Living Room, by Daniel Mullen

"What Madness!" - Francisco Goya (1810)

“The restoration is progressing as planned,” Dr. Alan Forsythe spoke into his voice recorder. This current project would be the crown jewel of his 30-year career as a renovative historian; the Blankenship Estate was South Carolina’s oldest, single-structure plantation house.

“Most of the ground floor is finished, and the upstairs rooms should be in proper condition for the Opening Gala on the 12th,” Forsythe continued. “As for the door, I’m not sure what to make of it. I found myself staring at the brick wall behind it this morning with no idea how I had gotten there. In fact, I don’t even remember leaving the house last night.”

Alan had moved an odd, dusty wardrobe from its station in the living room to discover a small door. Behind this door stood a wall, the mortar uneven, the bricks even more crooked. “As most of the renovation is complete, I see no harm in taking a sledgehammer to the barrier. It would be careless of me not to, in fact,” Dr. Forsythe concluded.

After fetching a painter’s mask, a hammer and a flashlight, Alan hurried to The Door like a child scampering downstairs on Christmas morning. He swung the heavy implement at the wall, which crumbled inward like puzzle pieces dumped from their box. His flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating dust particles swirling through the air like frenzied fish. Alan surveyed the room, no larger than twenty feet by twenty. On the north wall he saw the image of an angel holding an infant in one hand while brandishing a flaming sword; on the south wall was painted a vision of Paradise, strange and elegant animals, a waterfall. And on the east wall, the rising sun. “I must be hallucinating, but I feel warmth from the beautiful, golden crescent some master painter has left for me to discover,” he spoke into his recorder. “I…I must return once the renovation is complete…or perhaps tomorrow.”

Dr. Forsythe visited The Room often, filling countless notebooks with crude imitations of the scenes on the walls. In his dreams, Alan bowed in worship to the east wall’s rising sun. Still, one thing haunted him. What was on the fourth wall?

“Dr. Forsythe? Alan?” The Blankenship Museum curator’s cold hand startled Alan from his daydream.

“Oh, Frank,” he responded a moment later. “Wow…you’re here early.”

“It’s 1:00pm, Alan. Wednesday. You look haggard. When’s the last time you slept? Showered? Ate?”

“Not sure. I’ve been pretty busy getting this place ready for the Gala,” he answered.

Both men glanced at the scribbles on Alan’s ragged notebook.

“I can see that,” Frank said as his colleague quickly stacked and shuffled his papers.

“It’ll be done by Sunday,” Dr. Forsythe assured him.

Frank shook his head and left Alan to his obsession. As the front door shut, Alan grabbed a 5-gallon bucket and dashed for The Room. He dragged the stone-heavy wardrobe several feet from The Door so he could step through.

Sweat dripped from his brow and his hands shook as he reached into the bucket and withdrew a trowel and a small bag of quick-crete. Alan tore open the bag and dumped its contents into the bucket along with two bottles of water.

“What are you?” he mumbled to the shattered masterpiece on the floor. His lips trembled and let out a squeal of joy as he found the first piece and mortared it into place. Well into the evening, Alan cried in triumph as he slid the final brick into place and stepped back to view hoped-for beauty of the Fourth Wall, visible thanks to his fading flashlight.

Alan stared breathless at the grotesque visage of a monstrous beast with six powerful legs, fangs dripping with blood and saliva, and the eyes of a thousand murderers. The beast moved, yawned, stretched upon the wall, then snarled hungrily at the motionless man before him.

The angel to the north hid her infant, the waterfall to the south now plunged frothy sulfur to the lake below, even the sun behind him had set. He let the trowel and flashlight slip from his hands as he fell to his knees. The vicious creature leapt from the wall, and like a hound from Hell, sliced and tore through Alan’s weak body, consuming the man, then trotted happily around the room before hopping back onto its wall, becoming still and silent.

The closing of the door echoed through the tiny room, as did the sound of something heavy sliding across the floor.