling up outside the terminal. Julian emerged, his movements urgent as he scanned the crowds entering and exiting the building.
The bus pulled away before Julian could enter the terminal. As it merged into the late-night traffic heading out of the city, Robert felt a palpable lessening of pressure in his mind. The pain in his arm subsided to a dull ache. Looking down, he saw that the patterns had faded somewhat, though they were still visible beneath his skin.
He had bought himself time, nothing more. The connection was weakened, not broken. And somewhere in the city behind him, the final painting, the true portal, waited with the image of the Great One emerging into our world.
And in that image, a human figure with Robert's face stood as its vessel, its doorway, its herald.
Three months later, in a small coastal town in the Pacific Northwest, a man who now called himself Paul Barnes stood on the public pier, staring out at the gray waters. His right arm was covered at all times, even in the warmest weather, and he avoided eye contact with the locals. He worked odd jobs for cash, lived in a single room above a hardware store, and spoke to no one about his past.
The patterns on his arm had faded to faint gray lines, visible only in certain light. The voice in his head had grown quiet, though sometimes in his dreams he still felt the vast attention of the Great One searching for him across dimensions.
According to the art news websites he checked obsessively from the public library's computers, the mysterious disappearance of acclaimed artist Robert Kline remained unsolved. His final work, discovered in his abandoned loft, had been acquired by a private collector whose name was not disclosed. Levinson Contemporary had closed its doors permanently, with Marjorie Levinson retiring from the art world entirely.
There were other, smaller stories that only someone looking for patterns would notice: Harold Feinstein had recovered from his catatonic state but had withdrawn from public life, selling his technology company and retreating to a compound in New Mexico. A fire had destroyed a wing of a Tokyo collector's home, with the specific works lost unspecified. And most interesting of all, a small auction house in Terlingua, Texas had been shut down by authorities after selling what was described as "unauthenticated works of questionable provenance," including a painting enigmatically titled a Van Iblis.”
Paul, who still thought of himself as Robert in unguarded moments, had considered trying to find that painting, to discover if it was connected to his own experience. But the risk was too great. Any action that acknowledged the reality of what had happened might reestablish the connection, might draw the attention of Julian and his "patrons." Or worse, of the entity itself.
So he remained in self-imposed exile, living a life of deliberate mundanity. He no longer painted. He no longer created anything. The impavid artist who had once stared into the aesthetic abyss had been replaced by a cautious man who carefully avoided all depths.Sometimes, in the privacy of his small room, he would trace the faded patterns on his arm and wonder if he had truly escaped or merely postponed the inevitable. The Great One existed beyond time as humans understood it; it could afford to be patient.
And sometimes, when the coastal fog rolled in thick and dark, obscuring the boundaries between sea and sky, land and air, he thought he could see shapes moving within it, vast, impossible geometries that stultify the human mind with their wrongness.
On those days, he stayed inside, away from windows, away from reflective surfaces. On those days, he felt the patterns on his arm darkening, awakening.
On those days, he knew the truth that his flight from New York, his destruction of the paintings, his self-imposed exile had all been futile attempts to deny: the door had been opened. Not fully, perhaps. Not wide enough for the Great One to step through completely. But a crack had formed in the barrier between worlds.
And cracks had a way of spreading.
Standing on the pier as another fog bank approached from the horizon, Paul felt a familiar tremor begin in his right hand. Without looking down, he knew the patterns would be darkening, responding to some unseen signal.
He considered, not for the first time, walking off the end of the pier into the cold Pacific waters. Ending the connection permanently in the only way he now believed possible.
But even as the thought formed, he felt a gentle pulse of amusement that was not his own. The Great One knew his thoughts. Had always known them.
THERE IS NO ESCAPE. ONLY DELAY.
The voice was fainter than before, distorted by distance and the various countermeasures Robert had taken. But it was there. It had always been there.
As the fog rolled in, enveloping the pier in its gray embrace, Robert thought he saw a figure approaching through the mist, tall, thin, with an eager smile he recognized even at a distance.
Julian had found him after all.
Or perhaps Julian had never been searching. Perhaps he had simply been waiting for the connection to strengthen again, for the patterns to reactivate, for the vessel to be ready.
Robert turned away from the approaching figure and walked quickly toward shore, toward the small town with its oblivious inhabitants. There was nowhere to run, not really. But he would run anyway. He would fight. He would resist.
For as long as he could, Robert Kline, vessel, brush, portal, herald, would deny the Great One its entry into our world.
But in his darkest thoughts, in the quiet places of his mind where truth could not be avoided, he knew: art endures beyond the artist. Creation outlives its creator. His paintings remained, scattered across the world despite his efforts. Doors, waiting to be fully opened.
The fog swallowed the pier behind him, and Robert did not look back to see if Julian was still following. He knew the answer. Some connections, once established, could never truly be broken. Some bargains, even those made in ignorance, could never be undone.The fustian trappings of artistic acclaim he had once so desperately craved now seemed hollow beyond measure. The kilig he had felt at his triumphant return to the spotlight had blinded him to the true cost of that success.
As he hurried through the quiet streets of the town that had briefly been his refuge, Robert felt the familiar sensation of the Great One's attention focusing more sharply upon him. The patterns on his arm burned like frost against his skin, darkening, expanding, preparing.
The vessel was nearly ready.
The door would soon open.
And what waited on the other side was the void that inspired all great art, finally ready to reclaim what it had loaned to humanity.
THE END