February 23

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Imelda Mae was a brilliant artist. 

She was one of the few female artists invited to teach at the Cross branch of Miskatonic. Imelda and my wife, Adelaide, became good friends over the years, and she was often at the farm for coffee.

As an artist, Imelda’s use of colors and space were a wonder. There were times when viewers felt as though they could reach out and touch her subjects, whether those subjects happened to be still-lifes or – her preferred – the portraits of children. 

While Imelda was unmarried and childless, she was able to draw upon a deep, maternal vein within herself. From there, she painted with a poignancy few could match. 

Imelda’s private studio was in an isolated old barn off Northwood Road. 

At all hours of the day and night, she could be found working in her studio, one canvas or another in the process of being completed. Imelda never minded an interruption, nor did she ever turn away a hungry guest or inquisitive student. She always showed any who asked how she went about preparing her paints and cleaning her brushes the best way to use light to draw out the subtle nuances of a piece of still life. 

Imelda Mae was one of the university’s finest acquisitions in the art department, and she blended in seamlessly with the other staff members. 

It was shocking to all, then, that Imelda vanished on February 15th, 1931.  

Concerned that she might have injured herself, several of her students hurried over to her home and never recovered from what they witnessed there. 

In a room over her studio, they found where Imelda mixed her paints and what she mixed them with. 

Ground bones were in a small mortar and pestle while blood was carefully gathered into sealed containers.  

The half-finished portrait of a child stood by her work table. On the floor was a pile of bloody children’s clothes, which matched those upon her painted subject. 

On the counter was a small index card which read, Nathan, age 5, taken in Boston. 

Sitting here, in the Child’s house, I’m still saddened over how vile she was.

Still, she was Adelaide’s friend, so I drowned the murderess.

It was better than she deserved.

#love #horrorstories

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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