When you step back over to the painting, you perceive the shift in the image before you can really identify it. You reach up to tip the open, dangling lightbulb in a different direction, but instead you miss, knocking the cord with your hand. The bulb bounces crazily, the light and shadow shifting rapidly. It illuminates the dark corner of your office for a moment. You are certain someone is sitting in the empty chair.

 

You grab the hot bulb in your hand and face it toward the corner, where there is no one. Of course. You make a hissing sound with your teeth as the bulb burns your fingers, and you let it drop. It rocks a little, still, but steadies.

 

You look back down at the painting. Did the old woman’s face always look that threatening? The girl’s so frightened? You press your fingers to your eyes. Are you so tired that you can’t even identify their emotions correctly? You get a little closer.

 

It is only then that you can see that the darkness that surrounds the figures is not as absolute as you had previously thought. There are gradations of shadow, and yes, if you unfocus your eyes a little, they look almost…

 

You lean a little closer.

 

There are figures rising out of the background. How did you not notice before? You were so certain that it had been an even shade of black that you did not see the human—no, they’re not human, not exactly—well, the humanoid figures pulling themselves from the background, their strange, narrow faces all directed at either the fallen boy or the girl. The girl. You glance at her again. She definitely looks afraid, and not sad.

 

You know that de Wit was a big fan of Biblical imagery, but actually depicting demons, or something that looks very much like them, is unheard of. No wonder Lucy thought this painting would excite you. This might shed more insight into de Wit’s later life than scholarship has been able to do in the last century. You look back at the figures.

 

Now, the demons stand out in sharp relief against the background. You don’t need to do anything special with your eyes, you can see them clawing their way out of the darkness. The girl’s face is not just afraid, her mouth is open in a silent scream. Was it like that before? No, no, you remember now, her lips were pressed together like a rose. You can see the pink curl of her tongue, the beginnings of teeth. A taloned hand is clutching her ankle. The old woman’s face is now blank, as smooth and white as an egg. And the crumpled figure on the floor—the cheekbones, the mouth. You would recognize Ben’s face anywhere.

 

You step back. You feel a child’s impulse to pray swelling in the back of your throat, as if a small animal has been created inside of you and now needs air.

 

 

If there is a God, turn to page 21.

If we are alone in the universe, turn to page 22.