The Blind Artist is a spooky story about a man who paints things he has never seen.
They called him The Blind Artist. He was an old man in his early 70s and he lived in a small house on the edge of town. He was an acclaimed painter, but he had been completely blind, ever since the day he was born. Despite his disability, he had painted some of the greatest works of art anyone had ever seen.
People came from far and wide to have their portrait painted by The Blind Artist. As long as they paid the requested fee, he would paint a portrait of anyone. Nobody knew how he was able to paint with such skill, even though he couldn’t see the person sitting in front of him. It was an uncanny ability that defied logic.
I arranged for him to paint my portrait. On the appointed day, I walked up to his house and knocked on the front door. When it opened, I saw The Blind Artist standing there, leaning on his cane. His face was drawn and wrinkled. His eyes were milky-white. He invited me in and I followed him as he shuffled down a long hallway.
In his studio, I handed over an envelope containing his fee. He thanked me and told me to sit on a stool. He stood behind an easel with a blank canvas on it and picked up his paintbrush.
“Before we begin, I must warn you,” he said. “Sometimes I paint too far…”
I had no idea what he meant. His paintings were always beautiful, so I was sure I would be satisfied with the finished product. I sat there, adopting a pose, as he started painting. Hours passed and neither of us said a word. The Blind Artist never looked up from his canvas. His brush traveled back and forth and his brow was wrinkled in concentration.
Finally, he put his brush down. “I am finished,” he said, and beckoned for me to come and take a look. As soon as I set eyes on the painting, I was horrified. He had painted me lying on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood. My throat had been sliced open and my body was covered in stab wounds. My dead eyes were glazed over and there was a look of terror frozen on my face.
“Why?” I asked, stepping back in horror. “Why would you paint something like this?”
The Blind Artist, looked at me with his sad, milky-white eyes.
“I warned you,” he said. “Sometimes I paint too far… Sometimes I paint the future…”