The Curiosity

There was no note with the package. It was propped up against the leg of a green velvet armchair in my study, wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied with string. My name, Mr Edward Crawson, was scrawled in spidery ink across the paper. By the shape of it, I would have guessed it was a large book. I hadn’t ordered anything, nor was I expecting a delivery, which made me all the more curious.  
Mrs Berry, who was poking a feather duster in what little space was left on my bookshelf, said a boy had delivered it that morning.
“He was a rude little thing,” she said, clearly irritated by the mysterious disturbance. “I was upstairs dusting and could hear a hammering on the door. I raced down, thinking something was amiss and the urchin was on the doorstep. He thrust it at me and raced off down the path without a backwards glance.”
“And he didn’t give an idea of who sent it?” I asked as she flicked the duster across my writing desk.
“No, not a word, sir. It was tucked under his arm and as soon as I opened the door, he practically threw it at me, and he was off.”
“How peculiar,” I mumbled, sinking into the armchair and holding my hands in front of the crackling fire. I had just returned from a walk that had chilled me to the bone; the January snow was thick on the ground and despite being bundled up against the weather, the winter wind had somehow crept under my layers and nipped at my skin. 
“I did think it odd, sir. But you do collect all sorts these days. I never know what strange thing may arrive next.” She brushed her feather duster across a display case that rested on the desk. It contained a selection of beetles from South America, my newest curiosity, and she wrinkled her nose at the leggy creatures.
I lifted the brown paper parcel onto my lap and squeezed my hands around it’s edges. I could feel a frame. Was it a picture of some sort perhaps? 
“Can I get you anything, sir?” Mrs Berry asked, tidying a stack of papers on my desk. 
“Tea would be lovely, please. It is frightfully bitter outside.”
“Of course, there is a fruit cake in the kitchen, I’ll add a slice to the tray.”
As she left the study, she gave the South American beetles one last tickle with her feather duster. She couldn’t understand my fascination with collecting peculiar items from across the globe and particularly disliked the beetles. She found them ugly; she said they made her itch and insisted she spent most of her time chasing insects out of dark little corners, so why would I want to pay good money for a case full of them? 
I leant my head against the back of the armchair and gazed around the room at my collection of treasures. Taking up an entire wall of the room, floor to ceiling was a gilt framed display cabinet. It had three doors with ornate carved doorknobs and was filled with curious items. Shells from distant shores that had previously housed creatures of the deep. Animal skulls, some so fragile they could be crushed with a fist; others giant, with curved horns that had been picked clean by the beaks of desert scavengers. A bell jar of brightly decorated birds, as if plucked from the sky mid song. Statues carved of ivory and a set of teeth pulled straight from the gaping jaws of a Nile crocodile. The cabinet housed a shrunken head taken from the hut of a Voodoo priestess and the mummified finger of an Egyptian pharaoh. Rings with peeping eyes that stared back at you, lockets that opened to hold the teeth and hair of the dead. Jars where specimens sat suspended in slimy substances: an orange spiny lizard, a blue poison dart frog and a jewel green snake. On one of the shelves sat a family of stuffed felines, two adult cats and two kittens, dressed as an ideal Victorian family. The mother cat even had a tiny parasol resting on her shoulder that could be unfurled should the weather demand it. Finally, in the corner standing next to the cabinet was a stuffed, brown bear. It was taller than I and, in its paws, rested a silver tray, on which sat a bottle of claret and four wine glasses. Perfect for if guests came to view my collection. 
I bent over the package once again and pulled a tendril of the string holding the brown paper closed. Maybe there would be a note inside. As I unwrapped, it was revealed that there was a frame, and it was in fact a painting. Dropping the paper to the floor, I held up the picture so that the light from the window was on it.
Upon seeing the picture, I let out a strangled gasp.  
It was a portrait of the study, painted from the position that the brown bear stood in, as if at some point he had traded the silver tray for a paint brush and easel. There I was, sitting in the green armchair holding the frame. My writing desk was visible under the window, the case of beetles sat atop sheafs of paper and snow fell thickly outside. 
I bent my head closer to the picture, my heart thrumming against my ribcage. 
Painted next to my left foot, was a crumbled pile of brown paper. I glanced down and realised the paper I had unwrapped from the painting had slid off my lap and settled on the carpet, next to my left foot. It was as if the painter had painted me at this very moment. I peered closer at my likeness in the picture; I had a startled expression and imagined it wasn’t too dissimilar to how I looked now. 
It must be a joke, a festive jape sent to spook me. 
There were always dark tales of cursed objects whispered amongst collectors and I, being new to the hobby, was clearly perceived as vulnerable to tricks. I had not had guests to view my collection for months now, but a good memory and some lucky guess work could have easily produced this picture. I grabbed the paper from where it had fallen and thrust it into the fire.  
I heard footsteps ascending the stairs and not wanting to look foolish in front of Mrs Berry, stashed the portrait down the side of my armchair. I would dispose of it later.
“Here we are then, Mr Crawson, one pot of tea.” She announced, placing the tray down onto the small side table next to me. “Oh goodness, I forgot the cake, I'm so sorry. I’ll be right back with it.” 
“No bother.” I reassured, pouring a little tea into my cup, and dropping in a cube of sugar as she swept from the room. In a way, I was grateful she had forgotten the cake, maybe it would distract her from prying about the painting.
I lifted the teacup to my lips, sipped the sweet liquid and placed it back onto the saucer with trembling hands. 
   I pulled the picture out from the side of my chair. As I once again rested it on my lap and looked down, sheer terror flooded over me. 
It had changed. 
Now, in the painting was the tea tray resting on the table next to me. The paper was gone, and I was pictured with a cup in hand, a puzzled look on my face. In the doorway of the study was the back of Mrs Berry as she hurried off for the forgotten cake. 
It can’t have changed, I tried to convince myself. I lifted it to my face to inspect it further, but my hands were clammy; the frame slipped from my grip, the corner awkwardly hitting the floor as it fell, and the painting tumbled into the centre of the room. I sat forward in my chair and slowly sank down to the carpet, crawling across the room on all fours until I was kneeling next to the picture.
This time I let out a shriek as I realised it had changed again. Mrs Berry had now vanished from the doorway, and I was pictured, kneeling on the carpet next to the fallen painting, my face a mask of fear. Yet, what was most horrifying, was that now standing behind the green armchair, was a shadowy figure. I peered closer at the painting and squinted, trying to convince myself I was hallucinating but it was unmistakable. I forced myself to look up at the space behind my chair and as I did, the floorboards began to creak as if someone was walking across the study towards me.
I began to cry, and tears dripped off my chin. I shuffled backwards, pressing myself against the glass of the cabinet. I stared around the study but only the noise of the floor gave any indication that someone (or something) else was in the room.
I felt the air move around me, it was close, and I began to struggle to breathe. I suddenly felt the sensation of a hand on my cheek and the suffocating presence consumed me.
Moments later, a flustered Mrs Berry came back into the study carrying a small piece of fruit cake on a floral plate. She placed it on the table next to the tea tray and wondered where Mr Crawson had gone. She walked over to the cabinet and noticed that one of the doors was slightly ajar. On the middle shelf, next to the family of cats, was a painting of the study. In it, Mr Crawson sat in his green velvet armchair. His expression was oddly fearful, and it unsettled her how his eyes seemed to meet hers.
She closed the door, slid in the key, and locked the curiosities away. 

***

Sian Toop is a MA Creative Writing student at the University of Lincoln and fiction editor at The Lincoln Review. Sian has been published on the History Scotland website and is currently focusing on writing short fiction and is a huge fan of the Victorian ghost story, which inspires her work.