"And Ye Shall Find" - First in the three-part series 'Darkroom' - Mixed media on plywood. My 155th painting.

The perturbing clatter drones in irregular but metered fashion, a Morse code for the deranged. A small boy stands in the far corner of a dank, incongruous room - distanced from a ghoulish man guarding an isolated door.

 
The child takes several calculated steps in his direction.

 
Bald, gaunt-faced and pasty with rotting teeth and a lurid smile, he leans forward, bending ever-so slightly over as slimy black goo oozes from his mouth and down his chin.

The boy studies this wretched, gangly creature - keeping a cautious length between them. The obscene figure regains an upright posture - reaching out with his spindly fingers, taking hold of the door’s lever.

 
Creaking chirps of rusted metal cry forth - the boy’s eyes peel wide. Unseen torment punctures the atmosphere as the strains of a howling wraith claw its way into being. The man turns to the child, squints, chortles quietly - and with sudden force, throws the door wide as a thunderous cacophony of beating wings swallow the air.

 
The boy gasps, preserved in the terror choking the room.

 
Crawford jars awake with a hard, full-body spasm. A recurring dream sequence that pays very untimely visits. It is Thursday and the 7am train running the outskirts of Murfreesboro sounds off with a blast of its horn as it battles down the hundred year-old tracks.

 
A quick cold shower then breakfast - which was simple - coffee and a smoke. And for dessert, a couple shots of Jager.

 
Out the door and through his mostly condemned neighborhood with its aromatic squalor and falling-down shanties. The same stain of neglect, block after block, one street spilling hopelessly onto the next.

 
Finally, downtown. A park bench, another smoke and camera check. Morning foot-traffic just before nine was exceedingly ripe. Corvids often gather near him in unseemly presentation. An inky display of strange bedfellows. Careful of the company one keeps.

Crawford’s lustful gaze always finds exactly what he deems worthy. Several office buildings opposite the park - his hunting grounds. Professional women in their thirties occupy his top tier. They make it to film every time. Blondes and redheads take priority. Brunettes aren’t excluded but rarely end up in the trays.

 
He is careful with his aim, to veil his framing as though focused on the architecture, not the quarry. His tinted eye-wear also aids this act of misdirection.

Deep breath, then click. Dozens of shots and several rolls later - it’s time to go inspect his handiwork. The walk home is rushed and restless. The anticipation - overwhelming, euphoric.


These were the days Crawford Sinclair lived for.