"You've got to believe me," Tanya pleaded. "I'm not imagining this."

As I stared at the space where my canvases had once stood, I did believe my sister's wild claims. The greater part of me did, anyway. This was, perhaps, somewhat irrational on my part, but I was never a great believer in coincidences. At the very least, someone had removed my works of art. There was, or had been, an intruder. This danger was real enough to prompt me into action.

Without another word, I climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans that lay nearby. I also added my paint-smeared sweatshirt and a pair of thick socks. Clothing felt like armour against any would-be assailants, and the more of it the better.

With Tanya now following, I stalked into the kitchen area. I paused to pull a large, sharp knife from its wooden holder.

More armaments against would-be invaders.

"Tanya," I whispered. "You wait here a moment. Grab a knife for protection, okay? I'll check mom and dad's bedroom. I'll be back in a second."

Tanya nodded, and she did as suggested.

Then, the two of us (me, the seventeen year old genius/artist, and Tanya, the thirteen year old cry-baby/bookworm) parted company. Leaving Tanya in the kitchen, I walked over to the lair of my tyrannical parents. As I reached the door, I didn't quite know which I feared more: finding and waking the sleeping monsters (my parents)... or finding the room empty. Either way, I would come off the loser.

Yet my options were limited to a single choice. I opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was unnaturally cold, even for the time of year. Also, the usual stench of cigarettes and bodily odour was reduced to a subtle tinge in the air. None of this was cause for calm. I fumbled for the light-switch, found it, and illuminated the room.

The first visual clue I noticed was the state of the bed; two thirds of the stained duvet lay crumpled on the floor, and the sheets lay in a tangled heap next to the fallen section. This was a mess even by my slovenly father's standards. It appeared that an energetic fight had recently taken place. I could easily guess who the losers had been. There was no sign of my mother or father anywhere.

A dagger of combined relief and dread stabbed me in the heart.

Next, I noticed that the huge window behind the bed had been pushed completely open, exposing the room to the elements. The sheets at the side of the bed fluttered in the icy draft. Evidently, my parents had been pulled out through the window. Perhaps the cold breeze also accounted for the reduced odour in the room.

Casting this futile speculation aside, I strode over to the window and pulled it shut.

Better.

"Tanya," I called.

My sister ignored my call, so I tried again: "TANYA!"

When I failed to get a response this time, I stepped out of the chilly room, and re-entered the kitchen area.

I looked around with increasing desperation. I searched every room.

But Tanya, like my collection of art and my unwashed parents, had vanished with hardly a trace.



 

As for traces...

A knife, Tanya's weapon, lay useless on the linoleum floor. The door next to the sink was open and swaying in the breeze. Apart from the knife and the open door leading outside, Tanya's abduction had left no displacement or disruption. She had been snatched silently and with terrible efficiency.

My reaction to this realisation was a desire to get out of the caravan immediately. The place had become a death-trap. Every second I stayed in here would be another second with my head secured in a guillotine. The blade could descend at any moment.

I looked around for my shoes, decided I didn't have time to put them on, and ran outside. The contact with the sodden grass soaked my socks in an instant, but I didn't care. I ran toward the narrow dirt track that I knew would lead me, eventually, to the caretaker's hut. As I reached the track, however, I spied a group of sallow apparitions coming out of the trees to my left.

I uttered something close to a strangled "NO!", and ran in the opposite direction.

In seconds, I was back in the caravan, slamming the door behind me, and locking it. Through the glass, I could see roughly a dozen disembodied faces approaching at speed. These were the grotesques that I had painted directly from my imagination onto my canvases; they were exact to every detail. How and why these nightmarish visages had taken on such a reality and purpose were questions I did not have time to ponder. I had painted them into existence, and now they wanted me. That was all.

My head was back under the guillotine blade.

Determined to keep my footing, I ran towards the bathroom, my socks squelching against the linoleum as I went. The bathroom had a door-lock; it was a flimsy device, easily broken, but better than nothing. For this reason alone, the bathroom was the safest place I could think of.

Pushed on by the simple desire to survive, I reached the bathroom before my pursuers could reach me. Thankful to be alive, surprised to still be here, I slammed the door, locked it, and slumped down on the toilet. From this low vantage-point, I scanned the room.

There was only one window, and it was directly to the right of me. The glass was thick, warped and misted, designed for privacy. It was locked.

However, the widow was far from safe, as I promptly discovered.

It was into this wide glass surface that one of the apparitions suddenly crashed. The glass cracked, but did not shatter. Behind it, a vague silhouette of pallid meat hovered with evil intent. At the sight of the thing, even in its mist-censored form, I cried out.

The creature did not back off and ram the window to finish the job as I expected it to. The evil thing didn't need to smash its way in. It simply burned the barrier away. As the creature exercised its malevolent will, the glass, at the point of breakage, began to melt under some unimaginable heat.

A memory flashed through my mind. It was my sister saying: " the monsters sealed their mouths shut... burned them... melted them shut."

By the time that memory flickered out, the newly-formed hole in the window had grown from the size of a penny to the size of a dinner-plate. Through it, one of my early works of art, now fleshed and alive, leered and drooled.

There was no time to react in anything resembling a purposeful manner. All I could do was back away as the disembodied beast surged through the molten opening it had created. Then the creature was upon me, its toothless, salivating mouth bearing down on my head. The dripping maw clamped down on my skull, and everything went black.



 

I'm awake again now. Things are different here. I have awoken in a void.

This "non-place" is a void in the truest sense. There is no matter here, no substance. There are no walls, ceilings or floors. There are no stars and no sky. I am surrounded by desolate blackness. There is no air here, and yet I do not suffocate. I do not need to breathe. There is no hunger or thirst here. There is no need. All that exists is the void and those within its crippling meaninglessness.

Yes, there are others here with me. I have company inside this vast vacuum. My mother and father are here. Tanya is here, too. They are different, though. For example, my mother no longer has a mouth. She tries to speak, but she cannot. My father suffers the same affliction, but he is not coping as well as mom. My father is becoming increasingly enraged at his predicament, I can tell. His eyes blaze with a hatred that he cannot give expression to.

Tanya has a mouth, but she chooses not to speak. Instead, she screams quietly. Her voice is a near-silence that I find deeply oppressive.

Tanya, mom, and dad share other common afflictions that I have not yet mentioned. Firstly, they lack bodies. The three of them have been reduced to a trio of severed heads that float and swim in this awesome non-place, in this... wound.

Secondly, these family members of mine have been bleached. There is no longer a rosy glow to my sister's cheeks. Gone is the sick, yellowish completion of my father. No longer does my mother wear makeup applied with a spade. Each of their faces are now grey and sunken. Only their accusing eyes have any colour to speak of.

It seems that my own creations, my demons, have recreated my family members in the image of the collective horde.

My demons? They are here, too; all thirteen of them. They remain exactly as I created them. Each is different, each a different slant on evil and despair. They are all present and correct. They are my children.

Number thirteen, the unfinished portrait, presses close to me now. It speaks to me.

Woe. Number thirteen is angry because he has no eyes, only half a nose, and a mere suggestion of a jaw and mouth. Number thirteen seeks completion.

How can I oblige? I can't even move or float like the others. I am fixed in the very centre of this non-place. I AM the fixed, unmoving centre. Around me, the others revolve.

Number thirteen enlightens me. The minion tells me that I am different, I am special, I'm the creator. Only I, among all of us, possess ARMS.

As I examine myself, I see that the minion speaks truth. I may have no legs, abdomen or torso of any kind, but I most certainly do have a workable pair of arms. They are thin, spindly things that extend directly from my sliced neck. Like all flesh here, these scrawny limbs emit a pale grey luminance.

In my right hand, I hold the brush of creation.

If this is my destiny, so be it.

With a flourish, I complete the face of my impotent minion. I create for him a complete jawbone, a fine set of sharklike teeth, an ugly snout, and a single, sunken eye.