Thick gray clouds circled above Martin, and the dread of the storm settled into his stomach. He stared hard at the sky, attempting to form eloquent words out of the colors and shapes he saw. The swirly-ness of the cloud was so nice, he thought to himself. No that wasn’t right, it sounded as if it had been written by a five year old. The swirling…vortex…of sky… was enchanting. He chuckled quietly to himself. Now he was getting somewhere. 

 A cold wind blew across the train platform as he stood still, waiting for his cab to pull up. He knew he could have walked but Martin did not very much feel like getting caught in a storm. A cab would have to do. He clutched his bag tighter, before glancing up at the darkening sky once more. That same ever present dread lingered in the icy wind that blew through his hair. 

The cab driver didn’t say much and Martin was happy to be left to his thoughts. He had decided to spend this entire vacation just figuring out what kind of novel he wanted to write, but thoughts of work kept slipping their way into his head. Lab work still not done, test tubes and microscopes left uncleaned, and the overstaffing issues were jabbing at his subconscious. Pulling up to the edge of town, he stepped out, the chill hitting his face in a hard gust of wind. Paying the cab driver, he ventured to a nearby store front. 

“Excuse me sir,” Martin said to the cashier. “Could you tell me how to get to Number 3, Clancy Avenue?” 

“Oh, so you’re the fool,” the cashier said with a chortle to himself “Yeah, just head through town to the other end. The house you're looking for is the giant one on top of the hill. You cannot miss it.”

“Thank you,” Martin said shortly, before stepping out and beginning his walk through the small town. After walking for a few blocks, Martin looked up to find the large hill described only a mile away. It loomed above the town like a giant from a fairy tale, the loathsome creature wanting only to grind the bones of innocent villagers. Atop the hill, a large house sat alone. Even from such a great distance, Martin could tell the impressive size and found himself wondering why he had decided to stay in such a large house all by his lonesome. He knew from pictures he had seen that the house was a deep crimson color but from such a distance the slowly darkening sky made the pleasant shade seem dark, as if the house had been splattered in blood. Splattered in blood! He thought to himself I’ll tuck that one away for a story. 

The edge of Clancy Avenue was a desolate place. Just past the edge of town, a small house sat at the base of the large hill. It was marked as Number 1 and the old street sign clarified he was in fact on Clancy Ave. An older man, maybe in his sixties, sat on the porch, dozing. At the sound of Martin walking by he jumped with a start. 

“Who's there?” he exclaimed.

“Oh sorry sir, I didn’t mean to wake you” said Martin timidly. “I am just heading up to number three.”

“Oh you must be Martin. I am Richie, the housekeeper. For the mansion,” said the man, Richie. 

“Oh, wonderful. Do you have my key?” 

“Yes, in fact I thought I would walk you up and show you the ropes,” Richie said, gathering his coat. 

“Sir, that's not necessary. I’m sure I can find my way around.”

“No, no I insist.” 

Richie started walking up the paved road on the hill, grunting as he moved. Martin tried to suggest he stop climbing for his health but Richie waved him off, so Martin just followed him up in silence. Richie continued chattering about the town, his job, and other monotonous things but Martin didn't mind. He liked listening. He liked it quite a bit in fact. 

By the time they crested over the hill and came across the towering magnificence of the mansion, the sun had begun to set and golden light bounced off the stream. The stream flowed down near the road on the hill and straight into town. The house appeared just as beautiful in person as it did in pictures. Up close, age had made the threatening crimson colors fade to a soft raspberry shade that seemed as if the house itself was tired of others being scared of it. Those same raspberry tiles looked slick against the sunset, and the gold detailing on the black roof shone like moonlight. Lush plant life circled the porch, climbing up the path. The front porch was rather intriguing, having a circular woven entrance leading onto a black wood bottom and a soft cushioned bench. The top of the house consisted of a series of differently shaped towers all clustered together and appearing from a classically shaped roof. It was a large space and Martin was desperately excited to find his way inside as he ignored the nagging worry that he had spent too much money on this dream vacation. Although there were patches of faded colors and cracked tiles, the house had clearly been touched up on the outside to appear more desirable. But the inside was a whole other story.

Richie inserted the old copper key into the lock and the door groaned as if its back had just been cracked. The floorboards creaked at every step in the grand entry hall. The patches from the outside had crept in and the whole house felt as though it could cave in on itself at any moment. A few small cracks had splintered the walls and the same cold wind slithered into the drawing room by the hearth. The furniture had clearly been replaced  but it could cover beaten up floors and bent walls. The bricks on the chimney had turned crooked, conflicting with the freshly made and dusted couch sitting a few feet away from it. The whole house appeared to itself be off center. Richie showed him to the master bedroom and gave him the grand tour. Despite its flaws, or maybe because of them, the house was beautiful and each crevice and turn had its own story to tell.

Martin only had one issue with the house: the walls were completely bare. They were a faded green shade and completely empty. To him, it felt like a strange choice for such a large mansion. When he asked Riche about it, the man waved him off without mentioning it. The sun had set completely now, and Richie helped him light a few lanterns. They struggled a bit but eventually managed to light a warm fire. 

“Richie, will you be okay getting down to your house?” Martin asked

“Oh don’t worry about me. I come up and down here practically every day. If you need me there is a landline by the bed. I’d be happy to help with whatever you need. And also on the topic you brought up earlier, about the paintings,” Richie said. 

“Yes?”

“There is one. It is found in the sitting room. But it is covered. And I beg you with all my might, please do not remove the cover.” This was all Richie said as he departed out the door.

Slightly confused but finally alone, Martin shrugged off the strange advice and sat peacefully at the small wooden kitchen table. Pulling out a pencil and a piece of paper he began to jot ideas for a story down. 

Blood house?
Bad wind/storm
Lab rat revolution(FREEDOM!)
Something good
Something good. An awful phrase really. What could he make of these? Something good, that was all he could come up with. He crossed it out swiftly and stood up. Perhaps a change of scenery would help. He moved to the drawing room by the front entrance and stared into the bright fire. Pulling out the paper again, he hovered the pencil above the edge of it. 

Children's book
Fire
This was not going well. The cracks in the house were most prevalent here and he found the cold wind unbearable even with the large fire by his side. Putting the fire out he decided to move upstairs to the sitting room. 

One of the smaller rooms in the house, the sitting room had a large couch covering one end of the room and three chairs lined across the other. The front of the room, opposite the door, is where the, now increasingly ominous, painting sat. The cover over it Richie had mentioned was a thick black velvet  hanging heavily over the entire frame. He considered for a moment removing the cover but figured he was only there for a few days and needed not to make trouble. Sitting on the large couch, he whipped out the paper once more and stared blankly at the page. No strange phrases appeared in his head, no ideas in any sort at all. A sinking feeling filled his chest as for a moment, he thought he had spent this exuberant amount of money. This money on a stupid dream vacation where his dream couldn’t come true. He wished for the genius idea to pop into his head. He had heard many famous authors had claimed this happened to them, and he was so jealous he couldn’t join that club. 

“GAH! Why can’t I think?!” He exclaimed in exacerbation. A soft sound followed back. He couldn’t quite tell what it was. It sounded somewhere between a human voice and the creak of a weather vane in a storm. Slowly he turned, examining the small room  to see where the sound came from. There was nothing present that he thought could have made the noise. The window was locked tight and the room was otherwise mostly empty. Quietly, another noise followed, this one slightly different. It sounded even more like a voice. Martin could almost make out words. 

“Hello?” He spoke to no one in particular, “Is anyone here?” 

Now the muffled voice was getting clearer as it said a stifled “No, I am not.” 

“What? Hello?” 

“Please leave, please,” the muffled voice begged.  

Martin felt fear slowly slide up his spine like a deadly serpent. He decided to follow what the creepy disembodied voice said in an old Victorian house and walked away. He figured it was just him being exhausted but enough late night scary movies had made him ridiculously cautious. He moved to the bedroom and figured a good night's sleep would clear his head. The sky was a deep shade of periwinkle and the wind had only grown colder so he shut the window tightly. A tree next to his window kept groaning and creaking as the night went on.  His sleep was peaceful and mostly undisturbed but filled with dreams of stormy weather and the dreadful stench of rats and almonds. 

The sun crested over the weather vane and covered the house with golden light.  Martin awoke with a pounding headache, and grabbed a water bottle from his bag.  Drinking heavily, he began to remember the previous day. The events all followed as he expected, arriving in town, making his way to the house, settling in. Then the memory of the sitting room crept in. A haunting voice speaking to him about how it wasn't really there. He shivered, sitting on the edge of his bed. In this house, he felt as if he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts. He quickly showered and got dressed, deciding to try and explore the house a bit further and then head into town to find some breakfast.  

He walked from the master bedroom to the two smaller bedrooms down the hall and the bathroom by the stairs. Those stairs led down to the second floor wherein another bathroom was found as well as an office, a third guest bedroom and the ever daunting sitting room he would have rather not thought about. The ground floor featured the drawing room, the kitchen, dining room, a third bathroom, and a front entry hall. All in all a magnificent house. Martin found himself examining every room in great detail except the sitting room. It was one of the smallest in the house and yet seemed like the largest obstacle ahead. 

He crept to the closed door of the sitting room.  It was just my very exhausted brain, he thought to himself. He slowly reached out, grabbing the door handle and turned it, releasing a breath. He stepped forward with precision, ready to turn at any moment and run. The room was quiet and appeared to be exactly as he had left it. The three chairs still sat in a line and the couch was a clearer rosey pink color in the daylight. The black velvet cover still hung on the wall as well. The pure darkness drew his eyes in and made him feel lightheaded. It was so starkly black compared to the warmly daylit room. He stepped forward again and thought about the dire sounding warning Richie had left him with. It all seemed so ridiculous, just a painting with a black covering to it. He probably didn’t want it exposed to air or some other strange art collector quirks. A temptation filled Martin. He suddenly had the urge to remove the cover. What could really happen? He thought to himself. It’s just gonna be a painting. 

He reached out and just as he was starting to grip the soft black fabric, a voice rang out. The same voice that had spoken in his mind last night. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” it chided as if he was a small child. He froze in panic, gripping his chest. He felt as if his world was closing in. There was someone else in this house and he couldn’t tell where they were or what they wanted. He turned away from the covered painting to face the doorway. He clung tight to the black velvet,accidentally pulling with his hand as he whipped around. The doorway was completely empty. He rushed forward and searched the hallway from standing in the doorframe. He sighed, fearful of what was going on. Turning around he headed back to the painting and only then realized he had pulled the cover off. The painting sighed, as they made eye contact. Martin jumped back, terrified. The painting had sighed! And made eye contact! It seemed horribly absurd to Martin. 

“They always act like this,” the painting said wearily. Martin gasped in terror. The painting was of a woman. She had pale moonlit skin and sat on a large balcony overlooking a night sky. Although the sky in the painting was dark, it only made her shine brighter. She wore a large elegant black gown with a deep burgundy red covering over it. She had dark chestnut brown hair that was pulled up into a loose pinned updo that had slightly frayed on the edges. She sat on a small stool, almost covered by her dress. Soft features lay across her face with slight despair. As beautiful as she looked, there was an emptiness in her. She looked as though she had just sighed as the painter captured her face. 

But the worst part was that she did not have a still expression. She was moving ever so slightly. Short breaths in a tight corset, concealed under layers of fabric. The occasional slow blink, large eyelashes casting shadows on her moonlit face. And her mouth twitched with disappointment. She had a darkness in her eyes that moon light could not illuminate. Then, she spoke again. 

“Sir, I believe you should put that cover back on this frame and go about your day, not ever acknowledging me.” 

“B-b-but…wha-att?” stuttered out Martin. 

“Do I need to clarify myself? I thought I made it pretty clear, I don’t exist to you, got it?” Her voice was soft but sharp sounding, like a small bell used to fetch a mischievous cat. 

“I-I-” Began Martin but he thought better than to try and explain himself. Instead, he just picked up his feet, and ran out the door. Through the halls, down the stairs, grabbing a jacket, and out the front door. The sun burned his eyes and he sank to his knees in the grass. 

“WHAT?” He exclaimed. Thoughts sprinted through his head a mile a minute. He spun around to look at the house. What had been in that water he drank? This is a sign, I should not be a writer! The house looked different now. It looked so unsettling to him after seeing the painted woman speak to him.  The blood color seemed to be returning in the cracked tile up and down the house. The shadow over him began to grow as well, adding to the deepening dread in his stomach. Standing, he began to head down the hill. The walk gave him enough time to think over how he approached this conversation. He approached the door and knocked lightly. Richie opened the door and smiled. 

“Oh, hello! How are you Martin?” Richie asked kindly. He seemed to notice the shaken expression on Martin’s face and followed it up with, “Is everything alright?” 

“Well no, you see, I disobeyed your instructions. Sorry but, I looked at the painting and-” Richie interrupted him with a heavy sigh. 

“You shouldn’t have done that”

“Well I know, but-”

“No, she brings bad things with her,”

“Sorry, what-”

“Everyone around her ends up dead. Dead or gone.” 

“Please, I just want some answers-” 

“No, Martin. It’s best if you just head out of town now. She has a history, a history of pain.” And with that, Richie shut the door in Martin’s face. 

Martin turned and headed back up toward the house. If he had to get out of town, he at least needed to grab his stuff. As he approached the house he noticed something he hadn’t noticed before. On the side of the house, a dilapidated old balcony sat. It rang an alarm bell in his mind. It was the same balcony that was in the painting. So the woman was painted here? Thought Martin curiously. 

Nervously, he headed inside the house. In the entry hall, all was as it should be. Everything was peaceful. After moving up the stairs slowly, he saw the doorway to the sitting room. He peaked in, and the woman in the painting looked back. Martin darted out of sight and breathed in deeply. 

“Excuse me,” said the woman in the painting. “If you're going to be leaving, could you at least put my cover back on?” Martin stepped into the room again. 

“Um…alright,” He lifted the black velvet cover and began to hang it back above the painting. “May I ask you a question before I cover you up?” 

“Ugh, fine. Make it quick,” She said with a sigh. 

“Well, how- how are you like this?” He said gesturing to her 

“Beautiful? Well I look eerily similar to my mother and-,” said the painting with a haughty smirk.

“No, I mean, how did you get here?” Martin asked, attempting to clarify the question.

“Well, at the age of eighteen, I married an older rich business man who owned a lot of land and with that marriage I moved into this mansion and got some of his money-” 

“No,” Martin said with a sigh, cutting her off, “I mean, how did you get inside this painting?” The woman shrunk into herself in despair. She sighed and averted eye contact with Martin. This instantly peaked Martin’s subconscious.   

“I…it's a long story” she said in a disappointed whisper. 

“Can I hear it?” asked Martin. He never thought he would pursue any kind of true conversation with a woman made of oil paint. Perhaps he was going insane.

“You truly want to hear it?” questioned the painted woman.

“Well, yes. You clearly have something to say. And either I'm going mad or I am about to hear the most interesting story of my life.” said Martin, chuckling at his own rationalizing of his insanity. 

“First, I should introduce myself. Hello, I am Ada Pearlman,” said the painted woman, now clarified as Ada. 

“Hi, I’m Martin. Martin Hart.” 

“Hmm… wonderful to meet you” said Ada with a sneer. 

“So how did you get in there?” Martin asked. 

“First I need to tell you about my favorite thing in the universe, me. Like I said, I was eighteen when Milton found me. I was never poor or anything like that, heavens no. He was 39 when he saw me and proposed. I was young, sweet, and I wanted more money and babies. He moved me into this beautiful house on the hill. I was happy. But, I left my home and never saw my parents very much after that. This town was always quaint but I grew to dislike it. Every single day, townspeople banged on our door begging. For money, food scraps, tools, supplies. Milton was always out of town on business and whatnot so I was left to deal with them. Please remember, I was stupid, I was bored, and I didn’t know how to help them. I only knew what had happened to me. 

“I remember one day a woman came to my door. She told me that her son was sick and she begged for money to buy medicine. I had just awoken from drinking far too much gin and my head throbbed. She shrieked and screeched about her son and needing money. I half heartedly said something like ‘Why don’t you do what I did? Marry rich! Just stop being poor’ I see now it was foolish and cruel. She sobbed and walked away without me being able to even give her any money. And I might have, I really don’t remember anymore,” She told the story with a tight lip and a stern brow but as she softened as she went on. She stopped, losing herself in thoughts.

“This is a wonderfully told story Ada but, how does this have to do with the painting?” Martin asked quietly, almost timid to interrupt. 

“I’m getting there Martin, this is important exposition for my tale,” she said, snapping out of her softened, wistful expression. 

“Okay…” 

“Shush. Anyway, many times I did not know how to help the people. I realize now, I did not have access to Miltons’s money. He said I did and provided me with enough to keep me happy but, that was just an allowance. I did not have any money to my name. When a townsperson would come around, asking for help, and stick around long enough for me to explain I wanted to help them; I would try and get money. But something always stopped me. It seemed trivial then. Milton would say ‘I’m sorry I can't spare any this month’ or ‘Oh sorry, all our money is tied up right now… in the bank’ which now I am pretty sure was as lazy an excuse as there is. Banks are there to give you money when you need it, not hold it back, right?” 

“Yeah, that's correct,” said Martin. 

“Well, I never got to help them and so I sat around and did nothing.” 

“Nothing?” asked Martin. 

“Hmm.. well I looked gorgeous all day but I didn't get to show it off much. Milton was a jealous man. He didn’t like me going out and looking beautiful if he wasn’t there. And he often wasn’t. So I was trapped here. I didn’t know how to read very well so I sat and looked out the window and cleaned. We had house staff but I would often just ask them to take a break so I could step in and feel like I was doing something. Have you ever heard the story of Rupenzel? A fair maiden trapped away in a tower. That prospect was becoming far too real to me now. There was a river down the hill by my house as well,” 

“I Know! It’s still there!”  exclaimed Martin excitedly. 

“Don't interrupt me,” 

“Sorry…” 

“Anyway, the river was quite a peaceful place. I would sit down at the edge of it for hours and stare at the fish and little rocks shifting slowly at the bottom. Sometimes I would feel like those little rocks. Stuck in a cold river, only moving slowly when the stream wanted them to. Now this all may sound so desperately pretentiously depressing but, all in all I knew I had a good life. I had food and clean water, I couldn’t say all had those. 

“But I wasted years sitting by that lake, or by the window, or scrubbing the floors of a room I'd never seen. I was nearly twenty-six then, and I knew I needed something different. I had no friends, other than the cleaning staff who were paid to like me, and my husband was away so often it would take a moment to picture his face sometimes. I know now he was most certainly seeing other women out of town and on his travels. I never saw another man. I spent every night lying awake in my bed picturing him missing me. I had a foolish fantasy I would rely on of him wistfully looking at the night sky while clutching a framed photo of me and whispering my name to the dark of the universe. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

“One day he came home and said he was here to stay for a while. He said business was good and he intended to take a break. I was excited, so excited. After eight years of marriage, I could finally get to know my husband on a deeper level. I was as attentive as I could be at dinner. I insisted on making some of the meal myself. Presenting myself as the perfect wife was how I thought I could make him happy. We sat at dinner and joked, and cuddled by the warm fire as he read me a big book of stories. I can’t remember what they were anymore, I was just enraptured in him. His everything. His face, his voice, his presence. He was forty-seven at the time. Thinking back now, that night was one of the few times I felt happiness. And let me tell you, Martin, it was wonderful.” Ada stared off into the distance as she appeared to finish her story. Martin was taken aback. It was such a tragic tale of woe, so sorrowfully detailed. But the big picture didn’t connect.                         

“Ada, just one thing. How did that put you in a painting?” Martin asked, confused. 

“I’m not done yet! There's more to the story,” Ada said, pulling herself out of the wistful gaze. 

“Oh, my apologies. I just assumed you were done. You ended on a happy note and I thought-” 

“Stories don’t end on a happy note. They go on until someone suffers. They go on until tragedy is normal. They go on until there are no more words to describe.”

“So, what happened?” Martin asked, inquisitive. 

“We spent the whole night together. I was the happiest I ever was. But I awoke the next morning to find a note from Milton. He had to head out already, some important business to get to. I felt empty. I was alone.  I spent hours in this mansion feeling like the whole world was closing in on me. Those few weeks, although short, felt like some of the lowest points of my life. But, to be honest, I wasn't actually alone. A second heartbeat with mine. My pregnancy was tumultuous. I woke up every morning feeling sick and fell asleep every night aching. I threw up constantly and I was discolored and all around ill. Milton only visited six times in the whole pregnancy. Thirty-eight weeks and I saw him six times. I realized he never cared about us. Never cared about me.”

“That’s awful,” said Martin and this time, she just nodded. Instead of continuing on, Ada just sighed, her breath becoming short and her blinks growing longer. Martin realized that she was close to tears. Her eyes were glassy as she opened them again and prepared herself to speak. “I am so sorry you had to endure that. Being abandoned with a baby must have been hard.”

“I'm not crying about that, fool!” Ada snapped, spite dripping from her voice.

“I’m sorry, I just assumed.” 

“It was what came after. That was the great pain. As I was nearing the end of being pregnant, there were rumblings in the town, down below. People had been getting sick and dying. No one could find the source. It  wasn’t any common cold spread through breath. At seemingly random points, people would collapse, get sick, and die. I lived here, up on a hill far away, so I didn’t think much of it. Years of scorn had made me a bitter woman. In my adolescence, I was merely ignorant. But by the time my child was born, I was cold and jaded. I didn’t believe love existed, at least not in the romantic sense. Because although I got no outward love from Milton or any other, I loved that little baby with all my heart. I felt so warm and happy when I was around her. My daughter, the most beautiful Madeline. She looked just like me, same hair, same eyes. She had Milton’s skin, but I chose to ignore that. Because this was not Milton's baby. She was mine. I spent months planning her nursery. I picked out each individual chair and blanket and little teddy bear. I put up and tore down blue, pink, and white wallpaper.  I needed it to be perfect because I could not provide her a loving father or perhaps even a happy life, but I could make her nursery pretty, I could do that. Then I found Paris Green. It was expensive but the most beautiful shade of a color, and I fell in love with it. I put it up in her nursery, I insisted on it.” Her voice broke as she said this last part. 

“A few weeks into Madeline inhabiting the nursery, that wallpaper started chipping. I thought nothing of it, just a vain pretty thing I could fix in a few months once she had settled down. But as days and nights went on, she began to fall ill. Her skin became redder. Thick warts appeared on her chest and she vomited madly at nearly every waking hour. And It was my fault. She died, sobbing in the night, only two months old. The coroner comforted me, with a heavy hand on my shaking chest, sobs washed over me. He claimed she had died of toxic chemicals in her lungs. I couldn’t imagine how that could have happened. She almost never left the nursery. I didn’t have much of an intelligence but, I put together it was something in Madeline's room. When examining it closer for a moment I noticed how much of the Paris Green wallpaper had chipped. It was scattered across the floor. I just had a feeling, it had something to do with that. But I had no way of knowing.”

“Until now!” Martin said. Ada looked at him confused and he continued. “I’ve read about this. When I was in school I found out that there used to be a shade, Paris Green, that used Arsenic in it.” 

“Arsenic? I think I’ve heard of that,” Ada said, contemplating. 

“Yeah, yeah it’s a really deadly poison. It was used in dresses and paint and well…wallpaper.” Martin’s mind raced with the realization. This tragedy, this horrible thing could have been stopped if they had his modern technology or understanding of th world. “It killed anyone who was exposed to it. It wasn’t your fault, Ada. You didn’t know about it.” Tears covered Ada’s cheeks as she gasped for oil painted air. 

“I would pinpoint that moment,” said Ada through sobs, “as the moment my life could never get back on track. It all went downhill from there.” Martin leaned forward intrigued. 

“Remember how I mentioned people were dying in the town of sickness? They traced it back. To me.”

“What?” Martin exclaimed, confused. 

“It was the river water. Anyone who drank from it fell ill. Townspeople rampaged my door and begged for medicine and money. They each had their own tragedy, but I was too caught up in my own. I could hardly move from my bed. I never ate, never drank. The maids of the house would open the door and yell to the town about how I could not see them. Did not want to see them. The crowd would roar with disgust and every night disperse. But then they would reappear each day again. I don't know how I was accused. Some mutters spread after days of gathering outside my house. People began to note how the majority of the river’s base was right alongside the hill my house sat on. Some citizens went to the authorities, claiming to have evidence that I had poisoned the water of the town. Police came knocking on my door one morning. A crowd gathered to watch. A maid answered the door and was panicked to find the head of the police staring her down. She called for me and helped me out of my bed. I walked slowly, elderly almost even though I was hardly twenty-eight. 

‘Mrs. Pearlman, I am here to arrest you,’ he said sternly. 

‘What?’ I had exclaimed. 

He gave no further answers before roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me into town. The crowd snickered and gawked at me, the woman who they believed to be the cause of their pain, finally taken down a peg. I sat in a dirty prison cell for a whole day and night. 

“The next morning it was explained I was accused of poisoning the water. I was aghast and confused. I had never tried to do anything to that river. I loved it, it was my only comfort in my youth. I had spent more time at that lake than with my own husband. I was rushed into a hasty courtroom. It was a public trial, and a large group of citizens stood around me, pointing. The judge explained to me how the water had been tampered with. People were getting sick from it. I tried to plead my innocence but they would not listen. I begged to at least hear what proof they had. 

“The coroner stepped forward. He had seemed like such a nice man when comforting me about Madeline but now he was stained with tears. He spoke about how he had found my own daughter dead from toxic poisoning. His wife died of a similar ailment after drinking from the river water. I cried out, asking why they thought I would do this. The crowd answered back with false cries that I had always hated them. I had denied them medicine, I had pushed them away from warmth, I had never helped them. They shouted about how I must have gone mad from the lack of my husband and I must have taken my revenge against him by killing our daughter. I sobbed at that, despaired and crushed they thought I could have killed my little Madeline. I sank to my knees. I screamed. And they laughed. Laughed that they had caught me. Laughed that I was in pain. 

“It was decided I must be punished. First thought was hanging. I wish they had hung me. A painful death but a satisfying one. A complete one.  But they had a better idea. The judge called out a sentence. He said: We punish you with the sentence of entrapment. You will be confined to your own home. Your own box. Your own void. You deserve no less. Dozens died at your hand. An insane woman beyond help, beyond hope. No one will speak to you. No one will help you. And you will harm no one. You poisoned our river. Poisoned our town. Poisoned our hearts. You deserve to live in pain for as long as time can pass. Everyone near you dies. Dies or goes away. Your husband. Your  baby. Your town. Suffer, Ada Pearlman, I hope you Suffer.  I remember a group of people crowding me, a burning sensation on my back. I felt like I was melting. I felt like my skin was dripping and I was sinking. I felt small and closed off, like I couldn’t find any air for my lungs.

“And then I awoke. I was in my house. Or better said, I was looking over my house. One room, this one, the nursery. The walls were still Paris Green. At some point over the years it shifted. It became this sitting room. But the pain of the place never faded and these walls still hold Madeleines tears. I sit in this little oil painted box. And here I am. And here I have been. And here I will be. Forever.” 

Martin exhaled. It was an exhausting, deeply sad tale. But one part did not connect. 

“That’s…horrible Ada. I am so, so sorry you were attacked for something you never did. To be confined forever in a painting? It sounds awful.” 

“Oh it's not so bad… Who am I kidding? Yeah it’s awful” she said, pushing a wry smile through her tears. 

“One question, how did the water get poisoned? If you didn’t put arsenic in it, what happened?” Martin asked. 

“Honestly, I have no idea. I have spent nearly a hundred years racking my brain on what could have given people such a disease!”

“Wait…” Martin said as a quiet lightbulb popped into his head “you said they got a disease?”

“Hmm? Yes they got sick. It was a plague of sickness,”

“Yes but, arsenic and other poisonings don't quite have a disease effect.” 

“What do you mean?”

“What were the exact symptoms of the disease people had?” Martin asked frantically. 

“I-I don’t remember exactly. I think they had Fever, sweating, malnourishment…” 

“That’s not what arsenic does!” Ada paused after Martin said this, looking confused. 

“What does it do?” she asked

“You said it yourself,” Martin explained “Madeline did have arsenic poisoning. Red and swollen skin, new warts, nausea, vomiting. Different symptoms, different diseases!”

“But then, what happened to the townspeople?” she asked. 

“Well the symptoms you described could be a lot of things. Maybe tuberculosis?” Martin gasped at his own thought “Tuberculosis can be caught from contaminated water. If an animal died in the water, it could spread disease to anyone who drank it!”

“So, it was a dead animal?” Ada asked “I am trapped here, in this painted hell becAUSE AN ANIMAL DIED IN A RIVER?” she exclaimed, her voice rising to a shout. Martin looked at her sorrowfully. 

“I think so. Ada that…this is horrible” He said, his voice shrinking. Ada didn’t respond at first. She just sunk her head in her palms and sobbed painted tears. Martin found himself desperate to look away as the beautiful young woman mourned the life she had never had. He glanced out a window and noticed the sun was setting. He had spent a whole day just listening to Ada’s tale. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice striking Martin’s focus away from the golden pink sky. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Ada said again, the strain on her voice clear. “I can’t be in this stupid little painting. All I see is this tiny room! I live in a black void with a few swirls of color behind me! In fact, I am just a few swirls of color! I can’t live like this anymore! I am just an empty shell of who I could have been. All I do is miss Madeline, and miss my life before Milton, and wish I could just stop it all! I don’t want to exist anymore. I can’t exist anymore. I won’t.” 

Martin was taken aback by her volume and intensity. She had up until this appeared just a soft woman with a silly smirk and a broken heart. But now she was a hardened woman. The years of scorn and spite had caught up to her and now, she was much more than just broken. 

“What can I do to help?” Martin asked, thinking there would be no answer. 

“Make this painting disappear.” she said, her eyes big and wild. Tears were still falling and her breath was heavy. Martin nodded quietly and left the room. Twenty minutes later, he returned and removed Ada’s painting from the wall and carried it down stairs and out the front door. Ada’s eyes had fear in them but also a hope. They hoped to make the pain end. Martin brought her to the backyard where a large fire pit sat blazing. Ada understood his intention and looked up at him. 

“Do you still want this?” Martin asked.

“Yes. Thank you Martin. I can finally be free. And for once, be happy.” she said with a small smile. Martin inserted the painting into the flames and stepped back. Ada looked fearful but not in pain.

“Does it hurt?” he asked. She just shook her head. Martin watched carefully as the oil paint began to dissolve. Ada closed her eyes and drifted away into the flames. The canvas and frame burnt up slowly as flames licked them and engulfed them into itself. After the entire painting had disappeared, Martin fanned out the flames and stomped out the ashes. Once they had cooled, he lifted as many ashes as he could and held them tight. Martin marched down the hill to the edge of the river and slowly released the ashes into it. Martin watched as the ashes of Ada Pearlman drifted away in the river that ruined her life. He hoped that she could have found peace. 

Sitting back inside of the house, it felt empty in the sitting room without the painting. Walking around, he looked closer in cracks and crevices, trying to find pieces of Ada. Little hints about who she was, what she lived for. In the back of a closet, in a guest bedroom there was a box. Under a few layers or random bits of fabric, there sat a picture frame. The picture inside of it was ancient, grayed, bent, and all around nearly destroyed. But in the center of it sat Ada, her smirk evident through the still picture. And on her lap sat a small baby girl. Martin’s heart warmed. It was Madeline. Her face was a little blurry, a baby could never hold still for a picture. Entering the sitting room again, Martin hung the frail picture on the wall. It filled the void of the painting. He sat down pulling out a piece of paper and beginning to write. He started with: The life of Ada Pearlman was a tragic one and yet it is a story that deserved to be told.