Octavia had a nightmare again that night. This time, it was worse.
She was back in her decayed and rotten home, but it appeared to be more dark and slumped than the last time she experienced the dream. All of the walls were peeling, the light white paint had grown a thick layer of flaking mould and it produced such a strong stench that Octavia found herself to be gagging and gasping for fresh air.
Holes had formed in the walls as well as the floorboards, and they peered through directly into the desolate, misty and silent streets of Ponyville outside. The mist was so thick and overwhelming that it was impossible to see an inch inside of it. It was as if she was trapped in some kind of void or state of limbo in which she awaited her judgement. Octavia even believed for a brief moment that she had somehow died.
There was no other way to explain it.
This time, Octavia was stood in the middle of the living room, her hooves crunching underneath the rotten, damp wood that was once her furniture. At least, that's what she thought it was. It was so rotten and eaten away that she couldn't tell what it was. It could have been some moth-eaten rag or scrap of curtain fabric for all she knew!
She took a few steps, the front door left open slightly ajar, as if somepony had entered and forgotten to close it after them. A cold, chilling wind creeped its way in through the open crack, sifting into the room and dropping the temperature so low that Octavia could see her own breath. Her entire home and living room had slowly transformed into a walk-in freezer.
''My, it's so cold,'' She said, rubbing herself to generate warmth, pulling up her shoulders and giving a shudder from the bite of the cold.
She looked both left and right, and her eyes landed on the kitchen to her right, and as she entered, she walked into it, still looking around for anyone or anything that might tell her a story of hint what's going on.
The table and the chairs off to the corner were rotten and tattered, still standing, but they were in a terrible state. They looked more like they belonged in some deserted and haunted mansion by this point, the wood faded and split and cracked in multiple placed from exposure to moisture. It had rotted it long ago to where most of its integral strength had entered a gradual decline, and rendered any attempt to sit on it impossible. It would surely crumble if Octavia had chosen to try and sit on it, so that was out of the question.
It really stank in the kitchen. It smelled like old drainage pipes and years' worth of food pile up which had deteriorated into something so disgusting that it was unfathomable. Whatever was in those pipes now was beyond the comprehension of a pony's mind.
Octavia crinkled her nose as she walked towards the sink to see what was causing the smell, but, as she did, she stopped and gave a squirm of pain as something sharp pierced her hooves, followed with a loud crunch. Looking down, Octavia took a step back as she lifted her front left hoof, wondering what she had stepped on.
It was the bottle that she had tossed into the sink, the same one that she had bought from Berry Punch only a couple of days ago, only this time, it was shattered all over the tiled kitchen floor.
That can't be right! Octavia thought inwardly. I'm certain that I put that bottle into the sink! I know for a fact that I did!
She was right, too. That night when she brought that horrid painting home, she had indeed placed the bottle into the sink after it fell to the floor, and she knew that it didn't smash, either. So, how did it end up on the floor? She was sure that she didn't touch it or move it, and nopony else could have done it!
Looking at her hoof, Octavia saw that a small shard of glass was stuck inside of it, a small trickle of blood leaking out of the wound that it had created. It wasn't too deep, but it still stung quite a bit, and it made Octavia bite her lip in pain. She pulled it out and tossed it into the sink, squirming a little at the protest her nerves gave to the shard being coaxed out of her skin.
From behind her, Octavia heard the front door to her house open, the door giving a loud and ear-piercing shriek as it moved on its rusted brass hinges. Octavia practically whipped around on the spot to see who the entrant was, and she froze once she met the pony's gaze, recognising him instantly.
There, standing in front of her, was Stencil Palette.
Stencil Palette was tired-looking and pale in the face. He looked more disheveled than usual, his black mane with red and silver highlights creased and tangled, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. His steel eyes were so pale and dull that they appeared colourless, drained, as if the life had completely left his being. (Well, it had, actually. By now, ponies must have heard the news that he had passed on. Perhaps where Octavia stood really was limbo where ponies await their judgement, whether or not they are worthy of being accepted into life after death.)
Octavia had noticed that his white shirt looked heavily creased, like it hadn't touched or seen an iron for months, and the dried paint mixed in with the fresh paint was more prominent and pronounced. There was a smell wafting over from his shirt, too, one that smelled to Octavia like paint mixed with strong, lingering, vinegar-like body odour and...blood.
She saw it on his shirt. It was caked in thick, dry layers, flicked and flecked and specked around his shirt, like he had been bombarded with plump and juicy cranberries. There was no mistaking that copper-like smell, and it made Octavia feel both queasy and concerned.
Stencil Palette stared at her like a mindless zombie, so silent and emotionless, his lips sagging into a frown as he remained dormant, as if spellbound by her. However, he didn't speak a word, and the longer that he remained silent, Octavia grew more nervous. She didn't know what he was liable to do.
''Stencil Palette?'' Octavia asked quietly, trying to mask her shock and surprise at his presence, hoping it might snap him out of it. ''Mr. Palette?'' She asked, watching him and keeping his distance. There was a coldness around his being, and it sweeped and pooled around her legs like icy, ghostly hooves.
''Hmm?'' He eventually started, blinking slowly before he cocked his head at her. ''Oh, Miss Octavia! Delightful to see you again!'' He said, recognising her, too. Like his being, his voice was also drained of energy. He was like a socket with a blown fuse.
''C-Charmed, I'm sure,'' Octavia said with a forced smile. ''Mr. Palette, what are you doing here, may I ask?'' She asked, doing her best to put on a smile and act out the situation.
''Why, I'm just admiring the view, dear,'' He said, leaning slightly closer to the sophisticated mare, his eyes become lidded, almost smitten-looking as he stared at her. Needless to say, it creeped Octavia out. Very much so.
''M-Mr. Palette, pl-please,'' She said, waving a hoof in front of his face and backing up a step, cautious and mindful of the broken glass behind her. He seemed to get the picture. ''Stencil, how could this be? Y-You're not...''
''Living?'' He finished for her, his voice carrying like a ghost's whisper.
''Y-Yes,'' Octavia said, unnerved by the word. ''Your nephew, Colour Palette t-told me about...''
''Ah, Colour Palette!'' Stencil said with a smile, stepping back on the spot and giving a little whirl as he turned himself around to face the living room.
''Such a good lad, my nephew, he really is! So ambitious, so creative, so...artistic!'' He said merrily as he walked, his tone suddenly so chipper that it actually managed to form a block of ice in Octavia's gut. Stencil walked towards the front door, next to where the paintings had been left in a small box by Colour Palette the day he gave Octavia the painting.
Currently, they were still residing within said box, their linen sheets covering them. He was eyeing them like a hawk. To Octavia's eye, he looked and acted more like a mad scientist hovering over one of his most prized and recent scientific achievements with a crazed, frightening anticipation to reveal it to his peers.
Octavia could see that wide, unearthly grin of his as she watched him, and he proceeded to practically throw off the linen sheeting from his 'masterpiece', his hoof waving over his head in a showpony's gesture as he tossed it aside. It was the same painting that Colour Palette had told him was his last - the one with the screaming pony.
''I call her 'The Periled Mare'!'' He proclaimed in such a low, gravel-like voice that it scratched against Octavia's ears. She had to suppress a cringe. ''Quite fitting, wouldn't you say, Miss Octavia? It's truly a brilliant masterpiece!''
''Y-Yes, of course, Mr. Palette,'' Octavia said slowly, her smile so wonky and forced upon her own lips that she knew that it must have broken through the barrier and made itself visible. However, it apparently went unnoticed. That, or Stencil was so caught up in his 'grand reveal' that he simply didn't care. ''It is truly something.''
''Well, of course it is!'' He said, caressing the paint on the canvas with a paint-smeared hoof as he touched it with an unnatural, unsettling affection. ''This is my baby, my crown, my magnum opus!'' He proclaimed, thumping his chest with his hoof as he straightened his posture and gazed up to the sky, hanging his sturdy chin, like some kind of godly figure. ''Nopony has ever seen anything quite like it, Miss Octavia!'' He said, eyes wide and hyper-alert, so purely engaged with the grey mare that it made her want to crawl away and hide, as if she would melt beneath his manic gaze. ''This isn't art, Miss Octavia. No, this. Is. MAGIC!'' He practically shouted, inching closer to Octavia's face with each word, causing the mare to back up in fright.
Upon pronouncing that last word, he threw his hooves up with such force that Octavia half-expected the bones in his hooves to fracture or maybe blast off of his body. He shoved his snout directly against Octavia's own, and a lone, drooling line of spit lolled out of the side of his mouth and hung and dangled from the side of his lip. He didn't care.
Octavia was microscopic beneath him, and she shriveled herself up so that she was almost pressed into the floor, feeling herself vibrate from the fear produced by his looming over her.
''Mr. Palette, p-please,'' Octavia began, her voice so meek that it was mousy and almost inaudible.
''Bah!'' He scoffed, turning his nose up at her as he rolled his eyes and turned his back on her. ''Everypony's a critic!'' He said, heading back towards the painting. Octavia slowly picked herself from the floor and watched him, not wishing to get close to him.
''What does anypony know about art? It's not about the colours, space, linear patterns, shapes or even the textures,'' He said, pausing for a moment in his monologue to turn his head slightly to view Octavia standing behind him. ''No, it isn't, Miss Octavia,'' He then turned around and faced Octavia fully, his features once again lifeless as he seemed to slowly decay like the rest of the house they were standing in. ''It's about what it can do,'' He said, closing his eyes as he spoke just above a whisper.
Stencil Palette kept his eyes closed as he began to fade away. Octavia stared with wide, terrified purple eyes as she watched it happen. Ever so slowly, Stencil Palette's being became transparent as his skin and clothing began to deteriorate and break themselves apart, layer by layer, molecule by molecule.
As pieces of his body began to break apart and hover in the air, the exposed painting, 'The Periled Mare', began to absorb them as they drifted into it, becoming one with the painting. His body began to fully break apart, starting at his rear hooves and working up to his front.
Stencil's mane began to pull itself apart and join in with the painting as he began to rot right before Octavia's very eyes, and the last things to go were his eyes and mouth. They both remained while the rest of his body had disassembled itself and incorporated itself into the painting. Two white orbs for eyes and a set of dull, grey lips hovered in the air for a moment before they also drifted into the painting.
The mouth set itself in place first, inserting itself into the gaping maw that served as the mare's mouth while the eyes inserted themselves into the black pools that served as eye sockets. Octavia watched on in horror as the eyes suddenly came to life. Stencil Palette's eyes.
Stencil's disembodied eyes blinked and looked down at her, his irises dilating as they rolled down and gazed into her very soul. His lips began to mouth of the mare began to move slowly on the painting, contorting and twisting as it began to form words. Nothing came out at first, but then the painting began to scream in a deep, ground-shaking rumble, and Octavia instinctively shielded her ears with her hooves.
The ground began to shake all around her and the unstable, rotten interior and exterior walls of the house began to shake along with the floorboards before they cracked and split. Spiderweb cracks ran along all of the stained, filthy and marred window panes while cracks elongated and ran up the walls of the house, becoming wider and wider as they spread.
Chunks of rotten flooring began to break apart and crumple as the walls started to fall down like mega-sized dominoes, collapsing and breaking apart into dust like an old salted cracker. Chunks of the ceiling began to break apart as dust rained all over the living room from the weakened structure of the house, like grey-coloured flour as it embedded itself into Octavia's coat and charcoal mane.
The house began to rock side to side like a deck of stacked cards catching a breath of wind before it collapses, and Octavia glanced up to view the ceiling moments before it finally became too unstable and caved in.
Octavia's muscles ceased to function as she tried to move herself out of the way and dive through the front door to safety, no matter how hard she tried to force herself to move. The last thing that Octavia's terrified, tear-welled eyes saw before she was crush was the crumpled, heavy ceiling heading straight for her.
*** *** ***
Knock-Knock.
''Miss Octavia!''
Knock-Knock
''Miss Octavia!''
The mighty banging of a hoof against her front door startled Octavia out of her bed and she gave a loud, surprised gasp. She felt her heart heave within her chest and she looked around the room wildly, caught off-guard by the sudden and loud rapping on her front door.
Knock-Knock
''Miss Octavia!''
The knocking followed by shouting sounded again, more urgently.
Octavia turned her head to the side to view her bedside clock, frowning and giving a frustrated sigh at seeing what it displayed. 10:38 AM.
''Who's at my door at this time in the morning, on a Sunday, of all days?'' Octavia muttered to herself angrily as she pulled herself out of her bed with great reluctance, heading for the front door of her house. ''Whoever it is, it better be important,'' She grumbled.
Reaching the front door, Octavia was about to swing it open and give whoever was knocking on the other side a right good telling off, but as she yanked the door open after unlocking it, she froze. She didn't expect to see this pony on the other side of the door, but here he was!
Colour Palette stood in a state of distress, his face paler than usual and his double-breasted blazer unbuttoned, showing his white shirt underneath. He looked at Octavia with a visible wave of relief washing over his face.
''Colour Palette?'' Octavia asked, confused, all anger forgotten the moment she saw his distress. ''You look dreadful! Is something wrong?'' She asked, motioning to his unkempt appearance.
''Miss Octavia!'' He breathed, winded, as if he had been running in order to get here. ''Terribly sorry if I awoke you, but there's something urgent that I need to go across with you!'' He spoke in a fast pace, clearly unsettled by something.
Octavia wouldn't normally open her door to the sounds of somepony in distress or in a frantic bout of panic, but as she looked into Colour Palette's cold and pleading eyes, she gave an inward sigh and said,
''Fine. Come on in,'' She said, moving aside and letting the young stallion enter her home. He entered without question in a hurried manner, heading towards the kitchen and finding a seat at the table. Octavia joined him and took a seat across from him, wondering what this was all about.
She hadn't noticed it in the heat of the moment, but Colour Palette had brought along his own saddlebags and he was placing them onto the table, undoing one of the straps on the left bag. They were a bright green in colour and Octavia eyed the cutie mark strap lock in particular - a painter's palette with a multi-coloured star and a paintbrush dipped with yellow paint hovering next to it.
He opened the bag and pushed the flap back, sticking his hooves inside and rummaging around for something before he pulled it out, placing it in front of him on the table. It landed with a dull, heavy-sounding thud, and Octavia gazed down to see what it was.
It was a beat-up-looking, black leather-bound book of some kind with scuffs, dings and paint splotches scattered over its cover. It had a golden double-line design bordering the covering as a decorative feature, but it had no identifying markings of any kind. If Octavia had to guess, she would have said that this book was likely to be some kind of personal journal or diary.
''What is that thing?'' Octavia asked, looking down at the item and wrinkling her nose at the musty smell that emanated from it. It smelled as if it belonged in an old and crumby antique shop rather than on someone's bookshelf.
''This, Miss Octavia,'' Colour began, tabbing his hoof onto the cover of the book. ''Is Stencil Palette's personal journal.'' And so, Octavia was correct on her judgement.
It made her all the more curious about why Colour had brought this item to her attention. What possible reason could there be for this? Considering the amount of distress that he had been in when he came banging away at her door, it must have been pretty important that he felt that she needed to know about this.
''Stencil's personal journal?'' Octavia asked. ''I'm not sure that I understand.''
''Miss Octavia, please, there is something that I need to talk about with you,'' Colour Palette said, his face serious. ''It is imperative that you listen to me. Understand?'' He asked, eyeing her closely, and his assertive attitude made her feel uncomfortable, on-edge.
''Very well,'' Octavia said, deciding to humour him. ''What is it?'' Colour Palette gave a deep sigh, preparing himself.
''If you recall the day I offered you the paintings that my uncle left me, you'll know that he also decided to leave me some of his journals in his will. Correct?'' He asked. Octavia thought for a moment and then nodded.
''Well, of course, but I don't see what it's got to do with---''
''Well,'' He started up again, cutting her off. ''I began to sift through some of his things the other day after leaving the market, and I came across his journal. I haven't read too much into it, seeing as it's not exactly my business to go nosing around in my uncle's private life.''
''I can understand that,'' Octavia said, nodding in understanding. This time, Colour Palette began to become nervous and he tugged at his collar, becoming more distressed. Octavia saw it in his eyes, something hidden, or, at least, trying to remain hidden. ''Is everything alright?'' She asked upon noticing it.
''No,'' He shook his head. ''Miss Octavia, it isn't alright,'' He said. ''Do you remember asking me to tell you how my uncle died and I refused to tell you?'' He asked, slumping in his seat.
''Of course.''
''Miss Octavia...do you mind if I share something with you?'' He asked, scratching the back of his neck as he watched her closely and intently, tracking each and every little shift and motion her muscles created.
''Do what you must,'' Octavia said. ''What is it that you want to talk about?'' She asked calmly, not sure if she really wanted to dig too deep into this situation.
Colour Palette looked down to the journal in front of his hooves and pushed it towards Octavia, sliding it across the table slowly. Octavia looked down at it with uncertainty written across her face, and she glanced back up to Colour with a confused expression, her brow raised as she wondered what she was asking of him.
''I've bookmarked the page,'' He said, and, sure enough, Octavia saw what he was talking about. There was a thin red strip of fabric sticking out like a serpent's tongue trapped between the heavy weight of the pages almost near the end of the journal. ''I want you to read where I bookmarked it. I think it's something you deserve to know,'' He said.
Slowly and reservingly, Octavia gripped the journal's pages where the bookmark was inserted and opened the book, instantly being hit with a smell she could only describe as vintage. This book certainly had some years on it before it came to be owned by Stencil, that's for sure.
Coughing from the musty smell that hit her nostrils and filled her lungs, Octavia cast her eyes down at the old, faded and partially-smudged ink staining the surface of the pages and she began to read them.
07/02
Finally, my genius has been realised by these fancy-pants ponies and their marble-sized brains. What passes for art in the city of Canterlot is truly an absurd and disgusting monstrosity. It mocks the very word, 'art'!
I have delivered to them an exciting new array of colour and meaning, and I have managed to woo them with my work after years of practice and patient, carefully-paced learning. It wasn't too much of a feat. These morons should be lining up to shake my hoof for introducing them to the true meaning of art and the emotions it can evoke.
Tonight at around a quarter to seven, I'm scheduled to have my work enrolled at the Equestria Art Hall of Fame! Me, Stencil Palette! I can see it now, with those stuck-up snobs pressing their nose against my work, trying to become it, wishing they could be something so definitive and so meaningful. I'm everything they wish they could be.
Octavia blinked as she read the entry, knowing when it was from. After all, Octavia was there that night, the seventh of February, the day she played with her orchestra as Stencil was enrolled.
Reading the entry, it stirred something within her, a feeling of apathy, knowing somewhat where his opinions originated. She, too, did not hold such high and mighty words about the Canterlot breed of ponies, and she was related by the law of inheritance, by her family's blood. She was a full-breed Canterlotian. Even still, she did not agree with some of the higher-ups' behaviour and snootiness, even if it was on the agenda.
Moving on with the next entry, Octavia read,
10/02
I decided to paint again. I have been thinking about this idea for quite some time, and my creative energy doesn't hold any restraint and it holds no boundaries. If there is something that needs to be said, then it should be said. If something should be frowned upon, then it must be frowned upon. If something should be given life for, then it must be given life in order to exist.
I've once had wonderful and thought-provoking dreams that I would one day paint something so tremendous that it would dazzle ponies for days, weeks, months, years and even centuries, lasting throughout the generations for as long as the Equestrian breed of ponies exist.
There are two types of ponies in this world - The Gifted and The Ungifted. Those with a gift, a talent, may burn brighter than any star with what they wish to give the world, something that they feel must be done. Those without the gift of creativity do not burn so bright. Instead, they serve only the role of observing what might be while they wait for their time to end. That's what separated a pony from his or her breed: a talent.
So, tonight, I'm going to prove my worth as an artist. From this day forth, I, Stencil Palette, vow to put my creativity on the rails and push my limits, see how far I will provoke thoughts of those who gaze upon my work, admire it, adore it, love it, feel inspired by it.
Octavia turned the page.
12/02
For two days, I have set the stage for what will be my masterpiece, my crowning achievement.
This project will take a while to finish, and it may be moons before I set hoof outside of my art studio, but with a great talent comes a great cost. Nothing is more precious than an artist and his voice, and that voice yearns to be heard within every second that grinds by. The more you wait, the longer it nags and bites, the more it pulls at your collar and asks you, ''What are you waiting for?''.
You see, it is not about what the craft involves or what the outcome of the final product is, it's about what it can do.
At that, Octavia looked up and glanced at Colour Palette, her featured pale and her blood chilled.
That last phrase: ''It's about what it can do.''
The voice of Stencil Palette spoke, a ghostly recollection of the dream she had experienced flashing before her eyes, an image she hoped and wished to forget. Stencil standing in front of her as he began to decay away and fade, his skin, flesh and bones ripping themselves away and hovering in the air, drifting and compiling themselves into the painting that he was referring to in his journal. It must be what he was talking about - it was the very last painting that he ever created, and it was sitting in her living room.
Glancing in its direction but not directly at it, Octavia sensed that it was also looking her way, as if Stencil was in the room with her in spirit. It terrified her. Colour Palette said nothing, seemingly waiting for her to continue reading through to where he had marked for her to stop. And so, Octavia began reading again.
14/02
I've had my fair share of endeavours in the game of romance, the challenge known as life, the oppression of family, the heartache of losing a loved one and the torment of being ridiculed. In a sense, I have experienced it all.
With this painting, with a title I'm yet to decide on a title for, I intend to not just paint a picture like all of my other works of art, but rather make a statement, a loud and proud prominent spectacle! It's going to make ponies think, make them contemplate and dig deep, make them ask, ''What if?''
The voices are nagging me now, begging me and telling me that I should get this statement out while the moon still shines, niggling and clawing at me! My mind...it hurts. It only started yesterday when I was in my studio, but it just got worse today. By Celestia, it hurts.
I feel the burn of fire within my heart and stabbing in my limbs, chest and brain each time I move. My genius simply can not wait to make itself heard! I need to get this statement out there for all to see! It must be done! I can't wait! IT CAN'T WAIT!
Octavia grimaced as she read that last part.
''It?'' She asked, lost and hopeless for an explanation as to what that might mean. She looked over to Colour and knitted her brow. ''What does he mean by that? Do you know what he's talking about?'' She asked. Colour shook his head.
''I'm afraid not, Miss Octavia,'' He said regretfully. ''I read that part over and over and still came up empty-hoofed,'' He admitted.
Octavia kept reading.
15/02
The voices are displeased. They are everywhere now!
I hear them wherever I go and they are always asking me the same thing: ''When's it going to be ready?''
You can't rush perfection! You can't demand what requires precious time! You can't ask for wealth and then expect people to love you. You simply cannot ask for anything to be expected. It takes however long it might take to perfect it!
I'm almost done with the painting. The voices told me that I should continue painting through the night. I know I should sleep, but sleep isn't acceptable over success. I must continue, if not for me, then for all of Equestria, for ponies everywhere!
The voices told me that I should work until I drop dead. They told me never to stop even for a break. Not to slack, not to eat, not to drink, not to use the bathroom. I simply must paint.
The voices told me that my paint wasn't enough. They told me to use more red. I cut my hoof open, used what blood fuels my creative veins. So much red, so much blood, so cold, so dull, so much nagging!
Octavia winced as she read that last paragraph.
Octavia remembered something sinister about the painting. She recalled when she looked into its eyes for the first time, or rather, the absence of eyes. She noticed the faint glimmer of red within the black pools that were in place of where eyes should have been.
According to what Stencil had wrote, Octavia had this gut feeling that she was not looking at an innocent use of paint, but rather the blood of the one that created the painting. If that was the true fact in accordance with the journal entry, then Octavia felt sick to her stomach, wanting to retch her disgust away in the kitchen sink. No matter, she continued to read.
I have finally finished my masterpiece.
At last, after tireless moons of paintings, flicking, bleeding and sweating, it is finally done. The voices have stopped nagging me, but they still remain as a phantom to my ears, a reflection of my conscience that drives my genius, telling me that I should add something more, a finishing touch to make it glow.
The voices spoke to me and I obeyed their command. With greatness comes and even greater sacrifice, and the voices gave me an idea. I bled myself dry, drained some more of my creative fuel, purged it from my body, let it leak and soak into my brush. I offered it up to the voices, and they accepted it into the painting.
I call it 'The Periled Mare'.
Now...I can rest. Finally rest. I'm bled dry. I'm finally done...I'm finally-----
The quill slides off of the page and drags down the side.
Chills surged through Octavia as she realised what she had just read. This painting, 'The Periled Mare', it was painted with blood! That was the smell that hit her nostrils when she saw it! It had the scent of copper! It all made sense!
When she encountered the apparition of Stencil Palette in her dream, there wasn't only paint staining his shirt, there was also massive amounts of blood, caked and layered. The smell clung to him and hung around his being like a cancerous tumour. The blood in the painting was still relatively fresh, so it was no wonder why Octavia could pick up on its scent.
Octavia looked up with wide, sympathetic and angry eyes, a flurry of emotions building up within her. She almost glared at Colour Palette, feeling her chest grow warm from the anger firing up inside of her.
''Why didn't you tell me?'' She asked, her voice low and forced to remain calm. Colour Palette tensed at her tone, and he knew she could sense it.
''I...I, um, well, I didn't know how to t-tell you, Miss Octavia, I---''
''You should have told me from the beginning!'' Octavia snapped, her anger taking control as she leaned forward on the table, banging her hooves against it. ''You could have at least told me why you wanted me to take the painting in the first place!''
''Y-You wouldn't have believed me i-if I did,'' Colour Palette replied, a little shaken from the sudden fiery attitude the usually collected, sophisticated mare was displaying towards him. ''Besides, I didn't exactly know,'' He said, to which Octavia backed away from him a little, but her eyes still burned brightly with anger, a hurt betrayal.
''You didn't know?'' She asked, almost annoyed by the bogus-sounding claim. ''How could you not know?''
''Miss Octavia, that painting belonged to me for a week after his death,'' Colour Palette said, feeling ashamed for having lied to Octavia earlier. ''I'm sorry if I never told you, but that painting,'' He said, leaning over the table slightly, looking into Octavia's eyes closely, concernedly and seriously, tuning his voice down to whispering level. ''There's something off about it. Something isn't right,'' He said.
''After my uncle died and I inherited his work, I had no choice but to let it sit in my art studio. It remained in my home for a week, and the moment it came in through the door, I noticed that things were not right. It's hard to explain it, Miss Octavia, but it's like the painting put a spell on my house, something that I can tell has happened here,'' He said, keeping his voice low, almost as if he was afraid that the painting might be listening.
''I don't know what it is, but that painting, it's evil,'' He said, and Octavia gave him an expression of confusion, but she didn't disagree with him.
''What do you think it might be?'' Octavia asked. Colour shrugged.
''It's hard to say,'' He said, shrugging his shoulders deflatedly. ''I never used to believe in life after death or anything of the kind, but after I ended up with his painting, I am no longer a skeptic, Miss Octavia,'' He said.
Octavia thought about his diary entries.
Stencil Palette was a fantastic artist, there was no denying that, and it definitely remained a strong trait within the family bloodline, as shown by Colour Palette's artistic talent, but Stencil apparently wished for something more ambitious. It seemed that he was never fully satisfied with his art, always wishing and trying for something more, something that was thought to be unobtainable.
Octavia was no psychologist, but she could tell without thinking twice that Stencil's obsession with pushing his limits and sacrificing his own needs for the sake of his own creative prowess may have driven him into a deep and merciless pit of paranoia and insanity.
She may not have had the pleasure of knowing him long, but when Octavia first met Stencil at his induction to the Equestria Art Hall of Fame, she knew that there was something special about him. The determination just radiated off of Stencil's being, and if one were to glance towards him, they would be able to see it, too. He was incredibly passionate, if not, opinionated about the topic of art and creativity.
''Everypony's a critic!'' He had said to her in his dream, and Octavia could relate to that in her own right as a cellist. Octavia knew that, no matter what you do in life, there was always going to a group of ponies that were going to critique your work and tear you to shreds to the point your heart develops a gaping black hole. She could empathise that much.
She had heard it many times over, orchestra to orchestra, it was the same routine. Canterlotians were a brutal, vicious bunch that know what strings to pluck and which ropes to pull in order to critique a performance. No matter how perfect a performer might be, a Canterlotian always found an error or a fatal flaw in the performance.
It went without saying that Octavia felt sorry for the stallion, as crazy as he might be.
''Mr. Palette,'' Octavia began. ''This may sound strange, but I had another nightmare last night involving Stencil Palette. He seemed rather odd, more odd than usual, I mean,'' Octavia said, realising how ridiculous she must have sounded. However, at this point, she doubted that there was anything that sounded stupid or strange.
''How so?'' Colour asked, curious.
''Stencil came into my house and went towards his painting. He said to me, 'It's what the art can do'. What do you think he meant by that?'' Colour Palette became thoughtful.
''If I had to guess, Miss Octavia, I'd say that he meant that art can do much more than be hung up on a wall as a decoration,'' He said. ''My uncle was always very critical about art and what should and shouldn't be classed as such. He hated most art forms, so he became a surrealist, his way of voicing his thoughts, I suppose,'' He offered, to which Octavia nodded, paying close attention to his words. ''Stencil believed that art could do so much more than just make ponies think. He wanted to make them feel inspired and intrigued, to push their limits and see what happens if you push different buttons and pull certain levers. He was obsessed with the idea of life being portrayed as something unusual and strange. He believed that life was a blessing and that care, love and patience should be taken in every little thing. That's why all of his work is so realistic - he took his time creating it,'' Colour Palette explained.
Octavia thought about this for a moment.
So, Stencil fancied himself something more than an average artist? She thought. Then what about that screaming mare in the other room?
It never occurred to her that some disheveled, untidy-looking pony such as Stencil Palette, now enlisted into the Equestria Art Hall of Fame, could be such a perfectionist with the way he appeared. Then again, if one was always going to be covered in paint from working, then why would they feel the need to clean themselves up when they would always end up getting dirty again? Of course, they wouldn't.
From what she had been told, it shined a new light on Stencil in Octavia's eyes. He had a fantastic eye for detail and he had a unique, well-rehearsed way of showing the world through his own eyes so that others may see what creative genius and pony rested beneath that rough exterior. He may have already been labelled as a mad pony, but Octavia had to hand it to him when it came to making his voice heard. It may have been a judgmental, nit-picky and often narcissistic voice laced with decades' worth of opinions, but it was his voice.
If nothing was perfect to Stencil's eyes, it was not worthy of a place in the world. He stood by that rule with an iron hoof.
''When I took that painting in, Octavia, it brought with it nothing different than what you're experiencing,'' Colour Palette told her. ''I, too, began to experience nightmares and the occasional encounter with the unexplainable. For instance, I heard somepony crying their eyes out in the dead of the night,'' Colour said, and Octavia noticed him shiver, as if chilled by the very thought and mention of it. She shivered, too.
''E-Excuse me?'' Octavia asked in disbelief. ''You heard crying?''
''And banging,'' Colour nodded. ''I could never find out what was causing it. I left the painting in my storage room so that it would be out of the way. Most of the time, whenever I came into the room, my painting equipment and easels would be thrown across the floor but the painting itself would be the only thing standing up,'' Colour explained, and the shivers never ceased as he told Octavia of his experiences during his ownership of the painting.
''What do you think we should do with it?'' Octavia asked, now frightened from the tales that the young stallion had told her about. The thought of anything of the kind happening to her in her own home was scary enough, and she didn't know what to expect to happen from the painting as long as it existed underneath her roof.
''Miss Octavia, I hate to tell you this, but I don't reckon there is anything that could be done about it,'' Colour Palette said with great regret. ''I'm not even sure that the painting can be destroyed, if that's what you're suggesting?'' Octavia scoffed and rolled her eyes.
''Well, of course it can be destroyed, Mr. Palette!'' Octavia said. ''Have you even tried anything to dispose of it appropriately?'' She asked. Colour shook his head.
''Not really, no,'' He responded.
''And why's that?'' She asked. ''Surely, you could easily destroy it if you so much as set fire to it, couldn't you?'' She asked, hoping to get a positive response.
''You know, I doubt that setting fire to it would do much of anything,'' Colour said. ''You can't get rid of evil, Miss Octavia. Hopefully, you knew that already,'' He said, but Octavia remained undeterred.
''You can always try, Mr. Palette,'' She said. ''That painting needs to be destroyed one way or the other. It's too dangerous to be in the possession of anypony,'' Octavia said with great distaste. ''There has to be a way to get rid of it,'' She said.
''Maybe there is, maybe there isn't,'' Colour said with a shake of his head, not once breaking his gaze from Octavia's. ''If there is, then I can guarantee you that it won't be easy or even willing,'' He said, and Octavia's ear twitched.
''Willing?'' She asked.
''Yes. My uncle's blood is what is mixed into the paint, meaning that he's somehow tied in with whatever energy resides within it. I'm not so convinced that it's going to be willing to let go so easily,'' He said, leaning over the table as his eyes glanced over Octavia's shoulder, out to the living room where the painting sat.
As hard to believe as it might be, Colour Palette may be on to something. Octavia has heard about some of these happenings before, but none of this calibre. She has heard of blood transfusion spells and host-dependent experiments that rely heavily on some kind of life force in order to sustain itself. In layman's terms, it was a form of black magic.
Unicorns with incredible power and unnatural magical integrity were the only ones able to pull off such tasks to perform the forbidden type of magic. It was a power reserved for only the highly experienced and the royals who hold the status of alicorn, something only they were permitted to do through their own authority if the right moment and time calls for it. On any other day, if a unicorn or alicorn was to be caught in the middle of an ill-intentioned act of the use of black or dark magic, they were likely to be executed.
So far, in the land of Equestria, only one single ancient relic exists with ties to black magic: The Alicorn Amulet.
However, Octavia had doubts on this being the doing of some form of black magic. It didn't seem right. Stencil Palette was not a unicorn, so there was no possibility that he had done such a thing in the first place. That was when Octavia once again focused upon the book.
Octavia glanced down at it and considered it and its age. It was old, a lot older than Stencil Palette and most of the ponies alive today. It had too great of a musty, antique scent to be deemed as such. She couldn't be sure on where Stencil might have gotten it, but she knew enough from the appearance of the book to understand that he couldn't have been the first pony to use the journal.
Octavia's hoof grazed one of the pages and turned it, rummaging through the pages until she got to the very front of the journal, where personal info was usually kept in case of loss of the item. She wanted to see if there was a name or some kind of credential written or printed onto the book's inner cover or the first page, like most ponies would do.
Eventually, Octavia came to find what she was looking for.
Caravaggio 'Aramatta' Palette
''Caravaggio?'' Octavia said out loud, confused by the name that she was seeing. It was written on the back of the front cover of the journal in a deep but faded red ink. At least, she hoped that it was ink and not what she thought it was.
The name was written in an elegant cursive, clearly written a long time ago. She wasn't sure how long ago, but it goes without saying that the writing is indeed old and holds some age behind it.
''Caravaggio?'' Colour Palette asked. ''Caravaggio is my uncle's ancestor. He lived a very long time ago, Miss Octavia,'' Palette said. ''He, like the rest of my family, was a very talented and brilliant artist. He even had work at some point in his life as a royal painter! He would spend time making them self-portraits and whatever paintings they requested of him,'' Colour explained. ''At least, that's what my father always told me.''
''He was a royal painter and Stencil's ancestor?'' Octavia asked, thinking, looking down at the journal for a moment before she looked up again to view the young stallion. ''Mr. Palette? Would you mind if I kept this journal for a little while so I can look into the matter a bit deeper?'' She asked.
''As long as you take care of it,'' He said, seemingly concerned and tentative about letting the journal go. ''I haven't taken a look into it myself, so there's no telling what you might find. If you think it'll help get to the bottom of what's going on with that painting in there, then I guess I don't mind,'' He said, getting up from his chair with great haste, yanking his saddlebags from the table. ''Well, I don't want to hold you up on your investigation.''
Colour Palette headed for the front door, saddlebags slung over his bag, but before he exited the house, he turned back for a moment and viewed the grey mare, whom stared back at him curiously.
''Miss Octavia,'' He began. ''In the event that you do find something strange or out of the ordinary, my house is on the other end of the market. It's the one to the right of the town hall, can't miss it,'' He said, but before she could answer him, he had already left.
Octavia blinked and stared back down at the book. She observed it for a moment, took it in, enveloped herself in the shroud of mystery surrounding it. She stared down at the name, 'Caravaggio', pondering to herself.
''Tell me,'' She began. ''What secrets are you hiding?''