When nothing's there

He was in his dream house yet again, speaking to himself. He was standing well-dressed and emaciated in his own glory he felt a sudden brashness overwhelm him. He wore a tailored suit, with fine material and branded shoes. He was enthralled by his own stature so much he stood in the front black trifold mirror, speaking to his three personalities. 

His inner Munch spoke first." You had your chance."

He ignored him and carried on staring vainly and myself.

His inner Dali spoke next."You did the right thing if you were to do anything it would haven ungrateful."

They all murmured in agreement. Unlike other individuals with his condition, Tony had complete control over his personalities. The only personality he would never show was his inner Van Gogh, or so he thought it was Gogh's image. He'd never truly understand him, of course-but to avail. What turned out to be a Van Gogh image turned into that of a copycat. He came to terms with the death of his Van Gogh, it died the day he met Munch. Munch's personality is totally opposite to that of Gogh. Van Gogh is described as a leader, a charismatic person who can influence anyone with a smile. Munch is a social-recluse who isolates himself into his work.

"I miss him." He blurted out.

 And yet he had resented the personality, for it had brought with it a dangerous admirer. The notorious Struggling Artist. He shook his head and shoved the thought of it away. The deranged spirit had not only forced its way into his mind but into his personality. He smiled, creepily as he thought back to it. It had swayed him with its poisonous words, and now its poison is seeping into a new victim.

"Speaking of graceful." He was looking in the mirror at his 'Dali'.

 "My final work is almost done."He turned his head to see Crystal from the corner of his eye.

In the dark shaded room with curtains closed and the air cold, Crystal was sleeping on the king-sized bed. He turned back to his reflections, eyeing himself once again before steering into the night. A glass of wine was awaiting him in the kitchen, and a night of horrors awaited him outside.

0-0-0-0-0-0-00

"I've found out a bit about it."

Willow was sitting on her lip-shaped couch in the middle of her sunken lounge. The curtains were wide open to view the quaint suburb.  It was quiet, too quiet for her liking and that's why classical music played in the background. Her labrador Felix was playing in the yard with her tiny Pomeranian, Teacup. Madam Alice sat across from her with a bottle Berthe de Joux on the table and a glass of it in her hand. 

"How so?"

"Of course I had to ask a friend, I know nothing about the dark arts." She crossed her legs.

"Is this friend of yours a Medium?"

"Oh no I didn't speak to Genevieve, the spirit is too dangerous for the likes of her." She smiled."Let's just say I made a friend."

Madam Alice raised her eyebrow. "And this friend, know's more about the artist than we do?"

"Yes, in fact, she is related to him."

"Do tell, what does she have to say?"

"Her mother had the painting in her attic for twenty-five years, without even knowing its history. But oh, it brought with it a new sort of history."Felix started barking outside. "Once her grandson uncovered it, it started to show signs of paranormal activity."

"What little did her mother know about it?"

"As much as we do. The painter committed suicide shortly after finishing it and used his own blood mix in the oil."

"Did she say anything about the spirit?"

"Now that's where it gets interesting."