The trouble with being five years old is trying to get adults to listen to you. And the trouble with adults is that they don’t remember what it was like to be five years old. When you are angry or frustrated, they tell you that it’s because you are tired. When you are feeling impatient or gloomy, they tell you it’s because you are hungry. And worst of all, when you witness things that are beyond explanation, they smile and tell you that it’s because you have an overactive imagination. Sarah was finding this out to her cost and was feeling very alone in the world.
It all started with the boy in the painting.
Like most five year olds, Sarah had no say in how her room was decorated, but at some point in her infancy, someone had decided to hang a painting of a country scene on the wall opposite her crib. Perhaps it was to open her young mind to the possibilities of the world beyond the housing estate she called home. Perhaps its colours were supposed to have a calming effect. Perhaps it was just a painting that needed a wall. Whatever the reason, the painting hung there inoffensively for as long as Sarah could remember. It was a simple scene—a country cottage nestled amongst green fields with a pond in the foreground and mountains to the back.
Then one morning Sarah noticed something new. There was a boy in the painting where no boy had been before. She could just about make him out. He was inside the cottage, half hidden by the curtains, peeking out in her direction with the barest hint of a smile on his face. Sarah raced down to tell her parents but when they inspected the painting they assured her that the boy had always been there and it was a wonder she hadn’t noticed it before.
Sarah then turned to her older brother Sam. Sam was seven and was not yet as indifferent as his parents but he too was sure he had seen the boy in the window before and Sarah found herself growing increasingly frustrated with her family’s response to what she felt was big news. Her dad told her she had an overactive imagination and her mother simply smiled. Sarah swallowed her anger and stormed off.
The following day Sarah awoke and immediately examined the painting. The boy was no longer in the window, no longer in the house at all—but he was still there in the painting—a tiny figure in a distant field walking towards the house. Sarah didn’t bother running to her parents. They could come to her. She inhaled deeply and then screamed until her face was bright red and her parents came rushing into the room in a panic. Sarah stopped screaming and pointed triumphantly to the boy in the picture, but to her shock and dismay her parents told her that he had always been there—no, not in the window, but in the fields behind the house. Sarah was baffled and tears began welling up in her eyes. Her mother told her she was probably hungry while her dad patted her gently on the head. Her brother entered the room, awakened by the commotion, and much to Sarah’s annoyance he too claimed that the boy had always been in the field. Sarah saw it was pointless to protest and angrily stomped out of the room.
She ate her breakfast in silence, beginning to suspect that her family was playing some elaborate trick on her but why would they do such a thing, and how? Could it be a game for Sam? Sam had no friends and relied on his parents and Sarah a lot. She hated playing with him, so maybe her parents had come up with the painting game as a fun prank between them. Were they creeping into her room each night, removing the picture and expertly repainting it? Or had they a secret stash of multiple pictures that they were swapping out as she slept? Neither scenario seemed likely but that night before bed, Sarah decided to perform a test. She removed the painting from the wall and hid it in her drawer. She placed a tambourine on top of it so that if her parents managed to find the painting she would be woken up as they tried to remove it. She went to bed feeling very clever and quite happy with herself.
The next morning the painting was where she had left it and the tambourine was untouched. She carefully removed it, turned it over and gasped. The boy was no longer in the field, nor was he in the house. He was now standing by the pond, hand in the air as if he was waving at her. He had a grin on his face that showed off a pronounced gap between his front teeth. His hair was a wiry mess and his face was ghostly pale. Sarah was surprised to find herself waving back.
You can probably guess what happened next–her parents said the boy had always been there and her brother agreed with them.
Sarah decided she would no longer speak to anyone on the subject. Instead she treated the boy in the painting as a sort of private game. Each evening she would cover the frame with a t-shirt and each morning she would guess where he would be before removing the cover. Sometimes he was in the doorway of the house, sometimes he was in the fields, sometimes he was down by the pond. Occasionally his face would fill half the frame as he stared out at Sarah. She didn’t like that so much but her five year old brain quickly came to terms with the idea of a magical boy who lived in a painting and liked to explore its edges when everyone was asleep. It was just another magical thing, like the fairies in the garden or the giant who brought her dreams each night.
Sarah’s parents never brought up the painting and she saw no point arguing with them. Occasionally when her mother was cleaning her room, she would cast an eye in its direction but she never passed any comment on it and Sarah began to enjoy the fact that it was just for her. Not even her brother was able to see that the boy was changing position and this made Sarah feel special. She began having little chats with the boy. He never responded but she treated him like a guest at one of her tea parties, having wonderful conversations about all manner of topics. She wasn’t sure if he cared or not, his expression never changed in the pictures, whether he was near or far she could always tell he had the same cryptic smile on his face.
Then one morning when Sarah removed the t-shirt, she was surprised to find the boy was gone entirely. She peered through the windows of the cottage and carefully examined the hills and the pond for any hint of his whereabouts but he was nowhere to be seen. Concerned, Sarah took the painting down from the wall and carefully removed it from its frame. On the back of the painting was a person’s name written in fancy joined writing that Sarah was not yet old enough to read, and in the bottom corner hidden by the frame was a slight tear. Sarah couldn’t tell if it was old or new. She left the painting on her bed and carried on about her day. It was a Saturday morning which meant gymnastics. She wasn’t the best at gymnastics, but she enjoyed the class and it pleased her mam to see her active. Some of the kids were already doing cartwheels but Sarah was content with her slightly clumsy tumbles.
When Sarah got home from gymnastics, she noticed that the painting was missing from her room entirely. Alarmed and a little bit annoyed, she banged on her brother’s door and demanded entry but he told her curtly to go away. She tried the handle and was surprised to find it locked—a major rule-break in her house. She ran down to tell her dad but he told her Sam had a new friend over and to give them some space. Sam never had friends over and she could tell her dad was grateful and relieved. Sarah was suspicious.
She ran back upstairs and tried the handle again. The door opened and Sarah stumbled backwards in shock. There was no mistaking the boy she saw standing before her—the gap tooth smile, the pale skin, the wiry hair. Sarah saw for the first time that the boy’s smile was entirely lacking in warmth. There was a sinister curl to his lip that caused the hairs on her arms to stand up and a feeling of dread swept through her body, nestling firmly in her stomach. He continued smiling at Sarah as he slowly closed the door on her, leaving her frozen in astonishment on the landing.
Sarah shook herself free of her paralysis, raced down stairs again and grabbed her father by the arm telling him Sam was in danger. Her father didn’t seem concerned but indulged his little girl and allowed her to lead him upstairs. She tried the door but it was firmly locked. Her dad shook his head, casually produced a key from his pocket and opened the door, reminding her that this room wasn’t for her. Sarah stepped inside only to be confronted by a sight that made no sense. Her brother’s room had been transformed. Where his bed should have been there was a writing desk and his wardrobe of clothes was now a bookcase. All traces of Sam were gone. She couldn’t understand it.
“It’s an office Sarah, not a playroom,” said her dad gently.
“Where’s Sam?” She asked quietly. “Where’s my brother?”
“Your brother!?” laughed her father. “I have enough on my plate with you, young lady, without adding another little rascal into this house. One child is quite enough, thanks.”
He was still laughing as Sarah backed out of the office and into her bedroom. She closed the door and walked to the wall where the picture was hanging once again. In the foreground the boy was standing, his index finger placed on his smiling lips. Sarah looked past him to the house. Inside the cottage was another boy, his face and palms pressed desperately to the window, his eyes wide and pleading, tears on his cheeks. Sarah sat on her bed and cried quietly to herself. She already knew what her parents would say. She was overtired. She was hungry. She had an overactive imagination…there had always been two boys in the picture.
