The Crypt Artist

The Crypt Artist by Deborah O'Toole was released by Club Lighthouse Publishing in June 2020.

A near-starving artist finds himself inspired by a group of long-dead classic painters in a rundown loft in SoHo, New York.

From Chapter Five 

"I DON'T LIKE THIS," HOWARD Russell Butler declared grumpily, adjusting the eyeglasses on his nose with a well-aimed finger. "I don't like it one damned bit."

"Please," Malachy wheedled, knowing all along Howard would prove to be the most difficult to convince of all the ghost artists.

Howard glared down at Luca, who was flat on his back on the couch, snoring loudly. "Look at the little bugger," he replied belligerently. "He didn't even make it to his own bed this time, did he? He's not fit to shine my shoes, much less lay claim to a piece of my artwork." Howard crossed his arms stubbornly. "No, sir. I want no part of this horseshit. And that's exactly what it is - horseshit of the highest order."

Having founded the American Fine Arts Society during his lifetime, Howard found it well beneath him to assist the slovenly young artist, although he grudgingly admitted to himself that Luca possessed a modicum of talent. Having come from the echelons of high class society, and having attended Princeton University, Howard was also proud of his  career as a patent lawyer, which ceased in 1884 when he decided to focus solely on art. He considered one of his better achievements to be a solar eclipse painting that he did for the U.S. Naval Observatory. He also did a portrait of Andrew Carnegie, and went on to help construct Carnegie Lake, contributing his time and effort on behalf of Princeton's rowing team. He also spent time in France, but eventually retired to a house by Carnegie Lake, where he died in 1934, at the age of seventy-eight. To the present day, Howard's paintings - mainly of seascapes - were still on exhibit at fine places such as Metropolitan Museum of Art, Smithsonian American Art Museum, and the American Museum of Natural History, all of which he considered high-level notches on his belt.

"No siree," Howard reiterated to Malachy, keeping his arms crossed. "This is well beneath me, and you know it. This might be fine for the others, we're just keeping this whippersnapper in his cups for all we know, but it's not for the likes of me."

Malachy sighed softly. "Now, now, Howard. What were you like at Luca's age? Surely you can understand . . ."

Howard pointed to the couch. "I never made a display of myself like this dumbass does every night. I want no personal or professional association with this pathetic loser."

"But you agreed to help . . ." Malachy began to protest.

"I changed my mind. And that's that."

"You rank curmudgeon," Malachy hissed angrily. "You'd go back on your word? I should've known you weren't the sort to be spot-on. You've no integrity, man, no honor."

"You pissy, shitty little Irish bastard," Howard roared. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"Act like a man and keep your word," Malachy roared back. "Are you daft, Sassenach? Pull your bollocks out of yer arse and do the right thing, for feck's sake."

"I truly detest you," Howard returned peevishly, although he had calmed a bit.

"Makes no difference if you like me or not," Malachy said airily. "The subject at hand is young Luca here, and you keeping your word to help him."

"Piss on you," Howard seethed, his transparent eyes flashing. "I'll keep my word, but nothing else. Afterward, I'll wash my hands of you and all of this Luca balderdash."

"So be it," Malachy intoned.

Harrumphing his way to the easel, and muttering under his breath, Howard got to work.

* * *

LUCA COULD HEAR MALACHY AND the other man bickering, their voices tickling his consciousness. In a disjointed way, he thought his drunken stupor wasn't such a stupor after all. He felt himself coming to as the combative conversation continued.

When Luca finally opened his eyes, he saw someone standing at his easel, arms moving as he brushed strokes across the canvas. Luca hesitated in calling the figure a man as his body was ethereal, seemingly whole but really not. It was as if a softly glowing ember surrounded the shape, moving in unison with the artistic brush strokes.

Luca stared at the man for what seemed a long time. Then he wondered if he was actually still asleep. Was he seeing this man at his easel in a dream, or was it sickeningly real? "Who the hell are you?" Luca whispered, not for one minute imagining he would receive a response.

Malachy suddenly glided into view, coming between Luca and the specter at the easel.

"Go to sleep, boyo," Malachy said gently. "You're having a dream, is all. Close your eyes and let yourself drift back into slumber."

Luca felt his eyes grow heavier with each word Malachy uttered. Sleep finally pulled him back into its relaxed and peaceful vortex.

"That was a god damned close call," Howard barked. "Weren't you keeping an eye on him?"

"Of course I was," Malachy replied irritably. "He came awake sudden like."

"He shouldn't see what I'm doing," Howard pointed out gruffly. "I don't like this business as it is, but to have that little bugger see me in action is not acceptable. If he wakes up again, I'll stop this whole shebang altogether."

"Understood," Malachy said shortly. "He's asleep again. Carry on, will you?"

Luca heard every word they shot back and forth, but he kept his eyes closed. Whatever magic was taking place - the result of which was a finished painting by morning - was something he did not want to interfere with.

"Are you sure the little bastard is down for the count?" Howard demanded crustily.

There was a slight pause before Malachy responded. "He's sleeping like a baby, never fear."

Luca drifted drift off for real this time, the angry voices fading in his head.

* * *

LUCA FELT SURPRISINGLY GOOD THE next morning. His head was clear when he rose from the couch and went to the easel.

The portrait of Howard Russell Butler's "Bald Head Cliff" was finished, and Luca knew damned well he hadn't done it. He remembered the voices from the night before, which had discussed him and the painting.

Luca stood transfixed, barely breathing. Pieces of what was happening to him began to fall into place with sudden clarity, and horrifying reality.

Malachy seemed to be prodding long-dead ghost artists to finish the reproductions Luca was attempting to create. The little Irishman, long-dead himself, had for some unknown reason become Luca's guardian angel. Malachy warned him about drinking too much, prophesized about his future with Izzy, and had testy exchanges with the artistic ghosts themselves.

"It's insane," Luca whispered out loud. "But it's all I've got. There's no other plausible explanation."

Running  a hand through his disheveled hair, Luca decided it was time to try and sell the paintings. He now had four complete portraits. There was no sense in holding onto them when they could be putting money in his pocket. If they sold well, or he was able to place a few on consignment, maybe he could attempt even more reproductions.

It wasn't what he really wanted for himself - his life or career - but it would have to do for the time being. He was hardly satisfied artistically, yet he was willing to make sacrifices to make good inroads with Izzy. She did not seem like the type of woman to care about money, but having a few bills in his wallet on their next date would make him feel better.

His decision was made.