SHROUDED IN MYSTERY

As the winter nights grow colder and we settle down in the evenings to enjoy music, books or box-sets, it occurs to me how very differently families spent their winter evenings when I was young.

Back then in Ireland, a family would gather round the fireside to swap tales, the taller the better.

Inevitably, as the night wore on the stories would become more and more spooky. Here's an example. 

THE STAIN

Alex stepped back and gazed at The Meadow: wild-flowers in the foreground, forest to the left, and in the background, purple mountains in the misty distance. It had the makings of a magnificent picture: a few small touches and it would be finished. 
The canvas was a large one, six by seven, and Alex was excited as always when her creative vision began to become reality.
Stepping back from the picture, Alex turned to her other work-in-progress, a smaller canvas on which a child’s face was taking shape. Working from memory, Alex, continued to add colour to the cheeks of the young girl she had glimpsed years before when witnessing the eviction of a group of travellers from her father’s land. It had been a time of high emotion and the child’s haunted eyes, staring from behind her grandmother’s long white shawl, had touched Alex’s heart, even as the old woman raged and shook her knotted fists.
Alex worked on the child’s portrait for a couple of hours, concentrating on texture and bemoaning the fading light.
The advancing shadows seemed to bring a sense of unease and Alex found herself becoming anxious for no apparent reason. Normally, when a picture was progressing well, her mood was elated but today it was the opposite.
When she set down her brushes and turned to look again at The Meadow she was surprised to see a flaw in the picture that she hadn’t noticed before: a splash of grey paint beside the tree-line. 
Seizing a cloth and turps she attempted to sponge it off but, frustratingly, the mark refused to vanish completely and she resolved to paint over it when she resumed work the following morning.
Alex slept badly on the futon in the corner of the studio and, rising early, brewed strong coffee before approaching the picture again. The splash of grey had become a smear, larger than before and Alex cursed herself for having attempted to remove it whilst she was tired.
Studying it again in daylight, Alex fancied that the blemish resembled a figure clothed in a loose-fitting garment. 
Shaking her head in puzzlement, Alex painted it out of the picture and returned to the child’s portrait that was already taking shape, but couldn’t shake the mood of gloom that seemed to gather around her.
Pausing for coffee, mid-morning, she noticed with dismay, that the stain had reappeared, this time slightly larger than before.
Alex stood before The Meadow. The blemish did actually look like someone at the forest’s edge: the shape more defined. A small figure dressed in a flowing cloak, head bowed beneath a grey shawl. This time Alex made no attempt to interfere with it but moved away, bewildered and slightly afraid.
As the afternoon gave way to evening, she worked on the child’s portrait, recalling the scenes of anger and despair that accompanied the eviction that afternoon long ago.
Each time she allowed her attention to stray to the big canvas however, the mysterious shape seemed larger than before. Alex tried to convince herself that it was simply an oil smear spreading, but knew it wasn’t.
Before retiring to bed, she studied the canvas again and became aware that the figure had grown more distinct. Its face more clearly defined. It had a mean, sallow countenance, deeply lined and furrowed. The eyes were visible now and, to Alex’s dismay, seemed filled with ill intent. 
She turned the canvas to face the wall, extinguished the lights and settled down on the futon.
Alex awoke with a jolt. Moonlight spilled through the high window. Something moved in the room. She sat up, scrabbling for her torch. Its faltering beam fell on the stacked paintings. The large canvas stood at an angle. A triangular strip of darkness between it and the wall looked like a the flap of a black tent. Beside it a figure crouched, the hem of its ragged garment spread on the floor like blood; the face, beneath its shawl, was unmistakably evil.
Alex hugged the duvet to her chest and began to scream.