Horrible Harper

Chapter Two - Episode Four

Scene Seven

The room was silent, save for the faint scrape of Harper’s brush dragging slowly across the canvas. She sat on the worn wooden chair, her hands stained with dark pigments, the canvas before her drowning in black—chaotic strokes, obscure forms, nothing resembling clarity. It was as though she was trying to drain something gnawing at her core, something beyond the reach of colors to explain.

She had been at it for hours, her weary eyes drifting between the brush and the rough surface, when the silence shattered—a sharp thud broke through. A small ball shot in through the open window, striking the canvas with sudden violence. The painting jolted and toppled to the floor. Harper lunged forward, clutching it, but the damage was already done; a portion of the work she had labored over all day was torn.

For a long moment, Harper stared at the ruined painting, her lips trembling with rage. She knew it was ugly, chaotic, perhaps worthless, but it was her mirror… and it had been destroyed. Fury flickered in her eyes as she clenched the ball in her hand, glaring at it as though it were the very embodiment of an unforgivable insult.

Slowly, she stepped toward the window and lifted her gaze. Outside stood a young boy, no older than Charles, his hand stretched toward her with a timid plea. His face bore an innocent awkwardness, but his unsteady voice betrayed a child’s careless mistake:

– The boy (smiling nervously): “I’m sorry… I kicked the ball by accident. I didn’t mean for it to end up in your room. Could you please give it back?”

Harper’s expression remained still, unreadable, her eyes fixed on him. Then, with sudden force, she hurled the ball straight at his face. The impact knocked him backward; he stumbled onto the stone bench, clutching his face in shock. His wide eyes, a mix of pain and anger, stared up at her, as if unable to comprehend what she had just done.

She, meanwhile, stood behind the window, her gaze frozen and piercing, offering him no chance for another word. With a sharp motion, she slammed the window shut, the sound reverberating through the room like a harsh slap.

Turning slowly, she sat on the bed and lifted the canvas once more. Her hands trembled as she tried in vain to mend what had been ruined, running her fingers across the smeared colors, as if attempting to restore both the painting and herself. But the canvas remained a testament to chaos—broken, irreparable, like the turmoil within her.

Scene Eight

The night draped itself over the house, silence pressing against the hallways, broken only by the faint whisper of wind slipping through the windows. Margaret opened her bedroom door cautiously, her steps hesitant upon the wooden floorboards that gave a soft creak with each movement. She moved toward Harper’s room, her heart inexplicably heavy, and slowly reached for the door handle.

Peering inside, she saw Harper stretched out on her bed in the dim light, eyes closed, her body still as though sunk in deep sleep. Margaret released a quiet breath of relief, closed the door gently, and turned away.

But the truth was far from what she had seen.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Harper’s eyes opened wide, staring blankly at the ceiling. They were not the eyes of the awake, but of someone held captive by her subconscious, her body pulled along by invisible strings.

As if she had been waiting for this moment, she sat up slowly, rose from the bed with a face stripped of expression, and drifted toward the door. She opened it without a sound and stepped into the dark hallway, heading straight for the front door of the house.

Meanwhile, Margaret was in the bathroom, the running water masking faint noises. Suddenly, her ears caught the creak of a door and soft, retreating footsteps. She froze, then called out, her voice trembling:

— “Robert… Robert?”

Silence.

She called again, more urgently this time:

— “Robert!”

In the next room, Robert stirred from his sleep, his body jolting upright. His eyes blinked half-open as he strained to listen, confusion tightening around him. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake off the fog of sleep.

Outside, Harper unlatched the front door, opening it wide. She stepped into the night without hesitation, leaving it ajar behind her. Her strides were steady, as if guided by some unseen force calling her into the darkness. The open door gaped like a wound, bleeding the house of its fragile calm.

Inside, Robert stepped out into the hall, heading for the bathroom. Stopping by the door, he asked quietly:

— “Margaret? Were you calling me?”

She opened the door, her face taut with unease, eyes wide.

— “I heard footsteps in the corridor… it wasn’t my imagination, I’m sure of it.”

Robert turned sharply toward Harper’s room. He opened the door to find her bed empty. He flicked the light switch, and the glow revealed nothing but a cold, vacant space. A tight knot formed in his chest.

He hurried down the hall to Charles’s room, Margaret following close behind, her breaths shallow and fast. Throwing the door open, he saw the boy sleeping peacefully, his face soft with dreams. Robert exhaled, switched off the light, and closed the door gently, as though not to disturb the fragile innocence within.

But when he turned back, his steps halted abruptly. At the far end of the hallway, the front door stood wide open, the chill of the night pouring in. He froze in place, Margaret beside him, both staring in dread.

Her voice quivered:

— “I opened Harper’s door before going to the bathroom… she was asleep. I saw her.”

Robert answered, his tone firm though worry edged his words:

— “I’ll go out and find her.”

He seized his coat and strode out, pulling the door shut with a muffled thud. Margaret was left standing in the dim corridor, surrounded by the pounding of her own heartbeat and the whisper of the cold wind seeping in beneath the door.