Pictures of You: A Novel - Hardcover

Malerman, Josh

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593723155 ISBN 13: 9780593723159

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A woman becomes the unknowing subject of an artist’s dangerous work in this intense Hitchcockian thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of Incidents Around the House.

After a magical night out on the town with her boyfriend Jack, Emily wakes alone in a huge bed in a beautiful, well-lit room. But the pink ceiling, the mauve walls, and the deep, dark corners are nothing like the hotel she and Jack rented.

More worrisome yet: Emily has no memory of this place from the night before.

Where is she?

A woman’s voice directs her to remain in bed.

Just so . . .

And beyond the end of the bed, a picture frame upon an easel—a frame with no canvas, no painting, no art.

Only . . . there is the silhouette of a person Emily does not recognize. A person emanating demand, danger, evil. And the way the woman talks . . . and the things she says . . . She’s acting as if Emily herself is the painting. The still life. The art.

Emily is as scared as she is confused. But it’s immediately clear Jack’s life is on the line with her own. And if she attempts to escape the bed and the wood frame of this nightmare masterwork, neither will survive the experience.

Emily is fierce, independent, brilliant, but to get out of this, she’ll have to think like an artist herself.

The clock is ticking.

For Emily.

For Jack.

For being forever trapped.

Josh Malerman’s unforgettable and terrifying Incidents Around the House became an instant classic of horror—and now Malerman has done it again. Pictures of You is a tale of thrilling terror that will chill you until the last page—and have you thinking of the heroine’s search for love and the meaning of art long after.

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�ber die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Josh Malerman is a New York Times bestselling author and one of two singer-songwriters for the rock band The High Strung. His debut novel, Bird Box, is the inspiration for the hit Netflix film of the same name. His other novels include Incidents Around the House, Daphne, Spin a Black Yarn and Malorie, the sequel to Bird Box. Malerman lives in Michigan with his wife, the artist-musician Allison Laakko.

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1

It was a bed, yes, that was a good start. Had to be a bed. Above her was a ceiling, beneath her were blankets, and there was a sense of being indoors after all. Hungover or not, she could tell that much. Good start. And funny that, huh? How a night out could paint over even the firmest of recognitions. Like where one's head is on one's body. Or whether one is in a room.

So, a room. That was fine. Just fine.

But was the room . . .

Their hotel room?

The idea of looking anywhere but up hurt too much to try. Her eyes remained on the ceiling.

It was pink.

She certainly would've caught that when they checked in yesterday afternoon. Pink wasn't the sort of thing one missed. And even if she had, Jack would've pointed it out. He would've joked about it. Something witty, something good. He would've liked it, she thought. He liked stuff like pink ceilings and Americana mystery spots on the side of long highway roads. He spoke fondly of metal garden statues, plastic lawn deer, mailboxes that looked like the homes they belonged to. Older-people things, if you asked her. But that was Jack's way. Same age as Emily, but joked like he grew up with Bob Newhart.

Yes, Jack would've had a joke about the ceiling.

Jack . . .

She closed her eyes. Tried to remember how the night before had ended.

Wasn't easy. She opened them again.

It was the mean sort of hangover you didn't quite spot at first. Too big to see all at once. She'd opened her eyes, and she'd felt . . . rested, if not whole. Or maybe more like she'd gotten through something. Yes. That was it. Like she'd survived the night. And hadn't she? Emily and Jack barhopping, laughing so hard their faces hurt. Her face hurt now. Okay. So, she and Jack must've gone a little too hard. That happened. Often, even. Some might call it a bond. Others, less flatteringly, might've warned the duo. But hey, a young couple without kids . . . why not?

Still, just because you knew how much you drank didn't mean you could predict the size of the hangover.

"There isn't a psychic on Earth," she started to say.

But she heard an intake of breath then.

Beyond the foot of the bed.

"Jack?" she said.

She tried to bring her head to her chin, but that wasn't going to happen.

"Jack," she said. "Oh boy, we really painted the town."

Jack didn't respond. Nobody did.

She figured she'd mistaken the sound for something it wasn't and imagined a day full of similar misconceptions.

Her head hurt. And she thought: If the hotel room ceiling wasn't pink . . . where did you guys spend the night?

She breathed deep, turned her head to the right.

There was an empty expanse of room that way. A purple wall. Maybe mauve. Maybe twenty feet from where she lay. Okay. It was official then. This wasn't their hotel room. Pink ceiling, mauve wall. Big room. Okay. She definitely didn't know where she was.

Okay.

Still, it had happened before. It happened to the best of them. Even if usually it meant waking on a friend's couch. Even if not exactly like this.

She turned her head left.

Same color wall there? Hard to tell. Not as much light on that side of the room. This big room. This big bed. This big, soft bed. Too soft. Like how fancier hotels make it so you swim in the blankets and sheets. A comfort contest. Jack liked that stuff. Thought it was fun.

Where was Jack?

"Jack?"

She extended her arms out to both sides, expecting to find him there. If he felt anything like she did, he'd be out for another hour at least. She always woke up before he did after they'd gone too hard. Usually had to endure the sharpest spike of the hangover alone. He would often snore. He sometimes talked in his sleep. Once he talked about hamburgers wearing shoes.

She might throw up. Yes. It suddenly felt that way.

She flailed both arms again, almost crazily hoping to chance upon a bucket. A bowl. A glass.

Where was Jack?

She looked right again, looked left.

She closed her eyes and groaned because she had to ward off the pulsing at both temples. Felt like her head was inflating, deflating. Not good. And worse: she couldn't remember if it was worth it.

Raising both hands to the sides of her head, she felt something so shocking, it rendered the colors of the room momentarily moot.

Gloves.

Yes. She was wearing gloves. The long and fancy kind that went up just past the elbow. Like something Scarlett O'Hara might wear.

"Okay, what is going on . . ."

And it wasn't just the gloves (red gloves, she saw now, holding her fingers splayed beneath the pink ceiling): she wasn't wearing sleeves.

Bare shoulders.

She was wearing a dress.

"Hey, whoa . . ."

She felt along her body, felt the coarse folds of what she'd mistaken for a blanket, a thick sheet. But hungover or not, she recognized it now for what it was.

A party dress.

A big one. The kind that billowed out past the waist.

In a room painted many colors.

"Jack?" she said. "Jack? Where are we?"

Because it was one thing not to recognize the room in which you woke up . . . but the clothes . . .

She got her chin near her chest and had to squint, painfully, as if looking into the sun. Did the light come from the pink ceiling? She didn't think so. The source came from beyond the bed. More like a . . . lamp? Maybe. A spotlight? She didn't like how right this last guess felt.

"Hello?" she asked.

She held a gloved hand over her eyes, squinting past the sheets and blankets at her feet, staring for what seemed too long, too far, too deep.

She heard an intake of breath again and physically shook when she heard a woman say . . .

"Don't move, Emily."

Her eyes adjusted just enough then to reveal the silhouette of the woman who had spoken. A thin woman, leaning forward a little, like someone getting a good look. A hotel maid? Someone from the front desk? What had she and Jack gotten into?

"Hey, what's—"

"I mean it," the woman said. "Don't move."

Emily's eyes adjusted a little more. Then a little more. She saw a square. Yes. There was no question of that: Framing the woman, the woman on the other side of it. A big rectangle of wood.

A frame for a painting.

"Hey, who—"

But the woman raised a hand for Emily to be quiet. Then she leaned closer yet.

Emily saw the frame was upon an easel.

"Just so," the woman said. She reached up and adjusted the light. Emily still couldn't see her face. And the darkness looked to go on forever beyond the woman's silhouette. A big room, yes. Huge.

And no canvas in that frame.

"Just so," the woman said.

She leaned forward another half inch, enough for the light to illuminate her eyes; two bright ovals in an otherwise opaque face. She raised her hand quickly again and Emily understood it wasn't to quiet Emily this time.

It was the gesture an artist would make. As if arranging the composition in her head before doing so with paint. As if Emily herself, yes, and the dress, and the bed, were to be painted.

Emily tried to sit up.

"I'm serious," the woman said.

Emily heard some anger in the woman's voice. Still, this had to be the result of some party. Some insane after-hours place she and Jack had ended up.

"Just so," the woman said again.

"Where's Jack?" Emily asked.

She needed to know. She needed to know this right now.

But the woman raised both hands now, framing Emily and the bed, even as the frame did this for her.

"It's my best work," the woman said.

There was emotion in those words. And Emily imagined Jack making a joke:

She's acting like she's already done the painting.

"It's...