Grieving of the Butterflies (standard:Ghost stories, 2764 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Apr 16 2011	Views/Reads: 3139/2030	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Are the two portraits of French medieval children really cursed?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

in them. Whatever attracted you to them?” 

Spencer did not respond. He was unsure why he had been fascinated by the
prints. It was as if they demanded that he gave them a new home. 

The couple had retired to bed, leaving open the windows and the patio
doors, in order to circulate some much-needed ventilation into the 
cottage. The fumes from the painted walls and the incessant humidity of 
the night ensured that Spencer's slumber would be intermittent. He 
looked across at his wife, and was envious that she could sleep so 
soundly. He glanced at the clock to see that it was three-fifteen. 

After leaving the bedroom, Spencer strolled towards the balcony. He lit
a cigarette and slouched in a wicker chair, gazing out onto the 
moonlit, serene town. The vibrant lights and the moonlight reflecting 
off the calm surface of the river seemed to pacify Spencer. 

A butterfly landed on the railing of the balcony. Spencer was curious.
Never before had he seen a butterfly during the night. He edged closer, 
believing that the creature was probably a moth. Another landed close 
by, and then another. Spencer stepped back, watching as hundreds of 
butterflies massed on his balcony; most of the colourful creatures 
fluttering aimlessly. 

He stepped inside and immediately closed the patio doors. He was not
afraid of the harmless insects, but the incredible phenomena prompted 
his departure. He had heard before of unusual acts concerning 
creatures. He recalled reading the story of fish and frogs falling from 
the sky, and strong gusts of winds were offered as a possible cause. 
This however defied explanation.  Could global warning have prompted 
such an unusual occurrence? 

Several of the butterflies slammed against his glass door, before
hovering towards the ground. Spencer noticed the sudden drop in 
temperature. In fact, it was so cold, that his breath was visible. He 
proceeded to hastily close all of his windows, his hands numbed by the 
coldness of the room. He could still hear the butterflies crashing 
against the patio doors, but felt so helpless. 

He strode towards the carnage and hesitated. Silhouetted against the
patio door was a dark shape. Spencer rubbed his eyes in disbelief, his 
teeth chattering uncontrollably. 

“Jill? Is that you, darling?” 

He realised that whoever was now looking out at the butterflies was not
a woman, but a child. The girl, who must have been about ten years old 
turned to face Spencer. He smiled insecurely, noticing that the small, 
unsmiling girl was wearing identical clothing to the mite in the print. 
Spencer was sceptical about ghosts and spirits, but now he was certain 
that he was encountering one for real. He rubbed his freezing hands 
together, wondering if he was indeed dreaming. 

The sad-looking girl advanced towards him; her feet invisible beneath
her long, green gown. Her black hood gave the appearance that she was 
in mourning. He could now see her chalk-white face clearly. Her eyes 
were black and her lips purple. 

Spencer felt a movement within his bowels, and fought to retain his
dignity. “Who are you?” he whispered, his words accompanied by a cloud 
of vapour. 

The girl, who was now weeping, opened her mouth to speak. “Pouvez-vous
aider mes papillons?” 

Spencer had a fair understanding of French, but this girl's dialect was
strange. “You want me to help your butterflies?” He realised how absurd 
he was being, given that the girl could not probably understand him. 

The girl did not respond. She turned and pointed towards the patio
doors. 

“How? I mean, what can I do?” 

The girl moved even closer. Spencer could now detect the aroma of
jasmine. He was tempted to hold the girl, but her fragile body seemed 
translucent. 

The girl looked up to Spencer and spoke once more. “Mon frere va nuire a
mes papillions.” 

Spencer picked up on the words brother and butterflies, but was unable
to understand her fully. 

The girl bypassed Spencer and advanced towards the lounge, where the
prints were. As she left, she raised her voice. “Svp, vous devez 
l`arreter!” 

The startled teacher now noticed that the butterflies had ceased
hammering against the patio door. He approached it to see that they had 
gone. He looked down and noticed no evidence of the dead insects, which 
had perished in their quest to breach the fortified glass. Spencer 
reluctantly walked towards the lounge, noticing that the temperature 
was back to normal. He gazed at the prints that were nestling on the 
coffee table and picked up the one that portrayed the girl. He 
squinted, noticing that a butterfly was fluttering at her shoulder. Why 
had he not noticed this before? 

Spencer, when he retired to his bedroom, could not help but feel
despondency after his haunting experience. Tomorrow, he would 
investigate the mysterious prints. 

As arranged, Spencer, who was clad in a tee shirt and shorts, arrived at
the Shambles public house at noon. He ordered his beer and spotted his 
colleague, who was sitting outside on the balcony. Barry Keller was an 
art teacher and an authority on past masters and old paintings. The 
sixty-three year old man was wearing a scruffy corduroy jacket, 
complete with elbow patches, even though the sun outside was blazing. 
The art master rose to greet his colleague, his wavy grey hair 
dishevelled and his spectacles resting on his red bulbous nose. The two 
exchanged handshakes before taking their seats. 

Every seat outside the pub had been taken; the revellers looking out
onto the port of Whitby, viewing the pleasure cruise ships, fishing 
boats and the Goths, who would often converge on the historic town. The 
aroma of fresh fish that was wafting from the boats was evident, yet 
not unpleasant. A calm breeze refreshed the afternoon drinkers, the hot 
sun bronzing their faces. 

“So, Spencer; why have you beckoned me here on this fine day? Without
trying to sound disrespectful, you don't usually request my company 
unless you're after something... How is that lovely wife of yours?” 

“Jill, she's fine... She's obsessed with decorating our cottage...
You're right, Barry; I require your knowledge.” Spencer removed the 
photographs from his pocket. “Do you recognise these paintings?” 

The veteran teacher adjusted his age-old spectacles and examined the
snapshots. “You've acquired these paintings?” 

“Prints, yes... Well, do you recognise them?” 

Keller swallowed a mouthful of his cider and pondered. “Yes, I recognise
them... Fifteenth century painting by a mostly unknown artist, Jules 
Legrand. The paintings as far as we can determine, were of his son and 
daughter... Legrand was believed to be a nobleman, but nobody as yet, 
has been able to determine much about him.” 

“So, how do you know that he was a nobleman?” 

“Look at the pictures, man... If that was his home, then he most have
been a very wealthy man indeed... Anyway, what I'm about to tell you is 
not pleasant... In the seventies, there was a horrendous house fire 
somewhere in Surrey. The family, a woman and her two sons perished. The 
husband, who was at work survived... When the fire had been 
extinguished, one of the firemen discovered the paintings, hanging on 
the wall and untouched. Everything else around them was burnt to 
cinders... Within a five-year period, there were several more fires. In 
total, I believe there were eight. There were similar circumstances, in 
which each household owned copies of the paintings.  Twenty-six people 
were burnt to death, and the paintings were found to be intact.” 

Spencer was in a state of shock. His eyes focused on the soaring
seagulls, which reminded him of the butterflies. He was about to 
confide in his friend about his experience, when Keller continued. 

“One of the main tabloids ran a story about the supposed cursed
paintings. One of the journalists, I forget his name, invited everyone 
who possessed copies of the paintings to meet at a location in 
Stonehenge. There, a mass bonfire was built and the copies of the 
paintings burnt... Since then, I've not heard of any occurrences. It 
was believed that every print was destroyed.” 

“Barry; what is the significance of the butterfly above the girl's
shoulder?” 

“I was coming to that... After hearing about the supposed curse, a
French historian contacted the newspaper and told them that the girl in 
the painting, Mary, collected butterflies and kept hundreds of them in 
a room. Her brother, Louis detested them and allegedly set fire to the 
room... Of course, nobody believed the historian, for he was unable to 
give locations, dates, or even anything about the artist... Spencer, 
you must get rid of the prints. Even though I'm not a superstitious 
man, it is better to be careful when it comes to loved ones.” 

Spencer pondered. The pleading girl now made sense. Was she asking him
to stop her brother from burning her butterflies? He was tempted now to 
confide in Keller, but felt that to tell about Mary would be an act of 
betrayal. A colourful butterfly landed on the rim of Spencer's glass, 
and that event made up his mind. Perhaps burning the prints would 
release Mary from her torment. 

“Barry, did any of these survivors mention anything unusual before the
fire?” 

Keller noticed the butterfly and smiled. “Unusual? Such as?” 

“It doesn't matter.” 

Spencer strode along the cobblestone road towards his cottage, his mind
in turmoil. To destroy the prints would surely allow Mary to rest in 
peace. But why had nobody else seen the ghostly girl? Spencer suspected 
that he already knew the answer. 

His heart skipped a beat when he heard the sound of sirens approaching.
He sniffed that air, the odour of burning reaching his nostrils. The 
sight of black smoke spiralling from his cottage confirmed his fears. 
He sprinted towards the blaze, barging past the bystanders who were 
watching the spectacle. On attempting to go inside the cottage, a 
policeman seized him and manoeuvred him away from the danger. 

“Jill! My wife, Jill! She's inside.” 

Spencer slumped on a nearby bench, ignorant of the fact that Barry
Keller had joined him. A butterfly rested on the arm of the bench and 
Spencer angrily swatted it away. 

“Spencer, I'm sorry.” 

The distraught schoolteacher turned towards Keller. “Sorry. For what? I
was the one who brought that cursed print into our home... Jill pleaded 
with me to get rid of it, but no... I ignored her pleas and now 
she's...” 

“You don't know that yet,” said Keller, placing a consoling hand on his
friend's shoulder. 

The firemen battled the blaze for around thirty minutes before they
overcome it. The cottage was completely gutted. One of the firemen 
emerged from the cottage with something under his arm. Spencer left the 
bench and strode swiftly towards him. 

“I think they belong to me.” 

The fireman passed the prints over. “This was your cottage?” 

Spencer nodded. 

“I'm sorry, Sir... We tried all we could, but the fire was too fierce.
Nobody could have survived such an inferno.” 

“But they did,” moaned Spencer, pointing to the prints that were now
being examined by Keller. 

Spencer watched as his wife's body was removed from the ashes. He wept
openly, his anger great. He turned towards Keller, who was still 
studying the prints. 

The grieving man removed his lighter from his pocket, ignoring the
policewoman who was attempting to comfort him. “Burn them, Barry! Burn 
the evil things!” 

Keller seemed stunned when he faced his colleague. “Spencer, this is no
copy. This is an original oil painting... I know this is an 
inappropriate moment, but this could be worth a fortune.” 

“I know! I knew all along that it was the original!” 

“But how? I mean...” 

Spencer strode towards his car, oblivious to the medics and police
officers who were insisting that he went to hospital. He tossed the 
paintings into his boot and clambered into the driver's seat. He drove 
away speedily, his haste apparent. 

He crossed the swing bridge and noticed that several of the tourists
were pointing towards him. Spencer eyed the multitude of colourful 
butterflies that were shrouding his car. How could such beautiful 
creatures be associated with evil? 

After reaching a garage, Spencer left his vehicle and fought his way
through the swarm of butterflies. He went inside the kiosk and made his 
purchase before driving towards the moors. Still accompanied by the 
butterflies, Spencer steered his vehicle across an isolated field. He 
braked and rushed towards the boot of his car, his newly purchased can 
of petrol in his hand. He opened up the boot and sneered at the 
valuable paintings. He placed them on the arid turf and focused on the 
face of Mary. Perhaps it was an optical illusion, but she seemed to be 
smiling at him. 

He again ignored the fluttering butterflies and proceeded to dowse the
paintings with petrol. He flicked his lighter and held the flame above 
the paintings. “I'm so sorry, Mary,” he sobbed. He ignited the petrol 
and the paintings burnt fiercely, sending a spiral of dense smoke into 
the atmosphere. He fell to his knees and cried, unsure if the tears 
were for his wife or for the lost soul, Mary. 

Spencer looked towards the sky to see the butterflies soaring higher and
higher, as if they were escorting their mistress to the gates of 
heaven. Mary was free at last. 


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