Page 40 of In Her Fears
“Here,” he repeated.“Always here.”
Despite the strangeness of the man, Jenna found herself inclined to believe him.The profound isolation of the house, the layers of dust, the man’s physical frailty—all suggested someone who truly hadn’t ventured into the world for years.
She pulled out her phone and found the photo she’d taken of the painting depicting Martin Holbrook’s murder.“This is your work?”she asked, showing him the screen.
Elias glanced at it, then away, as if the sight pained him.“Yes.”
“You painted this in July, before an actual murder recreating it took place in August,” Jenna said.“How did you know this would happen?”
“I don’t know what things will happen,” he said, his gaze drifting.“I simply paint what appears to me.”
“What appears to you?”Jake asked.“What does that mean exactly?”
Elias slipped into stillness again, his body rigid, eyes unfocused.This time the spell lasted longer—nearly a minute passed before he blinked back to awareness, seeming momentarily confused to find them still there.
"I would like to see your studio," Jenna said, changing tactics."Would that be possible?"
The request seemed to anchor him."All right," he said, almost seeming relieved."Down the stairs, through the door on the left.You may go.I'll wait here."
"Thank you," Jenna said, rising from her chair.She and Jake returned to the staircase and descended into cool darkness.As they made their way down, Jenna felt her anxiety rising at what they might encounter below.
At the bottom of the stairs, they found a sturdy wooden door slightly ajar.Jake pushed it open.
They stepped into what might once have been a cellar but was now transformed into an artist's workspace.Unlike the rest of the house, this room was alive with light from strategically placed lamps casting warm halos over every surface.The walls were covered with paintings—dozens of them, some hanging properly, others simply leaning against rough stone walls or perched precariously on old crates scattered across the floor.
“My God,” Jake whispered.
The paintings surrounding them were all in the same vein as those they’d seen at the gallery—scenes of violent death beneath full moons.Interspersed among the finished works were pieces in various stages of completion.Canvases with pencil sketches waiting for paint, others partially colored—the process of creation laid bare.
Several easels stood around the room, each holding a work in progress.One of them depicted the interior of the hunting lodge where Alexis Downey’s body had been found that morning.Every detail was eerily accurate—the massive central beam, the stone fireplace, the rough wooden floor.And suspended from the rafters was a female figure in a pale blue dress, her dark hair cascading down, obscuring her face.The woman’s face was similar to Alexis, and the positioning of her body—arms raised above her head, toes barely clearing the floor—was identical to the actual death scene.
Jake stood beside her, his expression hardening.“That’s not possible,” he muttered.“It’s exact.”He reached out and touched the artwork.“The oil paint is completely dry.But Alexis only went missing last night.”
Jenna pulled out her phone and photographed the painting.“He painted Holbrook’s murder before it happened too,” she reminded him, then began taking pictures of the other works around the studio.
Jake moved around the studio, examining each canvas with growing unease.Then he stopped at a large bulletin board mounted on a wall opposite the windows.
“Jenna,” he called.“You need to see this.”
She joined him, immediately understanding his concern.The bulletin board was covered with photographs—dozens of them, pinned in neat rows.Each showed a location that appeared in one of the paintings: the gnarled oak tree in Pinecrest Cemetery, the abandoned hunting lodge in Whispering Pines Forest, a rowboat on the moonlit lake, a clearing in dense woods.The photos were clinical, devoid of people or action—just empty settings, like stages waiting for actors.
“These are all the locations from his paintings,” Jake said, pointing to one photo, then another.“Including both murder scenes.”
Jenna stepped closer, examining the photographs.Carefully, she lifted the corner of one showing the hunting lodge interior.Printed on the back was a name and address: “Christopher Ashworth Photography, 342 Elm Street, Trentville.”There was also a phone number.
“A professional photographer,” Jake said, his voice tight with suppressed excitement.“Someone who could have taken these location shots, shown them to Harrow, then used the paintings as blueprints for the murders.”
“Or someone who saw Harrow’s paintings and decided to bring them to life,” Jenna countered.Either way, the photographer was their strongest lead.And this clearly meant that Harrow wasn’t completely out of touch with the world.
She quickly took photos of the bulletin board, the name on the back of the photo, and several close-ups of individual images.Then they returned upstairs to find Elias still seated in his chair, staring into the dying embers of the fire.He didn’t look up as they entered.
“Mr.Harrow,” Jenna said, showing him her phone with the photo of the hunting lodge painting.“When did you create this?”
His eyes flickered to the screen, then away.“Last week.Perhaps the week before.Days blend when you don’t sleep.”
“And this photograph?”she showed him the picture she’d taken of the hunting lodge image.“Where did you get this?”
“Chris brings them,” he said, as if this explained everything.“For reference.”
