The Sallow Painter

The day we moved into the old farmhouse on Marrow Lane, the sky was the color of a bruise. I was eleven, and my name is Elsie. We’d come from the cramped apartment in Dayton, and my parents were thrilled about the space, the creaking floors, the field that ran down to the river. I wasn’t. The house had a smell, like wet wool and rotten apples, and the windows seemed to look at you sideways. My father, always the optimist, said it just needed ‘a woman’s touch,’ which meant he’d hire someone to paint the exterior a cheerful shade of pale yellow.

Two weeks later, a battered pickup truck rattled up the gravel drive. Two men got out. The older one, who introduced himself as Mr. Gable, was tall and thin with skin like old paper. His partner, a younger man with a shaved head and no expression at all, didn’t speak. They unloaded ladders, buckets, and a sprayer, and by noon, the front of the house was covered in a sickly yellow that made me think of egg yolks left in the sun.

I went upstairs to my room to call my best friend, Maya, from the landline we’d had installed in the hallway. I closed my door, but the windows were shut and locked, the latches stiff. As I talked, I watched the edge of the woods beyond the field. That’s when I saw the cat. It was black, with a white patch on its chest, sitting on the sill, staring at me with eyes the color of old pennies. I told Maya I had to go. I hung up and moved to the window. The lock was undone. I hadn’t touched it. The moment I reached for the latch, the cat flicked its tail and was gone, as if it had never been there. I slammed the window shut and locked it, my heart doing a little jig.

That evening, my mother made spaghetti in the cavernous kitchen. The paint fumes drifted through the cracked window, and the walls seemed to shimmer. At dinner, my father mentioned the painters had asked if they could camp in the barn overnight, to get an early start on the trim. My mother said no, but my father, generous to a fault, said they could stay in the spare room downstairs. I didn’t like it. There was something about that silent partner, the way his eyes never blinked.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle. Around 2 AM, I heard scratching at my window. I froze. The scratching came again, rhythmic, like nails on a chalkboard. I crept to the window and peeked through the curtain. The black cat was perched on the sill, its face pressed to the glass, and it was meowing, but it wasn’t a cat’s meow. It was a baby’s cry, thin and mournful. I backed away, and the crying stopped. Then the window unlatched by itself, sliding open with a groan. I ran to shut it, but as I reached for the handle, a voice from outside, low and gravelly, whispered, ‘Don’t lock it, little girl. The painter needs to come in.’

I slammed the window shut and twisted the lock so hard I nearly broke it. I stood there, shaking, and saw a shape moving in the dark field—the younger painter, his head smooth as a peeled egg, walking toward the woods with a bucket. He stopped at the treeline, turned, and looked directly at my window. Even in the dark, I saw his mouth open in a smile that was too wide.

The next morning, the painters were gone. Their truck was still there, but the house was completely painted—a perfect, even yellow. My father praised their work, but when he tried to pay them, no one answered. We found their ladders folded, their sprayer cleaned, and on the back porch, a single bucket filled with a thick, dark liquid, the color of old blood. My mother said it was paint. I knew better. I nudged the bucket with my foot, and the liquid rippled, and from it, the face of the young painter stared up at me, his white smile bubbling to the surface.

I didn’t tell anyone. The cat, I noticed, was gone. That night, I lay awake, and I heard a new sound—a brush sweeping across the exterior walls, back and forth, back and forth. I got up and looked out the window. The yellow paint was peeling in long strips, revealing a black undercoat. And there, on the lawn, stood the younger painter, holding a brush, painting the air itself. He said, without looking up, ‘The house needs a darker shade.’

We moved out a week later. My parents claimed it was the plumbing. But I saw what I saw. And on the last day, as we loaded the truck, I looked back at the house. The yellow was gone. It was black as pitch, with a white spot on the gable, like a cat’s chest. And in the upstairs window, the black cat sat, watching me leave. I never spoke of it again, but sometimes, late at night, I still hear the scratching at the window, and the soft, wet sound of a brush stroking the glass, and a voice that says, ‘Come back, little girl. The painter isn’t finished yet.’