Empty paper

You might call me an an artist, but! I confess — an artist, only in the way that someone standing motionless in a well-stocked kitchen can be called a chef.

Every night, I sat at the old drawing desk and drew out a fresh white sheet. I owned all the necessary tools, and arranged each meticulously in the appropriate fashion. The paint tubes, of course, in rainbow order. The brushes, finest to widest, bristles clean and soft. But only one of these tools did I touch, and that was the pencil.

Here was my ritual: sharpen the pencil, though it was hardly blunted, til fine enough to snap. Test the point against a thumb. Rest the tip on the paper.

There I was, each night — poised like a coiled spring, the pencil nib pressing a lone mark into the paper with steadily more force. My ears strained. My focus was singular.

Eventually — who can say what would rouse me, a fox’s scream, a chiming clock? — I would stir like a dazed sleepwalker surfacing into consciousness. My evening’s work I would add to the stack of identical such papers from the night before, and each night before that. All perfectly blank, but for the one angry mark at the center.

What was different about that night, the last night, I do not know. Perhaps nothing at all. But the next morning my carefully curated life — characterized by my many routines and rhythms of the day — was upended forever.

I did not notice it at first, for the change was small. But on the second pass by the drawing desk, it caught my eye. The top paper on the stack, last night’s work, was no longer empty.

I examined it closely but did not touch. Sketch marks cobwebbed out from the center of the page, not many and very light, but there. Certainly I had not done it. But who else? I lived alone; no-one had a copy of the keys.

But there it was, sketches on an empty page, and someone had to have drawn them. I noted the pencil — in the exact place I had left it, and just as sharp as before.

I did not know what to do, and so as with all uncomfortable thoughts I attempted to banish it from my mind, and go about my daily tasks. It was strange, yes, but life was full of strangeness. This I told myself, rather unconvincingly.

Try as I might, my mind kept flitting back to the the drawing desk and the paper and the drawing by no-one. I ignored it. My thoughts were pulled, magnetically, back.

The desk. The paper. The drawing.

At last I returned to the drawing desk; I could not help it. But upon beholding the stack of paper, my heart lurched in my chest. There were more drawings. More, and darker. The paper had not moved; all was still. Nothing at all was amiss. I heard only the tick tick of an old clock and the sound of blood thrumming in my head.

How? Who? There was no-one here, no-one but myself, and of course I knew it was not my doing. Unless… surely, no, I could not have nodded off and sleepwalked up here, then back down to exactly what I was doing before, without noticing?

It hardly seemed plausible, and yet, and yet. Nothing else made sense. I examined my hands — clean. The pencil, still, was as sharp as ever. There were no new pencil shavings in the bin.

I paced. I confess I was quite unnerved. The locks on the doors were checked, then the windows. Next I searched the house, methodically, checking inside cupboards and under surfaces, even spaces I knew were too small to fit a person.

I was alone.

This hardly eased my anxiety. In fact, it exacerbated it; fear rose in my throat, and I was nearly panicked.

The day eased on. I distracted myself, but nothing worked. The urge to tell someone of my situation gripped me, and I dialed a friend’s number. But what could I say? I hung up on the second ring.

The afternoon darkened. I remained downstairs, where it felt safer. Soon, I knew, I must brave the upstairs and visit the drawing desk, or the thought of it would surely drive me mad. I summoned my courage.

This time, my knees gave clean out. I gripped the desk for support. A quiet groan escaped me, a noise of absolute confusion and dread. Paint — it was painted. That top paper, now, was covered in swirls of color.

I collected myself. My shaking hands found the paint tubes, then twisted the cap off each one. The seals were unbroken. I had never even used them.

I checked my hands, the paint brushes. Clean. These were the only paints I owned.

Though it terrified me to look at it, I lifted the offending paper gingerly. I flicked through the stack of paper below — sighed in relief — they were all blank.

It was only this one paper. Why? I could not explain it. It could not be explained.

On my knees as one in prayer, I gazed at the colors. The paint was still wet. It was clear to see the work was not finished, for there were still areas of white paper. A thought struck like a physical blow, that if this work were allowed to be completed, something dreadful would happen.

I shook all over, like a mouse facing down a stampede. The more I looked, the more I became convinced some great doom loomed in close, peering over my shoulder, grinning at me just out of sight. Terror raged. But still I could not look away.

What was the painting of? It hardly mattered, and in my fear I’m sure I could not tell. But I remember this — each stroke, each line, radiated outwards from that central, hated pencil mark. I knew I must be rid of it immediately.

I rushed about, gathering up the paper, the painting supplies, the pencil. And of course the painting itself, which felt different to the other paper. Colder. To me it seemed a demonic sort of cold, and I carried it on top of the other paper, so as not to touch it directly.

In a haze — near sobbing — I stumbled out of the house to the bins. I dumped everything inside and slammed the lid shut.

In the sudden stillness I stood breathing hard. Cool evening air chilled my sweaty skin, and the sun bathed the scene in golden light.

Presently I began to feel quite foolish, and almost laughed at myself, though still I felt sick.

I was on my doorstep when it hit me that the bins would not be collected for days. Three full days with that painting squatting outside, mere feet away. Oh, I could not bear it!

There was a wrongness about it; it should not be. It must not be allowed to finish.

I returned with matches and a plan. I could not retrieve the painting, for it was imperative I should not look at it. If the painting were complete it would be awful, and awful things would happen. Therefore I must destroy it without ever seeing it.

The match burst into life with an enthusiasm that surprised me, and I almost dropped it. I flung back the lid of the bin. Keeping my eyes squeezed shut, I groped for the edge of the bin and dropped the match inside.

Nothing happened. The flame hadn’t caught.

Fear throbbed as physical pain, but I persevered. I kept my head angled carefully away as I worked, and — thank god! — the next match caught.

Shakily I backed away. The flame took slowly, then all at once. Black smoke billowed out, and reeking, burnt plastic soot stung my eyes.

Then the tears came — relieved tears, bitter tears. It was gone; in every and all ways it was gone, and it would never be again.

I stood there a long time to watch the smoking bin spit and choke.