Waxing Crescent

May 26th, 1998

“This painting?” I asked.

“Yes, the one in the window,” the realtor answered.

“It must convey?”

“Yes, the only condition of the sale is for that painting to convey. Also, no one can move or change it under any circumstances.”

“Weird. Who would hang a picture facing outward in the middle of a window? What is it?”

“I know. It’s a portrait of a man. My inspector used a ladder to climb up there and look. But hey, it’s rare to find a completely renovated farmhouse on nine private acres that backs up to so much undeveloped land. Plus, you’re still only ten minutes from town.”

“Did the owner say why it can’t be removed?”

“Afraid not. It’s a closed estate sale. The terms state that the west-facing painting in the master bedroom must remain in place. Never remove it. Don’t touch it.”

“So strange. But what a house for the price! I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful. The owner will be thrilled,” the realtor said.

On June 1, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com> wrote:

Hey, Maggie.

How’s my favorite twin sister?

Closing went smoothly. Two percent down with seller financing on the rest. One point below prime. Move-in day is tomorrow. The truck should arrive at eight a.m.

When do you want to visit? I could use some help decorating, and you’ve always had an eye for it.

I’ll message you tomorrow.

Bye.

On June 9, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com> wrote:

Hey, Maggie.

About to call it a night after a full day of getting unpacked. The moving truck arrived on time, so the guys and I could get started a little after 8.

Of course everyone asked about the painting. We used Ryan’s bucket truck from work to get up to the window. It’s of a young man with his hands extended and palms out, like he’s pushing away. His expression is unsettling.

After we finished, I took everyone out for pizza. Now I’m back. Finished unpacking the essentials.

Good night.

On June 11, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Hey, Maggie.

Didn’t sleep much last night. Scratching and hissing outside kept me up. Starting at sunset, the noise peaked at 2 am, and disappeared by sunrise. I walked around the house this morning. The trim of the “painting window” sill was wet with what looked like slug mucus.

I called the realtor and asked if she knew anything. She didn’t, but said she’d contact the previous owner.

Anyway, I’m off to work. I need a nap.

Bye.

On June 22, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote: 

Dear, Payne.

Apologies for the delay in writing. I felt like death last week.

I’m so happy you were able to close on your new home. My big bro is moving up in the world. I can’t wait to see it!

My plan is to arrive the day after tomorrow. I can help you spruce up the place and give it some class (I kid).

What a terrible experience to hear those awful noises. I hope you have it figured out before I get there.

See you soon.

On July 1, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Hey, Maggie.

Can’t wait for you to arrive tomorrow. Since the first night, the sounds have gotten worse. Even with a white noise machine and earplugs, the scratching, hissing, and spitting cut through.

I have to figure something out, though. I’ve got to get some sleep. Today, I’m setting up security cameras I bought at RadioShack. If it’s some animal, maybe I’ll catch a glimpse.

Bye.

On July 12, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote: 

Dear Payne.

I had a wonderful time visiting you. And what a marvelous home and property. I’m sorry you’re still not sleeping well. The guest room was perfectly quiet and dark.

The cameras caught shadows. No animals. Wonder if it was a bear or something that was out of the frame.

The sofa and lamp make a statement in the living room. I’m thrilled with the furniture we picked out.

And I checked my calendar, I can house sit for you next month.

On July 16, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Yo, Maggie.

I found out more about the woods behind my house. The property is owned by Blood Moon Land Trust. I emailed their executive director and asked for a meeting. Hope to learn more soon.

Get this. The company started during the Northwest Boundary Survey in 1858. They’ve bought land in eleven of the thirteen states that border Canada. They own almost seventeen hundred acres behind my house.

Curious, don’t you think?

Talk soon.

July 18, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote:

Dear, Payne.

That is curious. In fact, I did some digging too. There’s a whole GeoCities neighborhood dedicated to Blood Moon Land Trust. Several conspiracy theories link them to sci-fi-sounding stuff like Cavity Quantum Electrodynamics and parallel worlds.

If you get a meeting with them, let me know how it goes.

See ya.

On July 20, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Hey, Maggie.

Yesterday, I met with Kirk MacDonald from Blood Moon Land Trust. As the Executive Director, he oversees all the acquisitions and management of the trust.

While pleasant, I could tell he was hiding something. He quickly dismissed my questions about aggressive animals. Kirk said, they’ve heard no reports of predators crossing into private property. Dead end.

Talk soon.

On July 23, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote:

Dear, Payne.

Couldn’t help myself. I kept digging down the internet rabbit holes. I found a user who tried to comment several times in one of the Blood Moon Land Trust bulletin boards, but the moderator deleted their comments and blocked them.

With a little sleuthing, I was able to find the user account in a few other places. Sent a message.

Got an immediate response:

‘The portrait is a door.’

Then they blocked me.

What do you think it means?

Have a great trip. I’ll let you know when I get to the house.

On July 23, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote:

Maggie,

I have no idea what “the painting is the shield means.” Eerie. The strange thing is the sounds outside the window seem to follow the lunar cycle. It’s loudest during a new moon and virtually silent during a full moon. The darker it is outside, the worse it is.

Wanted you to know that before you get here. The day after you arrive, will be the new moon. Bring some earplugs. At this point, I’ve been able to ignore it, like living next to train tracks or something.

Thanks again for house-sitting. I head out early in the morning.

On July 29, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote:

Dear Payne.

I know it’s late, but made it in safely. Everything at the house is in order.

I’ll touch base tomorrow.

On July 30, 1998, Margaret Jordan <mkjordan@ymail.com> wrote:

Dear Payne.

Had a good day today. I cleaned up a bit for you and watered your plants. You should take better care of them. Your gardenias were crying out for some love.

I was thinking. What’s the big deal with the painting anyway? I was able to pop it out of the frame with no problem. It’s just a portrait of some dude pushing against the canvas. Or is he’s pulling? It looks more like he’s trying to get out. Anyway, creepy if you ask me.

Going to watch a movie and then head to bed. Have you seen the Dark City?

On August 5, 1998, Payne Jordan houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote:

No, you didn’t!

Maggie, please put it back. You know, we’re not supposed to mess with it.

Please let me know how things are going. I’ll be out-of-pocket tomorrow but will respond when I’m back at HQ.

On August 12, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Maggie,

I’m trying not to get worried, but I haven’t heard from you. Please let me know you’re okay. The number for the cabin we’re staying in is +5 554-555-1112. Please call me collect as soon as you can.

Love,

Payne

On August 14, 1998, Payne Jordan <houseofpayne@hotmail.com.com> wrote: 

Maggie,

I booked the first flight out this morning. I’ll be home this evening, assuming I don’t have any delays. Please let me know you’re okay?

August 15th, 1998

I arrived home around 10 pm. The house was dark except for the light outside the kitchen and the one in my bedroom. My heart raced. I didn’t know what I was walking into. I prayed Maggie was fine. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.

As I entered the house, everything looked in order. There was a single glass in the sink, but everything else was clean.

I walked upstairs. Maggie’s clothes were neatly folded in her suitcase like usual. The bed was slept in, but not disheveled. Otherwise, no trace that she was here.

The window caught my eye. Yes, “the” window— the one with the painting. The area around the frame shimmered like waves rising on a summer horizon.

“No! No! No!” I screamed.

I rushed downstairs into the garage and grabbed my ladder and flashlight. As I ran to the west side of the house facing the woods, I knew something was wrong. You know the feeling twin siblings get when they know the other is in trouble? That coldness flooded my veins like ice water.

Clang! Clang! Clang! The ladder reverberated with each rung.

At the top, I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and shined it at the west-facing painting in the master bedroom window. The portrait stared back at me with the same unsettling expression as before. Except it wasn’t a man anymore. Blue eyes stared back. Exactly like mine.

Maggie!