The city of Dionysia groaned with misery. Its maze of cobblestone streets and alleyways was perpetually cloaked in a dreary haze. The city exuded a mournful symphony of decay, occasionally punctuated by the sudden splash of the canals. They wound like bloodshot veins carved into the city’s spine, their waters mirroring the array of crumbling townhouses that decorated the streets like faded stamps on a postcard. As twilight approached, the last remains of sunshine were choked by darkness’s sudden burst of violence. Gas lamps flickered lazily, casting stretches of light that strengthened the sun’s fragile glow.
Lucius slithered through the fog like a shadow, his shallow breath echoing through the icy night. Clad in a tailored coat and hat, he walked with predatory grace, each movement deliberate and calculated. The stroll to the canals was ingrained into Lucius’s mind, each nook and cranny as familiar as the callouses in the palm of his hand. Without fail, as the sun set behind the sky, he returned with renewed persistence, utterly convinced that tonight would be the night. The night he would finally craft his masterpiece, finally immortalise his name. The waters had been his sole companions through winter’s bitterness, spring’s fresh breath, and the heat of summer.
This evening was no different, a mere repeat of the same monotonous pattern. Lucius scanned the canal’s edge, eyes desperately searching for a suitable perch to paint.
‘No, that won’t do at all, he muttered.
The place where he stood now was all wrong. The lighting was too dim, the water murky, the angles too sharp.
Eventually, he stumbled across a secluded bend, stamped with an ivy-tangled bridge. Moonlight filtered through golden leaves, casting a lacework of shadows across the picturesque scene.
Satisfied with his muse, Lucius set down his satchel and began to prepare. With a surgeon’s precision, he unfolded his tools, a barrage of brushes and paint. The creak of wood echoed through the landscape as he set up his easel, an intricate structure paired with a ghostly white canvas.
With a sigh, Lucius swirled his brush into the paint. His movements suddenly broke into wild, almost desperate strokes, fingers feverishly burring into elbows as a rough image emerged. Midnight blue flourishes engulfed the canvas, stark against the barren white. The canals slowly took shape beneath his brush. Dark ribbons of sapphire trailed across the canvas, richer and more vibrant than the physical waters in front of him. The landscape unravelled into a mere shadow, desolate in comparison to Lucius’s interpretation.
As the final strokes bled onto the canvas, Lucius’s breath suddenly hitched, a gasp of choked air stark amongst the solemn landscape. His scene had changed. It was faint, barely visible amongst the flood of blue, but there was no mistaking it.
A face.
A mournful, ghostly mirage.
Mouth open in a silent scream, it protruded from the canals he’d sketched so meticulously, polluting the waters with its vulgarity. Gaunt, sunken eyes adorned a neck as pale as bleached bone.
A mere trick of the light, Lucius reassured himself, dismissing his growing unease—the result of too many sleepless nights. Far too many evenings were spent sketching at these cursed canals. How long had he been here? Time seemed to blur together, an endless stream of sketches and the bitter weight of his thoughts.
He wiped a sweaty hand across his face, a fruitless attempt at shaking away the sweat. Yet it remained. A mournful reflection ruins his masterpiece. His eyes leered across the canals, insatiable for relief from the haunting mirage. Yet, the more Lucius gazed, the more grotesque horrors emerged. The canals had transformed.
The waters… No, they weren’t water.
Faces.
Hundreds.
Watching.
They lingered just above the surface, aimlessly floating in the sea of murky brown. Ghostly visions stared at the artist, their eyes as hollow and vacant as the windows of an abandoned house; any trace of former life had long since faded into oblivion. The symphony of features flickered in and out of view, helpless to the current’s pull.
Hands slick with sweat, his brush fell to the floor. This couldn’t be real. Was his own mind to be trusted? His thoughts trailed back to the previous week, riddled with sleepless nights and empty liquor bottles.
Desperate for answers, his skeletal fingers grasped at the canal’s waters, hungry to make sense of the grotesque figures. Their gnarled features were jagged underneath his touch, a mural of twisted ridges as tangible as the brush that lay sprawling on the ground. Dancing with malevolent glee, they were a chorus of mockery. Vile whispers circulated through the fog, singing a haunting tune in an unfamiliar tongue. Lucius felt the weight of a thousand voices, each one feeling like it was whispering directly into his ear, cold breath brushing against his neck.
“Come join us,” murmured the profiles, dripping with deception. “Your masterpiece awaits.”
The whispers were slithering serpents, coiling their way through Lucius’s psyche. Promises of immortal glory and fame swirled through his head, each hiss unravelling the last threads of Lucius’s sanity.
Driven by the alluring chorus, he stumbled frighteningly close to the edge of the canals. The once distorted figures now seemed to gesture with an irresistible pull, as strong as the racing currents that flowed in front of him. They screamed of prestige, of a legacy to be remembered forevermore.
All he had to do was jump.
‘I will be great.’ Lucius proclaimed, his frayed voice echoing throughout the barren landscape. With one final, desperate leap, Lucius plunged into the canal’s icy embrace. The water engulfed his fragile frame, the sole remnants of his existence a smattering of bubbles.
The last thing he saw, as the life drained from him, was the water’s surface above, breathtakingly still. Untouched and undisturbed. The only face was his own, floating head down in the canal’s waters.
Forever frozen.
