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intended purpose.   Revenge.
    Jack moved forward, leaving the painting propped on the dresser.   He went to the bed and crawled in.   Gabrielle unconsciously dragged an arm lazily over his chest, clutching his side.   He cast a final glance at the alluring red of the woman’s dress, then closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER 5 – SWEET DREAMS
 
 
 
    Weeping.   Soft constant weeping.
    It was that sound that lifted Jack from the depths of sleep to the shallow waters of near waking.   What brought him out completely was a loud and heavy thud.
    He bolted upright.   For a brief, baffling moment he actually believed he was back in Portia’s bedroom, poised once more to encounter the haunt in her closet.   Seeing a darkened and distressed version of himself in the mirror opposite the bed, however, he realized he’d only awakened into the murky environs of his own bedroom.
    His heart was pounding violently.   He felt groggy and uncertain.   He wondered if the sounds he’d heard, both the weeping and that damnable thud, had merely been the product of some dreadful dream.
    Turning to his right and looking down the hall, he noticed hazy light pouring out of the bathroom.   Shadows stirred inside, and the sound of a faucet began.   He looked down at the sprawling mess of covers beside him and realized Gabrielle was not in bed.   He peered toward the bathroom again and grumbled, “What is she doing down there?”
    Jack reasoned that a bad dream had likely upset Gabrielle.   She’d hurried off to the bathroom, where she was now running water on her face, trying to clear her mind.   That seemed like a reasonable enough explanation for the weeping he’d heard, but that jolting thud...?
    He scanned the bedroom’s darkness, searching for a possible cause.   He looked at the gallery, thinking one of the pictures might have fallen to the floor, but all were in their places.   He checked both dressers, peering at the painting momentarily.   Nothing seemed out of place.   He considered the two floor-to-ceiling windows directly across from the bed, the large mirror that rested high between them, the wet bar in the corner and its sizeable wine rack.   All was as it should be.   He recalled that the sound had seemed extremely close, almost as if it was right on top of him, but maybe it hadn’t been as close as he imagined.   Maybe Gabrielle had knocked something over in the bathroom.
    Satisfied with that explanation, his head thumped back to the pillow.
    Sleep was just washing back in when something moved before his mind’s eye.   It was the painting.   Something about it was wrong.
    He sat up and looked at it.   A frown formed on his brow.   What he’d missed before was now obvious.   The red was no longer there.
    Perplexed, he hopped from the bed and made his way to the dresser.   He removed the painting and scrutinized its canvas.   It was true.   His eyes were not deceiving him.   The red really was gone.   But not just that, the woman herself was gone.   It was as if she’d never been painted there at all.
    He turned and leaned back against the dresser, contemplating.   He raised the painting a bit, studying it vigorously.   The faces of the two men had changed too.   Their disconnected, distant looks had now become distressed grimaces, their eyes slouching, their mouths crimped like two sullen scarecrows.
    He smirked, thinking he now understood what was happening.   It was a grand joke, and he had been made the butt of it.   Portia’s little painting, as exquisite as it seemed to be, was really just a gag, the missing woman being its hilarity-inducing punch line.   Jack’s smirk became a reluctant grin, finally a smile.   “Very clever,” he chimed, amused.   “Very clever indeed.”
    Jack was about to put the painting back when he was halted by what he thought was a strand of red fabric extending off the top of the frame.   He considered reaching up and pulling it away but