Kethru's Twenty-Third

"Mr Corcoran." The shopkeeper inclined his head stiffly, and clasped his hands together. It was an odd gesture, Harold thought, but then, this was an odd shop. Dimly lit and cluttered, it was like the world's worst stereotype of an antique shop. He wouldn't have been surprised if someone tried to sell him a gremlin.
"Morning." He said, brusquely. "How's business?" He didn't care, but it was polite to ask.
"As it always has been." That wasn't exactly usual either, but, given that the gent looked to be somewhere in the region of a hundred and ten, he could be forgiven a few eccentricities.
"Great. Listen, I'm in a hurry, so..." The old man smiled thinly, the lines on his face rearranging themselves into intriguing new formations.
"As is so often the case, these days. Mr Corcoran - " he leant over the counter, gingerly. "I wonder if I should not - " Harold didn't allow himself to wince, but he did it on the inside.
"Look." He said, shortly. "I'm aware of the legends. The price I'll offer will be a fair one, and hearing another ghost story isn't likely to increase it."
"Perhaps so." The old man said, evenly. "But, in all good - " Harold sighed.
"Please believe me when I say I've researched Kethru's work quite thoroughly. A slaughterhouse worker on the South side until nineteen twenty-six. Then, all of a sudden, a bolt of inspiration and hitherto unsuspected artistic ability. Thirty-five paintings over the course of seven days, then suicide." The shopkeeper made that odd hand-clasping gesture again.
"You are very thorough, Mr Corcoran. But, considering that - "
"Let's be honest." Harold cut him off again. "That legend is the only reason I'm here. The artistic value of his pieces is, so I've heard, non-existent. But the story, the drama, along with the fact that no-one seems to have got hold of one...big bucks, am I right?" He smiled evenly.
"Big bucks." The shopkeeper repeated, as if he didn't like the taste of the words. "But, even so, I feel I should - "
"I'm very sorry." Harold said, bringing his watch up to his face. "But I really am going to be late if we don't hurry this along, so...?" The shopkeeper regarded him impassively for a moment, then inclined his head, and drifted back into the cavernous recess behind the counter.
Presently, he returned with a large square of canvas, covered by a moth-eaten cloth. Harold's eyes narrowed as he saw it - if the painting beneath wasn't in better condition...
The old man laid it down on the counter, and turned his back.
"I hope you find it to your satisfaction, Mr Corcoran." Harold looked at him for a second, then sneered.
Superstitious old bastard he thought, ripping off the covering. For a second, all he was looking down at was a vague series of smudges and blurs, dark almost-colours lumped together in a random order. He blinked, and it seemed to clear up - the scene was fading into view, and -
His eyes widened.
"Laura." He moaned. He swallowed thickly, twice, then slammed a hand down onto the shopkeeper's shoulder.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" He said. His voice had risen in pitch. "A threat?"
"That is Vega Kethru's twenty-third painting, Mr Corcoran." The shopkeeper's voice was still even. Harold staggered backwards, staring at the painting.
"This - " he made a terrible gasping, choking noise from deep within his throat. He panted for a moment, then his voice came out in a rough whisper. "I don't know who put you up to this. But I'm going to find out. And I'm coming back with the police. The police!" He screamed. The shopkeeper didn't turn around until he heard the door slam, hard enough to rattle the other goods standing on their rickety shelves.
The shopkeeper moved out from around the counter, deliberately not looking at the painting. He had tried to warn him; he always did. But everyone who came in was so sure. He would have explained the manner in which Vega Kethru killed himself, utterly impossible though it was. He would have explained how no-one who had come in to buy one of his pieces had ever left carrying it. He would have explained what, exactly, had happened to the first person to view the other twenty-two paintings they had come for so far. But, as always, Mr Corcoran had not wanted to listen.
He straightened, adjusted, and tweaked until he was satisfied; a place for everything, and everything in its place. Then, with a heart torn between reluctance and curiosity, he turned around to examine the painting.
It was of a young girl, perhaps five or six, with long, dark hair (the same colour as Mr Corcoran's, in fact), and a soft, blue eye. The other one had vanished, replaced by a weeping mass of red gore. Her mouth was twisted open in a scream. There was something small (smaller even than she was) crawling over her body. Apart from the long, barbed claws sprouting from its hands, and the jagged mess of needle-teeth protuding from its mouth, and the ecstatic glee raging in its eyes, it could have been any teddy-bear in the world. Kethru really was quite a talent.
The shopkeeper considered it a moment, then nodded to himself. Yes, it was genuine. Yes, it could go with the others. In the gallery at the back of his shop, next to the twenty-two which had come before. There was a time when he would have recoiled from it, wept, vomited, screamed until his throat was hoarse, but that time was long past. Besides, there was much, much worse already in the gallery.
He picked it up under one arm, still suprisingly strong for all his age. He headed back into his shop, down a corridor, past twelve more paintings, all of them covered in moth-eaten cloths.