The Variegated Canvases

The night air in the coastal town of Ashford was thick with brine, but inside the small cottage, the salt seemed to cling to every surface, making the walls glisten like the scales of a drowned creature. I had been here for two days, wrapped in a shiver that no blanket could chase away, since the incident with Duncan. Every memory of that evening unspooled like a frayed rope.

Duncan, my fiancé, had always been prone to moods, but that particular Tuesday, a row over the wedding arrangements had boiled over. I had retreated to our bedroom, tears carving hot paths down my cheeks as I crouched on the floor, my shoulders shaking with sobs. He claimed my weeping grated on him, made him feel useless. He would often contort his face into a mock scowl to shock me into silence, a silly game we played. But that night, as he loomed over me, his face didn’t contort—it seemed to unmake itself.

His skin flushed a deep crimson, as if blood were rising to fill every pore. His eyes, normally the color of sea glass, turned the flat, wet red of a ripe pomegranate. A gray, mottled tongue unfurled from his mouth, unnaturally long, tasting the air like a serpent. And from his throat came a laugh—not his laughter, but something ancient and gleeful, a chittering that rattled the windowpanes. I screamed for my mother, who had been in the garden, and she burst in to find Duncan cackling, his body twitching as if some unseen puppeteer jerked his strings. Then, as abruptly as it began, he blinked, confusion washing over his face. He asked why I was crying, why I was huddled near the door. He remembered nothing.

Now, two days later, I was still trembling, replaying that night. The image of Duncan’s face kept returning, but more troubling were the other oddities I had noticed but brushed aside. Dogs would whimper and shy away from him on the street, pressing their bodies to their owners’ legs as he passed. And the photographs—in pictures, his eyes would occasionally appear as two red voids, despite the camera flash being off. I had joked that he was just blinking. But now, I wasn’t so sure.

I decided to confront him, to demand the truth. He arrived at the cottage that evening, bringing takeout as a peace offering, his smile so disarmingly ordinary that for a moment I doubted myself. But as he set the bags on the table, the kitchen lights flickered, and in the brief darkness, I saw it—a faint, phosphorescent glow emanating from under his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

I pulled back, my heart hammering. ‘You need to tell me what’s happening to you,’ I said, my voice steady despite my fear. Duncan’s smile faded. He sat heavily on a chair, staring at his hands. And then he spoke, his voice carrying a timbre I had never heard before, as if multiple voices spoke in harmony.

‘It began after the drowning,’ he said. ‘You remember when I was twelve, I fell through the ice at Lake Marrow? They say I stopped breathing for nearly four minutes. When they pulled me out, they thought I was dead. But I woke up—only, something woke up with me.’ He looked at me, and his eyes flickered, the red encroaching like a tide. ‘It lives in me. It feeds on my fear and anger. And lately, it’s been getting stronger. When you cry, it senses a vulnerability. That night, it took over.’

A chill crawled up my spine. ‘How long have you known?’ I whispered.

‘Longer than I’d like to admit,’ he said. ‘I thought I could control it. But after that night, I know I can’t. It’s growing. And I’m afraid of what it will do next.’

Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced them back. If I cried, would it come again? I moved to leave, but his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was like iron, and his skin felt impossibly hot. ‘Please,’ he said, his voice now a desperate mixture of his own and the other’s. ‘I need you to help me. I can’t do this alone.’

Before I could respond, his face flickered—his features twisted into that crimson mask, and the laugh erupted from his throat. I wrenched my arm free and stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. The creature masquerading as my fiancé advanced, its smile stretching too wide, its tongue lapping at the air. ‘We’ve waited so long,’ it hissed, in a voice that was not Duncan’s. ‘For so long, we’ve been trapped inside this weak shell. But now, we can be free.’

The creature lunged, but I was faster. I ducked under its grasp and ran for the door. It slammed shut before I could reach it, and the floorboards beneath my feet began to ripple like water. I looked around wildly for anything to defend myself. On the wall hung a set of antique brass candlesticks, a wedding gift from my grandmother. I grabbed one and swung it as hard as I could at the creature’s head.

The candlestick connected with a sickening thud. The creature staggered, and for a moment, Duncan’s face returned, his eyes wide with horror. ‘Run,’ he choked out, his voice high and terrified. ‘Run, and don’t look back.’

I didn’t need telling twice. I wrenched the door open, and the cold night air hit my face. I fled down the gravel path, my bare feet cutting on the stones, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear. Behind me, I heard the cottage door burst open, and a guttural roar split the night.

I ran through the twisted pines that lined the cliff path, heading for the old lighthouse at the edge of town. The beam swept across the sky in a monotonous rhythm, a lonely sentinel. I knew the keeper, old Mr. Albright, might be asleep, but I prayed he’d hear my pounding on the door.

The lighthouse door was heavy oak, studded with iron. I hammered on it, screaming, but there was no answer. The creature was gaining, its footsteps like cannon shots on the wooden pier. I turned to face it, armed with nothing but a rock I’d picked up.

The creature stopped a few meters away, its head tilting as if studying me. ‘You can’t escape,’ it said, its voice now layered with countless whispers. ‘He was ours from the moment the ice took him. And now, you will be part of us too.’

It lunged, its arms stretching impossibly long, fingers like talons. I sidestepped, but its claw caught my shoulder, tearing through my jacket and drawing blood. I cried out, and the creature seemed to feast on my fear, its grin widening.

Just then, the lighthouse door burst open behind me. Old Mr. Albright stood there, wielding a harpoon gun. He aimed at the creature and fired. The harpoon struck it in the chest, but it didn’t stop. It only laughed, plucking the dart from its flesh and tossing it aside. ‘That won’t kill us,’ it said, ‘but it will slow us down.’

Then, from inside the lighthouse, came a blinding flash of light—the lamp had been refocused, shining directly at the creature. The creature screamed, a sound that was part agony, part rage. It threw its arms over its face and staggered backward, toward the cliff’s edge.

‘Now,’ Mr. Albright boomed, ‘run!’

We barreled into the lighthouse, slamming the door behind us. Through the small window, I saw the creature silhouetted against the beam, its form writhing and dissolving like wax in a flame. With a final howl, it toppled over the edge, into the churning sea below.

I collapsed, my body shaking, as Mr. Albright helped me to a chair. He wrapped a blanket around me. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘But that thing won’t stay down. It’s a part of him, now. A part of this place. It’ll wait, and bide its time.’

I looked at him, tears streaming down my face. ‘What did he mean, ‘we’?’

Mr. Albright sighed. ‘There’s an old legend about Lake Marrow. It was a site of a great tragedy, back in the old days. A whole colony of people drowned when a dam broke. They say their spirits never left. And when someone nearly drowns in that lake, they sometimes carry more than themselves back.’ He shook his head. ‘Duncan was never just Duncan. He was a vessel. And now that vessel is broken. But the spirits are still out there.’

I don’t remember how I got home that night. Mr. Albright drove me back, and I sat in a daze, staring out the window at the dark water. When I got to the cottage, I gathered my things in the dark, unable to look at the spot where Duncan had stood. I haven’t returned to Ashford since. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, I hear that laugh—soft, at first, like waves on a distant shore. And when I close my eyes, I see his face, crimson and stretched, whispering, ‘We’re still here.’ And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that I haven’t outrun them. I’ve only delayed the inevitable. The variegated canvases of Duncan’s soul are still there, waiting to be filled with more colors of my fear.