The Blood Canvas

Chapter #9 - Exotic Horror & Ghost Phenomenon

The red velvet covering the giant canvas fell to the stage floor with the sound of something heavy falling as if it were a wet shroud. Hamzadi's eyes widened. His breath stopped for a moment.

In front of them, there was the Master Painting that had been stolen ten years ago. For a decade, Hamzadi had imagined what the painting would look like, but his imagination could not match the terrifying reality that was now before his eyes.

The painting was unframed. It was like a gaping 'wound' in the fabric of reality. Its surface was not flat, but undulated like the surface of a turbulent sea. Its color was pitch black, but in the darkness there was a swirl of red, purple and green pus that moved slowly.

If you looked closely, the swirl of color was not oil paint but human blood and souls. It was thousands of faces of humans, jinn and animals screaming silently, overlapping each other and trying to climb out of the two-dimensional hell hole.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Pandika whispered.

His voice was no longer heard through the microphone but echoed continuously from the walls of the hall, as if the State Arts Hall building itself was speaking.

Hamzadi did not answer. He could feel the vibration of the Bone Brush in his hand getting stronger. The brush was hot, as if it wanted to jump out of his grasp and merge with the giant painting. He was like a child looking at his mother.

Hamzadi had to use both hands to keep the brush from flying. Below the stage, the audience's reaction was something unexpected.

No one screamed. No one ran.

Instead, hundreds of guests of honor consisting of Dato', Datin, corporate, celebrities, all stood stiff. Their eyes were wide open, staring straight into the center of the swirling painting. Their mouths were slightly open and saliva began to drip from the corners of some guests' lips.

They experienced Exotic Horror and Ghost Phenomenal, a state where their souls were so enchanted by the magical beauty that their brains failed to process the danger before them.

"Look at them, Hamzadi. They don't feel pain. They feel complete. This painting is hungry. They feel restless. For ten years I've been giving it little food. But tonight, there's a buffet."

Pandika said, clasping her hands together.

Hamzadi saw something that made his blood boil, from the chest of each guest, came a thin line of bluish-white smoke.

The smoke was their Spirit or Chi or their Inner Souls. The line of smoke rose into the air, swirled together, and then was sucked into the Master Painting like water sucked into a drain.

Making the painting brighter. The colors became fiercer. The sound of a giant's heartbeat began to fill the hall.

DUP.. DUP... DUP…

"You're crazy, Andika! You'll kill them all! If their spirits dry up, they'll become undead!" Hamzadi shouted.

"That's the price for immortal art," Andika replied calmly. He walked leisurely towards Hamzadi.

"And you... you are the main course. The Guardian's blood flowing in your body is the key for me to stabilize this portal. Without your blood, this painting will explode and swallow the whole of Kuala Lumpur. With your blood, I can protect it."

Hamzadi knew he could no longer afford to be careless. With every passing moment, the guests' lives were dwindling. The face of the Datin who had reprimanded him earlier looked pale, as if the blood had been sucked out of her.

"I will not allow it!" Hamzadi snapped.

Hamzadi rushed forward. He did not attack Pandika. He knew Pandika was too cunning. Instead, he rushed towards the Master Painting. His intention was only one, to destroy the canvas. Tear it with the Bone Brush. If the container broke, the contents would rot.

"Hiyarghhh!”

Hamzadi jumped high, Bone Brush was drawn like a spear, the bright red eyes of the brush pointed straight at the center of the painting's vortex, however, Andika did not move to stop him.

He only smiled sarcastically. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small mirror. Like a woman's compact powder mirror, he then turned the mirror towards Hamzadi.

"Reflection of Deserted Sin."

As soon as the eyes of Hamzadi's brush almost touched the surface of the giant canvas, the surface of the painting changed its nature.

It was no longer oil paint. It turned into the surface of a giant mirror. Hamzadi saw his own reflection in the painting, but it was not the image of Hamzadi attacking. It was the image of Hamzadi stabbing Datin in the chest in the front row.

"Stop! It's just illusion." Hamzadi's instinct screamed.

He tried to pull back his attack in mid-air, twisting his body so hard that he fell heavily to the stage floor. His shoulder blades hurt. Hamzadi was stunned, looking at the painting.

"Don't you see? This painting is related to the lives of everyone at this event. You can't destroy it, Hamzadi. If you tear this canvas, the same wounds will appear on the bodies of your beloved guests. If you burn this painting, everything will be burnt too," said Pandika, chuckling.

Hamzadi was stunned. This was the trap that Ustaz Ismail Bakri had mentioned. Pandika used the lives of ordinary people as human shields and threatened Hamzadi. Hamadi had been perplexed and checked. He had a weapon that could kill the enemy, but he could not pull the trigger without killing innocent people.

"You are a coward, I am strategic. Now, since you cannot attack my painting, let's finish our business." Hamzadi hissed, getting up slowly.

Pandika raised his hand. The stage floor around Hamzadi suddenly became liquid. The hard parquet turned into a bright, deep black paint. Hamzadi's feet sank like in quick sand. He tried to lift his feet, but the paint acted like a very strong glue. It crept up, wrapping around Hamzadi's calves, knees and thighs.

"The installation art was held at Pasung Bayang Theater," Pandika said.

He moved his fingers like a puppeteer. The black paint spread over Hamzadi's body, wrapped around his waist, and the most dangerous thing was when it wrapped around Hamzadi's right hand, which was holding the Bone Brush.

Hamzadi struggled. He tried to use a release spell, but the aura in the hall was too dirty. His inner call to prayer was drowned out by the silent screams of the painting. Pandika walked towards Hamzadi, who was now half-trapped in a mud of black paint. He stood fully in front of Hamzadi's face.

"Do you know why the Master chose you in the first place?" Pandika asked softly, his tone almost sad.

He touched Hamzadi's chin, forcing Hamzadi to look up at him.

"Because you have empathy. You feel other people's pain. You paint with tears. That's your weakness, Hamzadi. You are too soft and tonight, it's your empathy that will kill you."

Pandika took a sharp, shiny palette knife from his jacket pocket.

"I need blood from a living heart. A heart that beats fast with anger and fear."

Pandika pointed the knife at Hamzadi's chest.

Hamzadi closed his eyes. Was this the end? Dying on stage, watched by hundreds of enchanted rich people, a victim of his old friend's crazy ambition?

No.

Hamzadi remembered Ustaz Ismail Bakri's words on the train earlier.

"Your eyes will deceive you. Your ears will deceive you. Trust that Bone Brush. He's the only honest person tonight..."

Hamzadi opened his eyes. He didn't look at Pandika. He didn't look at the knife. He looked at the Bone Brush in his hand, covered in black paint.

The brush was still trembling. It wasn't trembling with fear. It was trembling with hunger. Hamzadi realized something. This black paint that was covering it, was a magical power. This was food for the brush.

Pandika had made a mistake. He had thought the Bone Brush was just a tool for drawing or stabbing. He had forgotten that the brush was made of ground gnome bones that were naturally absorbent.

"You're right, Pandika," Hamzadi said suddenly with a smile.

Pandika stopped. He frowned, surprised to see his victim smile.

"The teacher chose me because I have empathy. But you forgot another thing the teacher taught me," Hamzadi continued.

"What is it?"

"The teacher taught me how to mix colors."

Hamzadi closed his eyes and focused all his mental focus on the Bone Brush in his right hand. He didn't fight the tangle of black paint. Instead, he accepted it.

"Eat!" Hamzadi shouted.

SHUUUUUP! A loud sucking sound occurred. The black paint covering Hamzadi's hands and body was suddenly sucked into the Bone Brush quickly.

Pandika's eyes widened.

"What?!"

The brush acted like a high-powered vacuum. He sucked all the magical structures of the Ghost Pen until they were dry. The brush bones changed color from ruby ​​red to jet black, then back to red. He had processed Pandika's energy and made it his own.

The bonds on Hamzadi's body were broken. He was easily free.

"Now it's my turn to paint!" Hamzadi shouted.

With his hands now full of the energy stolen from Pandika, Hamadi did not attack Pandika. He turned and threw his brush towards the stage floor, right at Pandika's feet.

He did not paint the hole, but he painted a Mirror.

Hamzadi used the reflection technique Pandika had used before, but in reverse. He painted a shiny silver circle on the floor. Pandika looked down. He saw his reflection in the floor painting. Hamzadi then jumped up and stabbed Pandika's reflection on the floor with the Bone Brush.

"Arghhhh!"

Pandika screamed in pain and burned in fire. Although his body was untouched, his left shoulder suddenly spurted blood, as if it had been stabbed by a ghost. Hamzadi had used the principles of artistic Voodoo which he had learned from his Tok Guru.

What happened to the reflection, happened to the host's body as well. Pandika staggered backward, clutching his bleeding shoulder. His handsome face was now filled with pain and anger.

"You're a brat! You're using my technique!"

"There's imitation in art, right?" Hamzadi sneered.

Pandika roared. The aura around him exploded. His tuxedo was torn. His skin began to turn gray, black veins appeared all over his face. He no longer wanted to pretend to be human. He began to call upon the power of the Jinn King of Hell from within the painting to enter him.

"Get out! Help me!" Pandika shouted at the giant painting.

The Master Painting responded.

The vortex in the middle of the painting opened wide. A giant hand, a hand made of smoke and black oil, emerged from the surface of the canvas. But the hand did not attack Hamzadi.

He hit the stage floor, breaking the stage structure.

CRACK! BOOM!

The wooden platform collapsed. Hamzadi and Pandika fell to the lower level, the basement of the State Arts Hall. Dust flew. Hamzadi coughed, trying to get up amidst the crumbling wood and iron.

The atmosphere in the basement was dark, damp, and smelled of old concrete. Light from the hall above spilled in through the manhole, illuminating them like the floodlights of a gladiatorial arena.

Up there, the guests were still amazed, standing on the edge of the manhole, looking down with blank faces. Hamadi looked ahead. Pandika was awake. But he was no longer the Andika he had been before.

Half of Pandika's body was now covered in living paint dripping from the Main Painting above. The paint formed a hideous black suit of armor. His right hand had transformed into a giant sword blade made of hardened ink.

"This place is suitable for your grave, Hamzadi. Underground. Dark. Quiet," Pandika's voice now echoed, half human, half demonic.

Hamzadi stood up, clutching his Bone Brush tightly. He realized that he had been separated from the guests upstairs. This was good news. Here, he could fight with all his heart without having to worry about hurting ordinary people.

But there was bad news.

Hamzadi looked at his Bone Brush. There were fine cracks in the bone shaft. The magic power-sucking technique just now had put too much strain on the weapon. It might only be able to withstand one or two more attacks before breaking.

"Ustaz... please sit outside," Hamzadi whispered.

He knew that if Ustaz Ismail Bakri's wind barrier outside broke, Andika would receive unlimited energy from all over Kuala Lumpur. He needed to finish this now.

"Come here, Pandika. Let's see what color your blood really is," Hamzadi challenged.

Pandika sobbed and weakened. The blade of his ink sword sliced ​​through the air, cutting through the concrete pillar next to him like he was cutting a cake. Hamzadi rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding death by a few centimeters. He responded by swinging his brush, splashing red paint that set Pandika's shield ablaze.

The real fight had just begun. Underground, far from public view, art became the most insane weapon of murder. And up there, the Master Painting still hung, growing bigger, hungrier, waiting for its winner to become an eternal slave.

Hamzadi noticed something as he rolled. In the ceiling of the basement, there was a pipe for a fire extinguishing system (sprinkler).

A crazy idea crossed his mind.

Water and oil were not supposed to mix.

If he could figure out the water dilution system, and if he could change the properties of water into a solvent (turpentine) using the remaining power of his brush, he might be able to melt Pandika's shield.

But he needed Pandika to be right under the main pipe.

"Pandika! Your painting is stupid!" Hamzadi shouted as he ran towards the middle of the basement.

Pandika roared in anger, his dignity as an artist tarnished. He chased after Hamadi with a strong desire to kill, not realizing he was being lured into Hamzadi's final trap.

Trap within a trap

To be continued….