God in the Shed, A by Dubeau J. F

Author:Dubeau, J. F. [Dubeau, J. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Fiction, Novel, Fantasy
Publisher: Inkshares
Published: 2017-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

CROWLEY

THE INSPECTOR OPENED the door to the studio. He felt like a man walking, uninvited, into a funeral. The loft of Harry Peterson’s renovated barn was immense, littered with easels of various makes and sizes. The western wall was made up of tall windows that allowed for copious amounts of natural light to flood in during the daytime. Powerful neon tubes hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in a white, neutral glow in the evening.

Tiptoeing through the forest of paintings, each covered by an off-white linen sheet, Crowley wondered what each canvas in this private gallery had to show. The inspector was the kind of man who’d say he didn’t know art, but he knew what he liked. The honest truth was that he didn’t really like anything. Not that he couldn’t appreciate beauty. In fact, that was one of the most painful memories from his past life. How Marguerite would sit with him simply enjoying a beautiful sunset. Before the kids, they’d take the small boat they owned, a much more modest vessel than his current craft, and they’d simply row to the middle of the lake to bask in nature’s quiet beauty.

Art, however, was something he neither understood nor appreciated. A lot of it simply didn’t make sense to him. All that postmodern, abstract, paint-splatter bullshit was better meant for wallpaper patterns than framed canvases. Impressionism just looked lazy. As far as his tastes were concerned, the closer to reality an illustration was, the better. Maybe that was why, despite some fundamental differences in opinions and personality, Crowley had always had a soft spot for Harry Peterson.

Both were single fathers trying to raise boys in a small village. Both had gone through the hardship of losing their wives (though to completely different circumstances), and both were heavily involved in the town’s ancient, secret history. Before the cancer that was slowly killing Harry had done too much damage, the two would run into each other at high school sporting events, both there to encourage their sons.

But more than anything else, it was Peterson’s paintings that brought Crowley back to him over and over again. Harry painted the kind of things the inspector could understand. Birds, trees, flowers: all in as realistic a style as was humanly possible. Sometimes, even a little more than that.

“Crowley?” came a raspy voice, echoing through the studio.

The inspector didn’t bother answering. Instead he emerged from between the easels to stand in front of the windows. The sound of his boots reverberated through the room.

“Looks like old times, doesn’t it?” the inspector said, crossing his hands behind him and looking out into the fields.

Outside, the circus was almost done setting up. Tents formed a makeshift village, crowding themselves around the big top. A bonfire was lit near the trucks, and Crowley could see a dozen or so people eating and relaxing around it. A few tents had light pouring out of them, and someone was testing out the Ferris wheel that had been assembled during the day.

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