The Craft of Giving Up

The studio was supplied with odd hues, such as mummy brown, the legendary paint produced from ground-up bones, and the commission had been too good to refuse. Harper's fascination with the supernatural was known to the patron. With one perplexing exhortation, he beckoned her inside: "Don't open the door, not until it's complete."

Her symbols, pouring into the strokes like a melody, were older than language itself. In a daze, Harper painted with wild strokes. As if it knew well that it was getting life, the canvas drank the hues greedily.

Then the scratching started.

At first, faint, behind the walls and the canvas. Through the silence came murmurs, as gently as breath on her neck. The air thickened. It forcefully shoved into her chest. The hands went on tracing those antique sigils as if their possessors were possessed. Held onto the fabric by deeper bleeding with each stroke.

She realized someone was watching. expanding.

The silence that came after the final strike, somehow, filled the room. The muttering ceased. She stepped backwards and stared at the artwork, captive to something way older than art-something she had invoked.

Harper's hand dropped to the door. The lock mocked her, frozen and cold. She clutched at her pounding heart. She remembered the customer's warning now, but she hadn't opened the door. She realised now that she couldn't. It had always been locked from the outside.

The scratching behind her resumed, no longer muted, no longer far away. Slowly, she turned.

It stood there, his eyes black as the paint she had poured. On, it was wearing the darkness like a cloak, and the demon smirked.

It was not Harper who was the artist. She was the offering.