Experienced Painter Needed

A retired painter's search for purpose leads to an unspeakable fate when the walls of an ancient house hungrily await their next coat.

Jimmy Hurley thought retirement would taste like freedom. Instead, it left him adrift in coastal Maine while his wife Karen thrived in their new life. Seeking to recapture the simple satisfaction of his trade, Jimmy begins taking small painting jobs—until a cryptic advertisement leads him to Blackwood Ridge Estate, a house that locals only speak of in whispers.

The decrepit mansion perches like a malignant growth on the ridge, more manifestation of decay than building. Its peeling façade and vacant window-eyes seem to watch Jimmy as he approaches. Inside waits Mrs. Gable, a frail woman with eyes like polished onyx and a voice dry as autumn leaves. The job seems simple: paint her study a deep, true blue—"like the ink of the abyss."

What happens when the painter becomes the medium? Listen to discover the chilling truth about what really dwells behind old walls, waiting for fresh vitality to sustain its unnatural existence. Some houses don't just consume your time—they consume you.

Terrorbytes Intro

If you have questions, comments or suggestions you can email me at:

Exxa0001@gmail.com and I will get back to you.

Chapters

• 0:00 Jimmy's Restless Retirement
• 3:55 The Mysterious Blackwood Ridge Estate
• 6:44 Entering the Haunted Study
• 9:41 The Journal's Terrible Secret
• 12:49 Becoming Part of the House
• 17:10 Forever A Coat of Paint

Transcript

Exxa: 0:47

The salt air of coastal Maine crisp and unforgiving was supposed to be the scent of freedom For Jimmy Hurley, retired four months from Hurley Painting. It mostly smelled of damp wood and emptiness. Smelled of damp wood and emptiness. He'd built the company over 22 years, brush stroke by careful brush stroke, then decided to shut the company down and retire. He sold his two-family house in Winthrop, massachusetts, for a figure that meant he and his wife, karen, could live out their days comfortably. They moved to Cape Elizabeth, maine, where they had bought a small house with a nice chunk of land just down the street from the choppy Atlantic Ocean. Karen seemed perfectly happy, filling her days with her work-from-home job and grandkids.

Exxa: 1:40

Jimmy, adrift without the structure of estimates and job sites, felt the quiet pressing in. That's why he started taking the small jobs A fence here, a shed there, just enough to keep his hands busy, to feel the familiar weight of a roller or brush, to bring order and color to something neglected. It wasn't about the money, they didn't need it. It was about the motion, the smell of fresh paint, the simple satisfaction of a job well done. This job, though, this one was different. It came by way of a cryptic ad at the Cape Elizabeth General Store. Experienced painter needed Blackwood Ridge Estate, portland. Generous compensation. Blackwood Ridge Estate Everyone in town knew the name, usually whispered. It was where the old house stood, silent and brooding, clinging to the rocky spine of the land. The address given was for the house at the very end of a road, the one people avoided even looking at directly. Jimmy called the number in the ad. The voice on the phone, old Mrs Gable, was dry as autumn leaves, offering double his usual rate for painting a single room. A study. Jimmy, bored and intrigued, despite the prickle of unease, said yes.

Exxa: 3:15

Driving up Blackwood Ridge was like entering a different climate zone. The air grew colder, the trees denser, clawing overhead blocking out the sun. The paved road crumbled into dirt and gravel, the silence deepening, broken only by the crunch of his truck tires. And then he saw the house Perched on the ridge, like a growth. It was less a building and more a manifestation of decay. It was less a building and more a manifestation of decay. Paint was a distant memory, peeling wood like scabbed skin. Windows were dark, vacant eyes, some boarded and others just black holes. The porch sagged, the roofline dipped and the whole structure seemed to hunch against the elements, defeated but stubbornly rooted. An aura of profound stillness, heavy and cold, hung around it, thick with the smell of damp earth, rot and something else faintly tangy and sweet.

Exxa: 4:22

Jimmy, a man who'd worked on properties ranging from pristine new builds to crumbling Victorians, felt a genuine knot of fear tighten in his gut. This wasn't just neglect. This house felt wrong. He parked the truck, the engine noise dying abruptly in the oppressive silence. He sat there for a moment, the keys in the ignition, a powerful urge to just turn around, warring with that ingrained painter's resolve Get in, do the work, get paid, get out.

Exxa: 4:59

He opened the truck door and stepped out. The gravel protested loudly under his boots. He walked towards the house, every step heavy. The front door was ajar, a dark mouth in the decaying facade. He pushed it open slowly. Hinges screamed in protest. He pushed it open slowly. Hinges screamed in protest. The air inside was thick, cold, heavy with dust, mildew and that cloying sweet smell.

Exxa: 5:33

Mrs Gable, he called out his voice unnaturally loud in the stillness. No answer. He stepped inside the door, sighing shut behind him with a soft click that sounded terrifyingly final. The hallway was dim, shadows clinging to the corners like physical entities. Mrs Gable, he tried again, a little louder, a soft dragging shuffle from the back of the house. He followed the sound, heart beginning to thump against his ribs.

Exxa: 6:03

He passed through shrouded rooms, silent and ghostly, the air growing colder with each step. The sound led him to a door at the end of the hall. Slightly open, he pushed it wider and found himself in the study. It was a small dark room, walls lined with densely packed bookshelves. Behind a heavy desk piled with papers sat Mrs Gable. She was tiny, frail, her skin like ancient vellum, but her eyes were vast and black like ancient vellum, but her eyes were vast and black like polished onyx, fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Her white hair was pulled tight, her face sharp, angular.

Exxa: 6:49

Mr Hurley, her voice was a dry rustle, like leaves skittering across a graveyard, skittering across a graveyard. Yes, ma'am, jimmy Hurley, here about painting the study. He offered a tight smile. You are late. Jimmy frowned Late, no, I came right at ten, like we agreed. She tilted her head. Those dark eyes, unwavering. Time is obliging here, mr Hurley, it bends to necessity. A shiver went down his spine Right.

Exxa: 7:28

Well, the ad mentioned blue paint, a deep, true blue, she said, like the ink of the abyss. He looked at the walls, they were a faded, stained beige. Okay, do you have the paint? It is there. She gestured to a dusty corner. He retrieved the can.

Exxa: 7:55

He retrieved the can. It was heavy, the label unreadable with age. He shook it. The contents sloshed, thick and viscous. Looks old. Everything here is old, mr Hurley. She said a faint, chilling smile touching her lips. Some things are timeless. He pried the lid open. The smell hit him Metallic, coppery, sickeningly sweet. Not paint, something else. His gut twisted but he'd taken the job. He stirred the thick, dark blue liquid. It looked less like paint and more like liquefied shadows.

Exxa: 8:41

As he applied the first brush stroke near the bookshelf, he heard the whisper. He breathes. Jimmy froze looked at Mrs Gable, silent at her desk. Mrs Gable, did you say something? No answer, just the house settling. He told himself Old wood, old wood. But the whisper came again closer. He sees you Right beside his ear.

Exxa: 9:17

He spun around, heart hammering, nothing. The feeling of being watched intensified. A cold weight on his back. He worked, trying to focus on the rhythmic scrape of the brush, the smell of the unnerving paint filling his lungs. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating.

Exxa: 9:40

As he worked near the desk his hand brushed something under a stack of papers A small leather-bound journal. Curiosity, morbid and irresistible, drew him. He glanced at Mrs Gable, still silent. He slipped the journal out, old Brittle. He opened it, spidery, faded handwriting May 17th. The shell weakens. The binder must be refreshed. The offering of life, the final coat, must be true blue. Essence for color, flesh for permanence. His blood ran cold. Essence, flesh, permanence, the smell of the paint.

Exxa: 10:28

He slammed the journal shut, looked at Mrs Gable. She was watching him, her black eyes alight, with a terrible knowing, reading my diary, mr Hurley. Her voice was soft, but it cut through him. No, ma'am, I, I just. He fumbled with the book. She chuckled a dry, rattling sound. Some stories are meant to be read, some endings are meant to be written.

Exxa: 11:02

He stood frozen, the journal in his hand, the smell of the paint, thick and sweet in the air. That paint, she said, gesturing to the can. The binder is unique. It requires a living contribution. What are you talking about? His voice was hoarse. Her smile widened, revealing dark gums around surprisingly white teeth. The house needs to live, mr Hurley, and something lives in the house, something that requires sustenance.

Exxa: 11:47

The whisper came again, louder, deeper, resonating in the bones of the house we hunger. Jimmy dropped the journal. It landed on the drop cloth. With house we hunger. Jimmy dropped the journal. It landed on the drop cloth. With a soft thud he backed away slowly. Mrs Gable's expression shifted, losing the pretense of frail age, becoming something ancient and predatory. You were a good choice, mr Hurley, she said her voice strong, chillingly clear, healthy, full of vitality, the perfect pigment. Nope, fuck this place, I'm done here.

Exxa: 12:23

He turned and started walking out at a brisk pace. He burst out of the study through the shrouded rooms into the dark hallway. He fumbled with the front door, his hand shaking the knob, eluding his grasp Behind him. The shuffling came faster and the whisper no longer a whisper but a guttural, hungry sound that filled the house, ours. He yanked the door open and stumbled out onto the porch, gasping for air. He scrambled down the sagging steps, boots slipping on the gravel. He reached his truck, keys shaking. He jammed it in the ignition, turned it. Click, click, click, click, click, dead. He tried again, frantically, nothing. He heard something behind him. Slow, deliberate, he froze, turned Slowly, terribly.

Exxa: 13:32

Standing on the porch, silhouetted against the dark doorway, was a figure, not Mrs Gable. This was taller, broader, a shape defined by the absence of light. Its face was indistinct, its eyes twin voids, and in its hand dripping with the thick, bruised blue paint, it held a paintbrush. It started walking towards him, slow, inexorable. Jimmy kept trying to start the truck. Click, click, click. The air grew heavy, the sweet, coppery smell intensifying. He had left the window down and with a dead battery, it was stuck down. The figure was right outside his door. It raised the brush. A final whisper seeming to come from the house itself, from the figure, from the very air around him. Become the color Mr Hurley. Then the brush descended. It wasn't a blow, it was a touch.

Exxa: 14:51

The cold, thick paint smeared across his face, but it didn't just sit on his skin, it sank in like ink on blotting paper. A searing cold spread through him, radiating from where the paint touched. His skin felt taut, then began to tighten, to stiffen. The smell of the paint was overwhelming, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He tried to scream, but the sound was choked off, turning into a gurgling gasp. As the blue spread, creeping across his face, down his neck, onto his arms, his body felt heavy, rigid, like drying plaster. He could feel his substance changing, becoming dense, opaque, the texture of drying paint. His vision blurred the world, narrowing to the terrifying blue consuming him. He felt himself pulled, drawn towards the house, towards the study, towards the wall. In some supernatural way his consciousness fragmented, scattering like droplets of paint. Then he blacked out.

Exxa: 16:15

Jimmy Hurley didn't just die, he was absorbed. His life, his energy, his very being was the essence, the binder for the final coat. He was pressed into the wall, becoming part of the pigment, the permanence the journal spoke of. The Blackwood Ridge estate stood silent. The study walls a vibrant, unnatural blue, were finished, bound for a time. Jimmy Hurley, the retired painter with a wife named Karen, down by the sea, was gone, incorporated into the fabric of the house, a permanent, unseen part of its terrible history a living, breathing coat of paint on the wall of Mrs Gable's study. Karen would wait, she would call his cell phone, she would call the police. They would investigate, but all they would find is a little old lady that had her study painted a very odd blue color. She would eventually accept he was missing, but she would never find him. He was already home, or what remained of him was.