Just a short story for today. Yes it actually happened and yes I am THAT old. It's a short story, but it still gives me chills to think about it. First, I live in Texas. No, we don't ride horses to work and we don't go "yee-haw" all the time, nor are we all Chuck Norris. Secondly, Texas gets HOT during the summer: I'm talking around 115 F during the day. Third, this happened when I was roughly 13 years old and did odd jobs for cash to buy maybe a book (Normally books, sometimes I'd save up my money and buy me something nice, but that's neither here nor there.) Lastly, I was helping my dad clean this old house. I say "old", but by many standards it wasn't "old", just outdated. I estimated, by its decor, that it was built during the 60's or 70's, so older than me by quite a bit, but not old enough in Texas to be legally documented as "historical", that was reserved for houses that were either 80+ years old, or something memorable happened there. It was hot that day and I was drinking Gatorade like Bane juiced on the Titan Formula.
Dad told me to go to the garage and start to clean up. I nodded, picked up a hammer and some nails, just in case I found something that needed to be repaired, and went to the garage. Picture this: It is 113 F outside, you're sweating and you would rather be somewhere else cooler, that being anywhere else other than where you were. You walk into a white garage, the temperature quickly plummets and suddenly you find your sweat slowly being devoured by the coldness of the room. You look around, looking for a source of this sudden chill, when your eyes come to rest on a beautiful painting on the wall, everything was right...except for one thing: Her eyes. They were sinister, cold, and uncaring. People don't know it, but they ingrain themselves in what they do, whether it is artistic or not. Whoever painted this was highly skilled, you're both entranced and afraid, but nonetheless you get closer and it gets colder. Her blue eyes pinpoint on yours and for just a moment you feel that feeling of being in the middle of an argument between two people, that helpless feeling that you can't shake. Luckily it doesn't last very long and you find yourself retreating back towards the Texas heat, something you normally would NOT do. Okay, now the scene is set as are the emotions, but curiosity overtook me and I asked my dad if he felt anything. As soon as he walked in he noticed the cold.
"Dad, there's no power in this house, correct?" He nodded and he also looked at the painting, transfixed. I tugged at his shirt.
"Let's get out of here, something's not right." So we retreated elsewhere. We never went back into that room, nails be damned. I still, to this day, still get the shivers when I think about that day. Who was the artist? Were they still alive? Why did they leave all of it behind? Were they forced to move or...? To this day I still don't fully understand why the "Painted Lady" had such a profound effect on the people and the room.
