s my mysterious benefactor's man led me to the room I realized that I was about to undertake the most ardent wager of my life. Freshly showered and dressed in the clothes provided, I had a feeling that can only be understood by those who have bet all and are waiting to find whether they have won or lost.

His man was not a talker and other than the simplest of courteous greeting not a word passed his lips.

My outfit is almost comical for I tend to paint in street dress, priding myself in my ability to keep the paint on the canvas. Here I found trousers of rough serge, a blouse of earthy brown, baggy around the arms with cuffs tight at the wrist. To complete this strange ensemble was a floppy cap of dark velvet.

It was strange but I was not concerned about it. I can paint in any attire so it was of no consequence.

The house is a modern building with gaslight fitted and stands three stories overlooking the park at the center of the square. This property denotes my subject to be a man of wealth and definitely old money.

Byron called this day to advise me of the address and I arrived at the gazetted time of 11pm.

There is a certain smell in this place. It is a smell of age. The smell of old books and journals left go and gotten damp. It is hard to explain because mixed with it are those associated with a new building such as this and I can not see that it must be older than a few months.

All the furnishings are modern and I noticed that the library was still mostly unpacked. Perhaps that is the odor I speak of; it is hard to say.

I found the room situated on the second floor and imagined it may be the master chambers. This style of house has both bedroom and sitting room attached for the owner's convenience.

The door is solid oak with six panels, three a side and I noted that there is a drawbolt on the outside, which I considered most strange.

The man opened it before me and bid me to enter the outer room.

Inside it was set for a session. To my absolute delight, there was a full set of equipment of the finest type. An easel of black wood and a mortarboard laid out with the primary colours. I noted that the paint was the very best and the main brush set felt to be the finest of hair.

The canvas was small. A set size of some 34 x 28 inches. I was sure I must be careful for the grin I felt must not be shown. I had thought that the canvas would be of normal proportions, some two to three times bigger than this. Any fear I had for this wager failing evaporated like so much summer rain.

I busied myself as the man went through to what I felt must have been the master bedroom. Perhaps to let my subject know the time was near. A new fangled mantle clock sat over the fireplace and showed it close to the hour.

I took my time to sharpen the charcoal as I waited, straining my ears for sounds of voices and perhaps the ghost of conversation but there appeared to be none.

Soon the door opened and the man entered.

He was pulling an invalid's chair. Made of wicker and driven by two large spoked wheels and a front one for steering.

My subject appears as old as the smell I have previously mentioned. Under a rug that comes to his chin, I can see his bony frame is almost not there. His face has cheeks drawn tight across the bones of what I can see were a once part of a handsome face. His hair is white as snow and hung across his balding pate like ivy on a bluestone wall.

The servant turned the chair and helped the fellow out. His gate is decrepit and the man's strength is now seen as he lifts the fellow like a feather.

Situated in the center of the room was a solid chair of modern design. Polished dark and legs intricately turned, its cushion was red and of a soft velvet. The man lifted the old fellow onto the chair and when he had him set removed the blanket.

Underneath was an exact replica of my attire and it was made complete when a hat of the same was put upon the gaunt old head.

I looked dumbfounded and could say no words. The old man waved a bony hand at his man and he moved away.

He coughed and it sounded wet and warm. Clearing his throat seemed to be a major enterprise for him, so much so I was surprised when he spoke for his voice was strong and belied his years.

"Mr. Rowles, please prepare, we must start as the clock strikes the hour." He looked to his man. "Leave us now Deakin if you would be so kind."

The man covered the chair with the blanket and pushed it to the far corner out of my sight and left the room. I heard the bolt draw on his exit just as the mantle clock started to sound the hour.

I took the charcoal in my hand and put the first line to the sheet.

Could it be that 12 hours had passed? If so then I concerned myself with whether I have been apart of the travel. So completely engrossed in my enterprise had I been, time had taken its turn and flown.

I would not have known had not Deakin re-entered the room and disturbed my concentration. I must say here that my benefactor had been the most prefect subject. In the hours past he had not so much as said a word or moved a muscle. My biggest concern at the start was that I should sketch him separate to the canvas lest the load of sitting become too heavy for him.

I extended this plan immediately and his reply was that I was asked to paint a portrait, if he wanted sketches he would have hired a draftsman.

Now, as his man helped him from the chair and back in to the wicker seat of his transportation. I realized that I had almost finished.

We broke for the time it took this fellow to prepare himself in his chambers. It is not for gentle discussion to talk of what that would be but I know that I needed to find the ablutions and upon my return found my subject back ready for me with Deakin arranging a "Ploughman's Lunch" on the side table beside the easel.

If the old man had eaten I know not. I ate the offered cheese and bread as silently as I could and realized that I was very hungry. I took this time to study the picture. Strange it was that outside, for I had just been so, it was a wonderful day. The light was perfect and the house had shone with its newness. In here, with the windows shuttered, drapes drawn and the dark trappings of the soft furnishings, it was impossible to know.

Further, the candlelight, which Deakin was now changing for new tapers, gave the endeavour a feel that I saw was reflected on the canvas. I wondered how this thing would look when normal light was applied. I am sure it will be dark and foreboding. So be it. I am doing as I am told.

The old fellow bid me continue so I did.

It was then that I realized that something most odd had occurred. I mentioned that I had almost completed this work and that was so. If one were to consider scales for such things I would say I was 75% done. The 25% were as strange as I can describe for I had not drawn nor painted one feature of the man's face or hands.

I noted that the space left was perfectly suited to do so and the same for his hands thus. I plan to begin by sketching the feature but on my movement to charcoal the fellow stopped me cold.

"No sketching please Mr. Rowles. Paint only Sir."

Obviously he had attended the easel while I was out of the room and had understood my next steps.

I took the finest of the camel hair brushes and realize now, for the first time, that this will be a chore. For I will need to paint with fear of no retreat from the brush stroke.

Normally I would sketch the outlines in charcoal and then apply the various coats of paint, using charcoal to assist the next layer.

I had never tried this before and I am concerned that this commission may not be the cakewalk I thought it.

I started with the hands. Painting them crossed as they were with left over right. Paying attention to the true presentation of them. The skin drawn tight like a drum skin across the bones looking like rice paper starched with shellac.

It was an arduous task to be sure. I could not make a mistake and found that I was taking more time than I could imagine deciding where to put paint to canvas and was mixing colours with a determination I could not remember prior.

The clock showed a quarter of six and his hands were done. I again sound my surprise at the constitution of this old fellow, for it had been over six hours in this stint and he had complained not once nor so much as moved.

I would have continued except for my need of drink and the ablutions. I queried him of this and he instructed me to the bell cord, which I pulled to alert Deakin. I tried at this time to engage the fellow in a little talk while we waited although he was less than interested in doing so.

Deakin came and I left the room as before. He was helping the old man into his chair.

Outside it is evening although not fully dark. I noticed that the night was to be cloudless and was delighted in the weather today and this evening already considering the next day and the work I may be able to do.

I realized at that time that I felt most uniquely tired. As it goes I have the ability to work in stints and have worked throughout the complete day on other occasions and have not felt like this. Perhaps I am sickening for something, there is talk of something taking hold and I remind myself to take a toddy on retiring after this incredible enterprise.

I returned to the room and found it as before. The old man waiting in position and my water carafe filled and a side plate of stew with fresh bread. I eat quietly while observing my work. It is fine; I am more than happy with it so far.

The old man has said nothing to me and just waits for the final part. I observe his features now and can see that they appear familiar to me. This I put down to the fact that I have just spent the last eighteen hours looking at the fellow but there is a strange feeling below that. It says to me, "I know this man".

Notwithstanding, we begin the last session. Now... the face. I am not ashamed to say it took me at least 20 minutes before I put brush to canvas. At seven, as the soft peel of the mantle clock filled the room I brushed the first glance of colour to where his cheek would be. Soon, this would be finished.

The hours flew and I must report that I had no care for time once I started this exercise. I was completely a part of it. As had happened throughout the day, I felt as if I was in a bubble where a minute was an hour outside. As I applied the last of the paint to the old fellow's eyes I was aware of the now telltale rattle of the door latch on the outside that had announced Deakin's ingressing during the day.

My back is aching and I feel my muscles all following its lead. I straighten and stretch and this has a small effect on it all. I shrug to myself, so be it, it has been a very long day.

Speaking of which, the portrait is complete except for a small area under his left eye that has caused me concern through the lighting and I have instructed Deakin to move a candle around a little which he has done.

The time is now eleven twenty-five and I am now, for the first time, convinced I have won. The touch of paint needed to finish off what I have just spoken about is really my artistic judgement and to an untrained eye the thing is done.

All that is left is to perform this small shadowing and sign it off.

I have no need to leave the room this time and take the opportunity to take a drink of water while I wait for Deakin to assist his master.

So, too now, that is it as it has happened. Ten minutes have past and I am feeling a little impatient to continue, to finish.

Good, they are returning. Deakin is placing the old fellow back in his spot and I can now make the adjustment, the paint already mixed needing a touch of yellow to lighten in slightly. There, complete.

"It is done Sir" I report and place the equipment down with a certain flourish. The clock show eleven fifty odd and I only now need to sign the thing.

The old fellow looks over to me with a smile that shows his teeth for the first time. They are perfect in their presentation, so perfect they appear false and he applauds my efforts.

"Now Mr. Rowles, the signature. I have a request. I wish you to use a traditional medium for the paint if you would be so kind. Are you familiar with such techniques?"

I feel a little put out by this question, I have studied in Paris and have been exposed to the works of the greatest masters. I have made paints in traditional methods as one must to facsimile their style and fight the urge to say so, replacing it with a simple nod.

"Good." He motions to Deakin who retrieves a bowl from the draw of a cupboard near the door to the inner room. It has a pestle wresting on its rim and I see that it contains a number of dry ingredients that I assume are the clays and pigments needed to create a biase.

Deakin also retrieves a small bottle containing a clear liquid, which I know is the spirit needed to bind the paste.

He hands these to my patron along with a leather pouch. From this the fellow takes an ivory handled cutthroat razor. This he opens with a practiced ease, so much so I am surprised by the agility from his old hands and cuts his left hand across the pad of the palm.

The cut swells red before my eyes and he allows the blood to drip into the bowl.

"You are aware of this technique Mr. Rowles?" he asks me and I nod that I am, although I must say it is with pigs blood I have created such a shade in the past. I have heard tell of artists using their blood, even read of Di Vinci doing so, but have never seen it prior.

He rings his hand a little and then takes a kerchief, which Deakin helps him wrap across the cut.

Deakin brings the bowl to me and I mix the paste, all the time the old fellow watching me as a master would his apprentice.

I add the spirit to finish and bind it and see that the colour is a deep crimson, it will jump from the canvas against the dull tones finished there already.

I have cleaned a fine point brush and charge it ready. The paint sits like the finest quality oils and I see that my hand is shaking just so lightly as we wait.

There is no sound save the ticking of the mantle clock and I swear I can see the hand move to the hour.

The clock starts its chime. I move towards the canvas and look up as I do to see the old fellow moving forward in his chair. His eyes are closed in a rapture I am not aware of and I notice that he dribbles, moving his head from side to side.

I sign the painting, pacing my application of paint for the agreement is that the last stroke must be on the twelfth peel... six... James seven... recharge the brush... eight... a cursive R looping to the O... nine... the rest of the letters started... ten... eleven... my surname complete and twelve... a bold underline to finish the signature complete.

"Done!" I exclaim, my voice proud in effort.

I close my eyes the way you do when you give silent praise to an effort well done.

Immediately I feel faint and gasp with the sensation.

I feel hands under my arms and stumble back into them. The brush and board drop from my hands...

...Oh! what... Oh God! What has happened? What evil power has been turned against me? I fainted and... I... the room...

I am, no, wait, I am there, in the chair, not here, this is not Me...

My hands, God in heaven, they are... "Nooo!!!" They are the old man's hands. Must get out of here, this place. Too weak...

The painting, it... it is me, as me NOW!.. This can not be, I painted the old man.

"Relax Sir" I hear Deakin's voice behind me. I am sitting in the invalid chair. This can not be.

The other man, the Me, stands and walks over. It is my body, Me. He takes my hand in his and speaks gently.

"Now you are finished my friend. You are truly a very fine artist and my word is my bond. You will have all this, you will live the rest of you life in wealth beyond your dreams." He smiles a ghost of a smile, one piqued with little humour.

He turns to the portrait. "A most fine self-portrait. I think it will be my last for a while". He turns to face me and smiles that same smile again "And I thank you for your kind bequest. I am most obliged to be named heir to your estates and shall act as your agent and protector in the twilight of your life."

The painting is of the Me standing next to it and I have become Him.

Through some magic, most dark to be sure, this changeling has tricked me from my self.

I try to speak but find my body and soul just too tired to continue.

The night is as gentle as any late summer night can be. The room is large and airy. I can feel the smooth coolness of the sheets against me as I lie in the middle of a large four poster.

Deakin has left the drapes agape so the moonlight bathes the room in the false dawn.

I am finished. My life is done. Not today, but soon. In some feat of magic most foul I have been doppleganged and changed into this shell. How long this has been going on and how many times prior I can not say.

My mind is mine, my body is not.

The walls are covered in small portraits. There are five preceding the one I completed. All the others are of old men, all the same in appearance. The ninth shows me, as a young man. The first is a masterpiece. Even in this light I would recognize the style for I studied the school with great passion. It is Rembrandt as an old man, a self-portrait and I now understand his addition to this most evil collection.