The ONE Archives

ONE [(0.005)]: Mis-Coloured Shapes in Irregular Patterns

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ARCHIVIST

(utterly puzzled) So. Oodle the Doodle, ...is your name?

OODLE

Correcto! Oodie's the name!

ARCHIVIST

(whisper) And I thought Fan's name was weirder.

(normal) Alright. Statement of ...Oodle, no last name given, regarding the appearance of said abstract painting, Statement recorded directly from subject, September 18, 2016. Statement begins.

OODLE (STATEMENT)

I am... Well, I was an aspiring artist obsessed with the concept of art. I had always loved the extraordinary and bizarre depictions of weird and strange patterns that would go up, down and all around. They were diamonds, squares, circles, trapezoids, and all the shapes you could think of. Sometimes they were landscapes, other times they were animals or portraits of various people; famous or not. But there was one... One painting that stood up from all the rest which deeply unsettles me and gives me a headache even now.

It started when I first walked into that antique store. The inside of the store was styled like an old fashioned building from the 90s. There were cabinets and shelves of various stuff ranging from: tiny sculptures of houses, people, animals, maybe even food, gems and jewellery, unique decor items, vintage toys and memorabilias. 

There were also paintings too but there was one that I was interested in— Well, no, not interested in but it felt like it was drawing me in; like I was hypnotised by it for some reason. It was a simple illustration of a door shut tight with a hyper-realistic lock. Despite the blandness of the picture; there was something disorienting about it.

Despite my uneasiness, I shook my head and decided to bring it home. I hammered a nail in my bedroom wall and hung up the painting. I could feel like the canvas was overwhelming despite the odd simple illustration of the door. Each time. I would stare at the painting; I could feel my mind unwinding, tangling like someone had tied knots.

It didn't just stop there. It messed with my memory; sometimes I would recall incorrect events or details, other times I would miss important items I had on my person, and oftenly forgot people's names. As the weeks, maybe even months went by, I couldn't tell reality apart from fiction, and my thoughts jumbled up.

I noticed the accursed illustration changing as my mental state slowly declined. It was no longer just white and black, and the lock was unsecure now on the door. Red, pink, blue, purple and more colours sprawled all over the canvas; shifting and altering its state. I swore I saw an abstract, long and lanky hand grip the door so tightly. The hand was unlike a human's, its fingers too sharp like they would cut through you and made of colourful triangles that hurt to look at. The painting seeped into my reality infecting my walls and ceilings; littering the area with scintillating and pernicious colours and many shapes, too many to count.

Through my dreams, I saw a corporeal being made of shifting triangles and he– it was long and lanky and its hands were the exact same hands from the painting. There was no face; only a mass of vibrant; colourful triangles, a white void in the centre. It wore a slate argyle knit sweater with white and lavender diamonds on them and baggy violet and orange parachute pants.

 I don't think it ever told me its name so I stuck with the name, 'Canvasy'. I vividly remembered these dreams; chasing the being, Canvasy through these hallways. There were... far too many doors and clocks and mirrors. The clocks' hands spun forever and the numbers shifted places, the doors changed shapes and sizes, and the strangest of all was that if I looked in the mirrors, I would always change appearances, maybe my face didn't make sense.

(chuckle) I could hear Canvasy's voice taunting me, even after I woke up; head throbbing as I sat up in bed. Its voice was like sharp nails against a blackboard and teared against my skull. One day, I didn't see Canvasy in the halls, in my dreams again. The colours from the painting, that seeped into my reality, vanished into thin air.

There was nothing on the canvas; just a blank slate. As I stared at it; a thought glistened through me like a sugar rush. I needed to get rid of it before it happened to me again. I took the painting, placed it in my trunk, and drove to the nearest lake. I made sure I threw it down six feet deep. I made sure I would never see it again. So why do I feel like I'm being watched?

OODLE

...Need I say more?

ARCHIVIST

Oh, oh. No, no thanks.

You can take your leave. I- We will investigate this.

OODLE

Ah, thank you. Goodbye.

ARCHIVIST

Bye, see you.

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ARCHIVIST

All records and cases of the so-called 'Canvasy' in Oodle's statement seem to all lead into dead-ends. The origin of the painting, or where it came from is currently unknown and doesn't seem to be a copy of a famous painting. The disappearance of 'Canvasy' from Oodle's dreams might be symbolism that it has been set free. If it has been, there has been no report of where it could be.

The name 'Canvasy' feels wrong. I don't think that's its real name. Then what is?

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A/N: no, canvasy is not a oc; it is a fake name for the guy oodle encountered. guess who it is 🙂