There is very little more. You already know how the tale of Terrill Langley and his painting concludes. I never saw him again. I did hear from him once more. He called, on what I came to realize was the last night. I wish I could report another thrilling conversation, but there wasn’t much to it. It mainly consisted of desperate, hopeless queries for information on my part. I knew the voice right away, even though he was screaming. There were other sounds, waves of noises reaching a crescendo over his shouts, but I couldn’t identify them. I determined that he wasn’t alone, that a visitation of some kind had taken place. All his precautions had been in vain. He said, if I heard him rightly, “The translation begins. Pray for my soul.” He said something more that I couldn’t catch, and then silence. There just wasn’t any connection at all.

I contacted the authorities, who had already been informed by Langley’s neighbors. They heard it all, more than I did, but they couldn’t tell the police anything more useful than I. Several people, as it happened, were able to speak of his shy, furtive behavior since returning home in the days before the end.

A number of them deduced or guessed that he was afraid of someone. I was willing to say that much, but no further in my account would I go. I don’t expect that my additional input would have been appreciated. Nothing the police took down could aid them in explaining what they found, and didn’t find, inside his apartment.

What became of the painting, you ask? I have it. The Radetsky tried to unload it, but without diligence, and there were no buyers. It would interest me to know the specifics of those sales sessions. I agreed to assume responsibility for it– acting as a kind of informal executor– until final disposition could be made. I don’t know when that will be. Langley’s painting resides in the back of a closet, a big walk-in affair, where the picture stands on its end against the wall, still wrapped and tied in burlap. Suits hang on racks, obscuring the package. I’ve never had it out, and I’m not sure that I ever will. As time passes, perhaps I shall wonder more and fear less. Perhaps I shall untie the strings and unpeel the wrapping, ever so carefully, if only to catch another glimpse of the marvelous painting.

Most likely, not.