Legacy Of Terror

had been downstairs. At times, it was even necessary to stop talking and wait until a roll of thunder had abated before continuing.
    The lightning forked the sky directly overhead, spearing the blue- black clouds and making-for brief instants-a flat mirror of the panes of the skylight.
    Elaine did not consider herself an art critic, but even so she felt that Dennis Matherly actually did have some talent. More than she would have guessed before seeing his work. True enough, the paintings were all too colorful to be comfortable with, splashed through with fantasy, disembodied faces, weird landscapes not. of this earth, detail so intense-at times-that it bordered on madness to have spent such time to trace the tiniest of lines. But they were good, no question about it. Good, she decided, in a way that was not exactly professional. Who, after all, could stand to live with such blatant fantasies and such unreal bursts of color hanging on their walls? He might be good, but he would not be financially successful.
    As she made the tour of the room, she stopped before a painting of a startlingly beautiful woman. The entire canvas was composed of her face and a few, detailed yet indecipherable shadows behind her. She looked out upon the room with a gaze that appeared empty, directionless-strangely inhuman. Her flesh was tinted a light blue, as was nearly everything about the portrait. Only the green droplets of some fluid, glistening on her face, were at variance with the dominating blues.
    “Do you like it?” he asked.
    He was close behind her, so close she could feel his breath. But she had nowhere to move as she stared at that woman's strange face.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “It's one of my favorites too.”
    “What is it called?”
    “Madness,” he said.
    When she looked again, she could see that was quite appropriate. And, in a moment, she realized who the subject must have been. Amelia Matherly. His own mother.
    A crackle of lightning, reflected downwards by the skylight, made the green droplets on her face glisten and stand out as if they were real and moist and not dried oils.
    “The spatters of green are blood,” he said.
    Elaine felt dizzy.
    He said, “The person who is mad, I think, might not look upon death with the same viewpoint as the sane. The madman-or madwoman- might very well see death as a new beginning, a chance to start over. They might not see it as an end, a final act. That's why I chose the green for the droplets of blood in the picture. Green is the color of life.”
    She could not say anything. She was grateful when a clap of thunder relieved her of that duty.

    "The woman in the painting is a murderess,” he said
    She nodded.
    He said, “You know who?”
    “I've heard the story,” she managed to say.
    “I loved my mother,” he said. “She was always doing odd things and reacting strangely. But I loved her just the same.”
    Elaine said nothing.
    She considered excusing herself and walking for the door, but she had a terrible premonition that she would not reach it. Best to wait.
    “When I discovered what she had done to the twins, what she tried to do to grandfather, I almost lost my mind.”
    Lightning and thunder. The door: so far away.
    He said, “You can't imagine how adrift I was. For more than a year, I wanted to die. I had counted so strongly on my mother, depended so deeply on her love. And then she was gone-and she had ruthlessly destroyed two of her children-and might have destroyed me if I had been there at the time. I was possessed with a pessimistic certainty that no one in this world could be trusted, and I dare not turn my back on anyone, even for a moment, no matter how much they might profess their love for me.”
    Elaine managed to turn from the picture and look at him. His squared, handsome face was drained, drawn in fatigue and paled by the memory.
    “I can imagine how terrible it was,” she said.
    “Fortunately, my father understood that. He saw what was happening with me, and he went out of his way to see that I knew I was loved. For long months, he left the business in the hands of his accountant and spent endless hours trying to assure me, to make me forget. In the end, he succeeded. But without his care, I'm afraid I would have given up long ago.”
    Abruptly, he turned away from her and walked to the largest easel where a work-in-progress was clipped.
    He said, “Look here.”
    Reluctantly, she walked to his side.
    “Do you think it's shaping up well?” he asked.
    “It's Celia, isn't