Dalton Fargo was a happily married artist who lived around 1932. Dalton and his wife lived in a quiet, small village called VexingVille. Dalton seemed to be unable to come up with a new painting and was becoming stressed. His wife, Annabel, tried to comfort him and take his mind off painting for a while, but he became enraged.

“Why are you bothering me? Women are to be seen not heard! Sit quietly and not another distraction out of you!” Dalton threw his brush down onto the canvas and watched as the paint splattered in every which way.

“Darling I just think you need a break, but as you wish.” Annabel walked with her head hung low and headed back towards the rocking chair by the fire place.

Weeks passed by and not one stroke of creativity flowed from his mind to canvas. It had been days since he’d eaten and his wife and he were growing further apart. The less connected he became with civilization the more his sanity began to deteriorate. Dalton started hearing faint whispers and seeing shadows. As time past his delusions seemed more real; shadows became people, and whispers became screams.

A man appeared to Dalton, “She is the reason you can’t focus. It’s better if you got rid of her.”
Dalton took his focus off the canvas to glance at the man whose skin was as black as the night sky, “Who are you and why do you speak this way of my wife?”

The charcoaled looking man’s face stretched into a grin, “Well I'm only here to help you paint. I can help you focus.”

Dalton swore to the man and told him never to come back to his house again. The man left, smiling and humming out the door. Dalton shook his head in disbelief that such a creature could be created. The thought of the charcoaled man inspired him to paint demons being struck down by the goodness of the world.

The charcoaled man came back, despite Dalton’s harsh words. He walked around the house in search of Dalton’s wife.

The charcoaled man called out to her imitating Dalton’s voice, “Annabel, my darling, where are you?”
Annabel smiled at the sound of what she thought was her husband, “In the kitchen having tea.”
“I’m painting again! I wanted you to be the first to know!” said the Charcoaled man.
Annabel gasped and smiled, “Glad to hear you still have your imagination.”

The Charcoaled man picked up the scissors on the counter as he entered the kitchen. Annabel continued talking and sipping her tea as he entered the room. He had no regard for what she was saying, but made sounds as to agree to her words. The Charcoaled man lunged towards her with the scissors, piercing her stomach. The man laughed as he pulled the scissors out and began humming and walking out the back door.
Dalton was still outside unaware of the horrible things going on. He sat his brush down, feeling happy of the masterpiece he’d created.
“Hey honey? Anna, I finally finished my pai-” he became completely silent as he looked at his wife sitting at the kitchen table, dead. He sobbed softly as he moved her blonde hair out of her face. The Charcoaled man appeared at the other end of the table, laughing.

“See she isn’t distracting you anymore and you finished you painting. It’s a win-win!”

Dalton slowly held his head up to look at the man, “What have you done?! Why are you doing this to me? She was my wife, my only love!”

The Charcoaled man grinned as he watched Dalton cry, “It’s not what I’ve done, its what you’ve done. I am you, the darkest part of your soul, your misery, I am you. You killed your wife not me.” The Charcoaled man hummed as he sat at the table, disappearing into thin air.

Dalton took his wife and lay with her one last time before preparing her coffin.