Viola Yates jolted upright in bed. Her clothes were soaked through with sweat. Her panting gave way to a sigh. She passed a hand over her face. That dream again. She had absolutely no idea what to make of it, and she couldn’t forget it. Any time she closed her eyes, the image of the shadowy figure appeared behind her eyelids. Viola fingered her sweat-soaked shirt disgustedly. Climbing out of bed, she went to her closet and pulled out a paint spattered jean-and-t shirt combo and slipped it on. She padded across the room to the door and walked along the dark hallway. Viola knew where she was going, she always went there when she woke from the dreams. Viola heard a click-clacking sound. “Hey, Samson. What’s up, boy?” She spoke without turning around. She came to a stop at the door to her painting studio, as always, hand hovering on the doorknob. She pulled it open and walked in. Subconsciously, she walked to her most recent painting. The painting was set in the mountains, with a single weeping willow and a glittering lake to set it off. Beneath the lowest hanging branch stood a young man. Only a faintly colorful silhouette was visible. The moonlight shone off his light blond hair, making it glow like a pale sun all its own. The rest of his body was shrouded in darkness. Viola felt a chill roll through her body. She felt as though she’d seen that place before, it was a soul-deep knowing. She’d never been there that she could remember. Viola shook off the strange feeling that came with the painting. Samson cocked his wolfish black head and gave her a curious look. Viola smiled and ruffled his thick fur. Stepping away from the familiar painting, she walked to a blank canvas. She took a deep breath and tied back her hair, tucking in every stray strand. She tied on her apron and went to the bucket containing her paints, picking and choosing the colors she would need before returning to her easel. Pulling up a stool, she sat and dipped a brush in light gray paint. Her favorite part of painting was always that first brushstroke. She reveled in the feel of the brush in her hand as it went across the canvas. It gave her a sense of peace and absolute joy to paint. Before she knew it, Viola lost herself in her art. When she finished, she gaped at what she’d done: The painting was of the shadowy figure from her dream. Looking closely, Viola noticed she could actually see colors other than dark ones in the painting. With a jolt, she realized something. She ran over to the painting with the weeping willow. Viola stared at the boy in the painting then yanked out her cell phone and took a picture of him. She rushed back to her picture and held up her phone next to the painting. Her eyes widened. “. . . What the . . .” In both paintings, the guy was the same. A sudden thought popped into Viola’s head. She rushed around the room to her other more recent pictures, all of them had the boy in it. Once she snapped pictures, Viola rushed from the room to the front porch and dropped onto the swing. She scrolled through the pictures, and, as she expected, they all looked the same. Viola looked up. She could have sworn she saw movement along the tree line. The sound of Samson coming through his doggy door made Viola flinch. She didn’t know why she was so paranoid; but something about her paintings made her wary. She turned on her phone to look at the time: ten thirty-four. Sighing, she rose from the swing not two minutes after sitting. Viola returned to the house and entered the kitchen to find something to eat. Opening the cabinets, Viola rummaged around and finally decided on some Honey Bunches of Oats. As she poured the cereal, she contemplated what she should do with herself all day, certainly not just sitting around doing nothing but watching try not to laugh videos and texting. She took a seat at the table, pulled out her phone, and looked over the photos of her paintings again. As she took a bite of her cereal, she noticed something. She scrolled to the first picture she’d taken of the paintings. In the first picture, the boy was standing with his back to her, in the second he was slightly turned. As she flipped through the photos, the boy turned more and more, until, finally, she was one turn away from the final picture. Mustering up her strong will, Viola scrolled to the final picture. She stared into the soulless red eyes she had given him. The handsome face, the chiseled jaw. Come to me . . . Viola jumped, her spoon clattering to the floor. Samson’s ears perked and his head lifted from his large paws. She shook her head. “Great. Now I’m hearing things . . .” Then she noticed Samson was staring at the window and growling, not menacingly, but questioningly, as if unsure of the threat. Viola picked up the spoon and went to the big husky. “What is it, boy?” She looked at the window with pale hazel eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes, unsure whether she should flee or open the door.282Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7hwDd6yb9J
Penana
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