The Cold Pit – Fiction for A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Published on HivePostify by @cliffagreen · Thu Jul 09 2026
There is a small, red-and-black room just off the foyer in the ranch house. Bare except for an oil painting that hangs in the center of the wall and confronts you from the doorway. You pause, certain that you aren't supposed to be there (you weren't really meant to enter the house to begin with; no one answered when you knocked, but you were expected, so you just walked in), and you can't help gazing at the elegant woman that beseeches you from the canvas.
What she is asking you can't say. Her brown eyes are sad, yes; there is hurt in them, yes. There is also an undercurrent of smoldering rage. She is beautiful, full red lips, high cheekbones, with a delicate neck and small shoulders. The hair in a bun, with loose strands framing her face, suggests a portrait from the Victorian era, except, bizarrely, she is draped in a translucent plastic sheet, which brings to your sick mind the movie American Psycho.
You wonder who she is. Your new employer's daughter? She is young enough. Although your new employer is a wealthy oil magnate; perhaps she is a trophy wife. But why this spartan red-and-black room, this almost deifying homage? You can't help but begin to doubt the job you signed up for, the contract to live and work on the ranch as livestock manager. What kind of weirdo are you going to be working for?
The small hairs on the back of your neck rise with gooseflesh; you feel as though you are about to be caught. You turn from the painting and there she is, at the end of the long, narrow foyer, paused at the foot of the stairs with one dainty hand on the railing. She wears a simple white dress with a black belt. You see the light in her eyes, in person; only in the shadows surrounding that light is there sadness and hurt.
You must say something. “What a gorgeous image!” Not that. You meant the painting, but she could take it to mean herself. You don't want to start the new job by hitting on the boss's daughter, or wife. And you remember that no one invited you inside. “I'm the new manager. I'm supposed to meet with Mr. Ellis.”
You see a shade pass across those bright eyes. Your mind hits you with the image of Christian Bale in his plastic slicker, splashing blood in his posh apartment. A cold pit opens in your stomach, like when you watch a horror film. Stop it, you will yourself.
“My father is out,” she says, and she doesn't move from the stairs.
You feel the guilt of trespass almost as much as you feel the thrill of being alone with such a beautiful woman. You turn to indicate the painting; you say to break the tension, “I was admiring your portrait. It's so well done.”
“Thank you,” she says, and she startles you she has crossed the foyer so quickly to stand near you. The scent of her floral perfume wafts over you. Beneath it the odor of something foul. You must be imagining it; she is too beautiful for anything foul. Up close her brown eyes have radiant streaks of yellow that seem to glimmer as she gazes deep into your eyes.
“My father painted it,” she says with a slight upward tilt of her head.
Once again you see the shade pass over her eyes. Once again you wonder about the man you signed up to work for. The painting is not that of a father perceiving his daughter. There is far too much allure; far too much sex. But you remember that you are bit of a sicko. Perhaps you are the one seeing sex in an otherwise innocent portrait.
“It's beautiful,” you say. The streaks of yellow in her eyes that have not left yours sparkle and she lightly touches your arm. You are stirred, and you notice the foul odor rising, but you don't care, you are captivated. Will you do it? Steal a kiss from the boss's daughter when he is away from home on your first day?
You find yourself stepping forward and a click and whoosh of air indicates the front door opening behind you. You whirl away and see the new boss standing there grinning. He wears a grey fedora and matching military field jacket and black rubber boots. One arm is covered in a slimy, translucent plastic sleeve. He extends the other to you.
“Sorry to keep you,” he says in a booming voice, as if nothing is amiss. “One of the cows had trouble with her calf. We're shorthanded. I'm so glad you've arrived; there's plenty to do.”
As you shake his hand you see the lines of yellow in his brown eyes, just like his daughter's, except his yellow is dull, without any light. With him the foul odor is overpowering. Overpowering and unmistakably the smell of death, but you tell yourself it is the sleeve on his arm, covered in the slime of the birth canal.
“Your daughter was keeping me company,” you say.
You see his pupils expand, the black of them deepen, and now the yellow lines glint without light, like wolf eyes. He turns to the painting. “Ah, yes, she loved this room. It used to be furnished, a small library and reading room.”
“The painting is my remembrance of the last time I saw her.” His voice is still booming. “I painted it on the day I buried her.”
The cold pit in your stomach is horror. You want to believe that you misheard him. You want to turn around, to find her there with shining eyes, but you know.
You know that he killed her.
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Cover for “The Cold Pit” designed in Canva, using this week's [A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words](https://peakd.com/hive-161155/@freewritehouse/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-tgiqxe) prompt image ([image source](https://pixabay.com/illustrations/girl-portrait-oilpaint-canvas-9521793/)).
Text written by @cliffagreen without the use of AI.
Creative Coin banner designed by @ [derangedvisions](https://peakd.com/@derangedvisions).
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