David Sutton - The Satyr's Head - Tales of Terror

Now it stopped being a pastime, and Jack began studying the occult in dead seriousness. He started by discarding the general works on magic, and began searching for the rare books, the real books that had not been written with a sensation-hungry public of laymen in mind. What he needed were works written by people who really knew what they were doing. He spent a lot of money, and quite some time hunting them down, but obtain them he did, and study them, through the lonely hours of dark nights, while slow rain drizzled down from a leaden sky. He didn’t paint often anymore, there was no time for that, but he kept on seeing Paul and Cenaide, though every second he was close to her hurt him, and every evening after they had separated there was an empty hollowness in his brain.

Then, when he thought he knew enough, and he had obtained all he would need, he drew a pentagram for Cenaide.

First he took an empty canvas, and drew the pentagram on it, with strong strokes of black paint. Then he drew the bigger pentagram on the floor of his study, placing the canvas in the center of it. He made the five marks on the corners, and wrote the formulas, feeling silly all the time. It was the only way, however, he had found of making direct contact with the elemental forces, no matter what form they would take. Much of it was maybe folkloristic and unnecessary for his means, but there was no way to find out what was really needed and what not, except by trying it out. Then he spoke the spells, reciting the difficult words in a soft sing-song voice, and burned the needed ingredients inside the pentagram.

Something came.

Or maybe some "things" came, he couldn’t be sure, except that whatever they were, they were certainly not of this earth. They moved slowly, almost crawling through the darkness which filled the room; and though he sometimes thought something here or there looked vaguely human, he never could be sure, and probably it was his own mind which made it resemble something familiar. He didn’t try to speak to them, for he didn’t think they were really intelligent, or even alive in the strictest sense of the word. They were forces, pure energy, but somehow managed to spread an aura around them which he could only define as purely evil, though this couldn’t really be so. He had prepared himself well however, and slowly began doing what had to be done, putting his own will on the free energy-things, chanting the old words and making the old gestures with his hands. It took a long time, and when he finally released them, and the moving darkness lifted from the room, he was soaked with sweat. The pentagram on the canvas however was no longer black, it was silvery white, and seemed to be pulsating with a strange life of its own. He stood looking at it for a long time, then got his brush and began painting the canvas in grey, until the pentagram was covered completely.

The next day he visited Paul and Cenaide, declared that he had been commissioned for a group of paintings for a future exhibition, and asked Cenaide if she wanted to pose for him. He wanted to try some new ideas, and had decided to stick to portraits for a few paintings at least. She was surprised and flattered of course, and agreed immediately. So the evenings of the next weeks — because she had her daytime job to attend to — were spent in bringing the face, that not so very special face he loved so much, on the grey-covered canvas. He began by sketching her face on the uniform background, as she was posing rather awkwardly. Then he began filling in the background, making it an old wooden table of a country inn, in which she was sitting, looking straightforward. These evenings were heaven for Jack, as she was with him almost all of the time, and as he was painting he drank in her beauty. Sometimes Paul came along also, changing the records on the gramophone, and for the rest just sitting there, watching. But it wasn’t quite as it had to be, there was a strange repellant sensation when he was really close to her, almost as if they were two negative poles rejecting each other. Even when they went out for relaxation, they didn’t seem as close as before. He didn’t sleep easily anymore, it was as if the dark took strange and alien shapes around him, which were always there, mocking him. Weird things began to visit his dreams, and gibbered to him in unearthly tongues which he couldn’t understand, so that he awoke having the impression of not having slept at all, to the contrary, he felt abominably tired.

Then he discovered that it didn’t work. Maybe he didn’t know as much about magic as he thought, or he had done something wrong, but the power of the pentagram didn’t work. The unseen distance between him and Cenaide seemed to be growing, almost as if something was constantly interfering. Anger and bitterness came, and finally, acceptance.

The acceptance was the hardest of all, because it felt as if he was cutting away part of himself, accepting the cold fact that she would never love him. He couldn’t think clearly for some time, it dampened the lights around him, took away the beauty of music, seemed to cover the paintings on his walls with greyness.

Then he began concentrating on the portrait. If he couldn’t have her, he could give to her. The portrait became an obsession, just as the girl had been, as he transferred all his feelings onto the canvas. He made the painted blue eyes cry for him, made the small fresh mouth without traces of lipstick smile for him. He put it all in the portrait, all the months of yearning, the nights of waking, the tears he had never cried, he gave them flesh and blood in his portrait. He was no longer painting a woman, he was painting the image of love, the essence of the phenomena of love, not sexual attraction or desire, and not intellectual contact or sympathy or pity, but the very spirit of unexplainable love, without thinking, without conditions. He painted it with the colours of hope and yet of sadness, with bitterness and melancholy, with dreams and nightmares. The same nightmares which swam through his mind at night, when he was tossing on his bed, trying to get some sleep, and also trying to shut the living darkness out of his sight.

Finally the painting was completed, and he asked them to come over in the evening and see the finished product. That day he corrected the last minuscule details, a final line here, a last shade of paint there, and all the time the air itself around him seemed to be alive, full of strange moving things, which he couldn’t see and couldn’t understand. Sometimes he feared he was going insane.

They couldn’t speak when they saw the portrait, that evening. Cenaide said in a hushed voice that it was… beautiful, more beautiful than any face she had ever seen, and surely this couldn’t be HER face he had painted? Of course it was her own face, and it had to be beautiful, but for the first time she was seeing herself as Jack saw her, covering all mediocrity with the radiant colour of love, which he would never see on her real features.

He laughed at their sincere admiration, and listened to them proclaiming a great future for him as a portrait painter, knowing that he would never be able to do it again. They had brought a few bottles, which were opened and emptied, and there was a lot of joking and small talk before they finally left.

After they had gone, he locked the door carefully behind them, then turned and confronted the picture. The eyes of the painting seemed to be following any movement he made. ‘Now, at last, we’re alone, my love,’ he whispered softly.

Again he drew the big pentagram on the floor of his room, then placed the painting in the centre of it. He lit the five strangely wrought candles at the five corners of the star, and burned the ingredients he had prepared. A strange but not exactly disagreeable odour began to spread through the room. Darkness came, not gradually as when evening falls, because it was night outside already, but sharply; an alien darkness which began seeping down from the ceiling where it had started as a black spot, growing till it reached the walls. Long black fingers began crawling down the four walls, and there they touched the other paintings and objects on those walls, the dark took their colours from them, they faded, became grey and then disappeared, swallowed up by the descending black shroud. As the unearthly darkness deepened, grew thicker as some abominable fog, the colours of the portrait seemed to sharpen, to radiate almost. It was as if the face of the girl began to spread a strange light of her own to counteract the growing darkness. Then he stepped inside the pentagram and spoke the last words. Only the big circle of the pentagram was lighted now, the room outside it seemed to have disappeared completely. It had been absorbed by thick string of almost material darkness, an obscurity which seemed in a frightful way to possess a private life, which seemed to be watching him constantly though it had no eyes.