Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-31753305-20170420160147

Hi, I had a recent story deleted and got some very helpful feedback here. I've gone away and revised the plot to try and get away from some of the cliches I had stumbled into and I've revisited some of the mechanical issues. I'm posting it below and would be really grateful for any thoughts on it! Thanks!

Bubbles

I grew up in a normal home, we didn't believe in gods or daemons or spooky things that live under the bed. We had a house full toys and books scattered around, but no great old spooky bookshelves or creepy corridors. Sunlight shone through our windows leaving no dark corners for the ghouls to hide. We were bright and airy and open throughout, except for one high up dark spot at the top of the stairs, too high up to paint easily or sweep away the cobwebs.

In this spot hung the only picture that wasn't a smiling family photograph. It was a big dark painting in an ornate frame that my grandfather had inexplicable appeared with years before and subsequently hung in its corner and forgotten.

The picture was of a small boy in a ruffled shirt, sitting on a rock and gazing above himself at the bubbles he had blown into the air.

The first idea I had that something about the picture wasn't right was when I was about eight years old. I had run up and down those stairs so many times and never paid attention to that picture.

On that day, as I thundered past it, something made me stop. I'm not sure what, maybe a noise that wasn't there, a summoning. I wish to God I hadn't stopped, how different things would be if I had ran past as always, but I don't think that was even an option. I stopped, I tilted my head as far back as it would go and I gazed up, up, up into the stairwell. There he was, Bubbles, and I desperately wanted to reach up and take it down from the wall.

At that moment, just as my hands reached up, I heard my name spoken harshly from behind me. Spinning around I almost lost my footing on the stairs and felt my mother’s arms catch me, she gave me a small shake and hissed at me, 'what are you doing with Bubbles?’

She was angry, angrier than I had ever seen her, but only for one split-second; surprised by her sudden appearance I began to cry and quickly she was my lovely Mum again, hugging me and sending me on my way.

We didn't really speak about that moment again, in fact, I only spoke to her once more about that painting, the next day. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had noticed that the paint was streaked and damaged on one side, a large swirling mark just above the young boy’s head. I pictured it over and over, trying to puzzle out what had damaged it and, though I instinctively knew we weren't supposed to talk about Bubbles, I decided to ask my mum about it.

I knew I needed to wait until we were alone, that talking about Bubbles with anyone but my mum around would be a terrible thing to do, though I wasn't sure why. So I waited until she was washing dishes in the kitchen. I crept into the room, unable to shake the feeling that I was, in some way, being cruel, and asked her what the marks on the painting were. She gave a nervous laugh, a sort of fake girlish giggle that I had never heard from her before, and told me that she had tried to clean the picture with soapy water and in the process had smeared the paint.

I could feel the lie behind her words but found that I didn't want the truth after all. I just nodded, sorry that I had asked and rose to leave the room. Just as I reached the door she spoke again, quietly, looking straight ahead, not making eye contact with me, 'please don't look at it anymore, please try to forget about Bubbles.’

Things changed after that, some of the carefree childhood went away. There was a new tension between my Mum and me, a living lie separating us. Now, running up and down the stairs, I could hear it summoning, 'come and look', 'come and look', but, little as I was, I managed to ignore it. I grew up, moved away, lived my life... but it was always there, the wanting to see, the not wanting to see.

It stayed with me for so long, appearing in my dreams with a sense of dread. Constantly popping into my mind until, frustrated by the hold this thing had on me, I decided to be proactive. I was going to learn about the painting and I was going to go home and look at it one more time. I knew, ghosts were not real, haunted paintings do not exist. I wasn’t going to be held captive by a childhood nightmare.

I started with research, needing to pin facts to the story I had created in my mind. The original painting was by Sir John Everett Millais, and the subject was his grandson, William Milbourne James (later, Admiral William Milbourne James, a very interesting character as it happens, involved in the first world war naval intelligence). There was nothing paranormal about the artist, the subject, or the painting; there was nothing to suggest that it would be in any way unusual.

…and yet, the summoning. I couldn’t shake it, there was something there.

I started googling for any strange experiences connected to the picture, any reports of this dreadful feeling, any whispers surrounding it. There was nothing. No ghostly apparitions, no haunting, no mention of anything even vaguely paranormal. I started to doubt my own experience, to question what had really happened that day. Had I just taken an innocuous childhood memory and told myself a spooky story about it, believing it because I had repeated it to myself so often?

I decided that the best way to defeat this horrible feeling was to face it, I would go to my family home, reach up and take the painting down from the wall. Nothing would happen because it was just a painting. Nothing would happen and I would be able to put it behind me and move on with my life, free of it.

I waited for a Saturday, as Mum would shop on a Saturday morning. Regular as clockwork, out of the house at ten and home by twelve, giving me two hours to investigate. I waited and watched her go, feeling like an absolute sneak as she rambled off with her canvas bags.

Five past ten, I let myself into the house and stood at the base of the stairs, and it was there, already calling out to me. All thought that I had imagined something left me, it was calling me and it knew. It knew why I was there.

I started up, closer, reaching the landing where I could look up and see Bubbles in his old ornate frame. For a while I just looked, feeling a dragging, sickening sensation deep in my gut. Wanting to reach up and pull the picture down, but afraid to touch.

Ten thirty, I raised myself up onto my tippy-toes and reached up, grabbing at the base of the frame. With a slight jump, I unhooked it from the wall, surprised by the weight of it, almost tripping backwards, almost losing my footing on the stairs. I steadied myself and lowered Bubbles to lean against the wall, I was eye level now with his little white face, examining him closely.

Ten forty-five, I moved my attention to that swirling mark where the paint was damaged. From here I could see it clearly, it was a rusty stain, scrubbed until the paint had formed a swirling cloud; but clearly discernible was a hand print at the centre of the swirl. Small and red.

Eleven a.m., I realised, the painting was just a painting, mysteriously damaged, but nothing more. The summoning though, I could still feel it. Not coming from the painting but from above me, from the wall where Bubbles used to hang. Calling from the very centre of the white mark that the painting used to cover, demanding that I look further, that I see what needed to be seen.

Eleven twenty, I dragged a kitchen chair to the landing and perched, hammer in hand, answering the demand that I now realised was coming from inside the wall. The first tentative tap gave an alarming hollow wooden ring, this part of the wall was fake. Plywood, covering a hollow space.

Eleven forty, I prised the wood away from the wall, opening it up to reveal the hidden space that lived behind the painting. For a moment a pair of bright blue eyes stared back at me, and two chubby little arms reached out to me for help; as I reached out towards her I felt my fingers brush against leathery dried skin instead of warm flesh. All that remained of her, rotting away.

Eleven forty-five, I remembered.

''Running up those stairs and it was not a summoning at all, it was a voice calling out to me. My little sister, calling my name from her makeshift prison.''

''All those years ago, that was what made me stop. A real noise, a real voice. Of course, not stopping was never an option, she was crying out for me and I desperately wanted to reach up and take Bubbles down from the wall and rescue her.''

''And at that moment, just as my hands reached up, it was my Mother who stopped me, angry, and I remembered what she really said as she caught me. ‘Bad children have to go and live behind Bubbles.’''

''So, I agreed with her, because I didn’t want to go there myself. I promised to stay away and then she was my lovely Mum again, hugging me and sending me on my way.''

''Now I remembered what really happened when I spoke to her about it again, the next day. I had noticed a small bloody hand print on the painting, just above the young boy’s head and, in an attempt to ingratiate myself with her, I told her about it. I waited until she was washing dishes in the kitchen. I crept into the room, knowing I was joining her in her cruelty and I told her about that hand print.''

''She gave a nervous laugh, a sort of fake girlish giggle that I had never heard from her before, and we went together to clean it away. She gave me a wet soapy cloth and held me up to scrub at the painting, and I did it, smearing the paint into a large swirling mark just above the young boys head.''

When we were done she stood me at her side and spoke, looking straight ahead, not making eye contact with me and said, ‘if you talk about it, you’ll have to go in there too, please try to forget about Samantha.’

''So I ran up and down those stairs, listening to her calling out for days, weaker and weaker, and little as I was I managed to ignore it. Then the dense thick smell that permeated the house, ignoring that too.''

Eleven fifty, remembering everything, I made Samantha a promise. I lifted her from her prison and laid her down gently on my old bed, in the room we used to share. I clenched the hammer in my fist and waited, sitting beside Bubbles on the stairs.

Twelve O’Clock, a key turned in the door. The monster was home. 