Speaker 1: Content warning. This story contains descriptions of violence, disturbing themes,
and graphic imagery that some listeners may find unsettling. Discretion
is advised seriously.
Speaker 2: Calaruga Shark Media, Hello and welcome to the artist. This
episode is titled The Buddy.
Speaker 3: Thomas Ashton stood in the gallery pondering a new acquisition.
The painting depicted a sun drenched street, a red ball
frozen mid bounce. In the background, a blurry car approached
an indistinct figure. He felt his breath catch a familiar tightness,
gripping his chest for a moment, he could almost hear
the screech of tires, smell the acrid burn of rubber
on asphalt. His fingers twitched, itching for a scalpel rather
than a paintbrush. Mister Ashton. A voice interrupted his reverie.
I'm Jake Holloway, the artist. Thomas turned to face a
man in his early thirties, dressed casually in jeans and
a paint splattered shirt. Jake's eager smile faltered slightly under
Thomas's intense gaze. Mister Holloway, Thomas said, his voice smooth
as silk, I must say your piece is captivating. Tell
me what was your inspiration? Jake brightened. Oh, it's just
a memory from my childhood. Really, I was playing ball
with my sister on our street and this car came
out of nowhere. Nothing happened, thankfully, but that moment of
suspense always stuck with me. Thomas nodded slowly, his eyes
drifting back to the canvas and the figure in the background,
the one near the car. That's my mom, Jake said,
oblivious to the tension in Thomas's posture. She was calling
us in for dinner. Funny how such an ordinary moment
can become something significant, you know, yes, Thomas murmured. And
what does it mean to you, this frozen moment in time?
Jake shrugged. I guess it's about the fragility of life,
how everything can change in an instant, but also about protection,
you know, the safety of home and family contrasted with
the danger of the outside world. Thomas Ashton stopped off
at Books and Books on Lincoln Road, a renowned spot
for bookworms and news enthusiasts alike. The scent of freshly
brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of new books. He
perused the shelves finally selecting a copy of the Philadelphia
Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News. As he flipped through
the pages, Ashton's eyes caught sight of an unexpected entry
in the obituary section, his father's name. Although it was
the reason he'd buy the Philly papers, yet it was
still odd that today was the day they hadn't spoken
in years, a testament to their strained relationship. Surprisingly, Thomas
felt nothing, no remorse, no relief, just a detached sense
of closure. It was as if a weight he didn't
realize he carried had suddenly been lifted. Thomas walked home
as dusk settled over the city, the streets unusually quiet
for a weekday evening. The fading light cast long shadows
across the sidewalk, and a cool breeze carried the scent
of approaching autumn. His mind was still fixated on the newspaper,
the painting from the gallery, the image of the red
ball and the blurry car playing on an endless loop
in his head. It had been years now since his
last creation. The hunger gnawed at him, a familiar ache
that had only intensified since seeing that damned canvas. His
body thrumbed with pent up energy, a primal need seeking release.
As he turned onto a tree lined avenue, he spotted her,
a young woman, perhaps in her mid twenties, with long,
dark hair that cascaded down her back. She walked alone,
her heels clicking softly against the pavement, the sound echoing
in the quiet street. Her sun dress clung to her curves,
swaying gently with each step. Thomas felt his pulse quicken,
a familiar heat rising in his chest and spreading lower.
She was perfect, slender, graceful, and utterly vulnerable. Without conscious thought,
he adjusted his pace, Falling into step behind her. He
inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of her perfume, mingled with
the scent of her fear. The woman glanced over her shoulder,
her eyes widening slightly as she noticed Thomas. She quickened
her pace, clutching her purse closer to her body. Thomas
could almost taste her fear on his tongue, a flavor
as intoxicating as the finest wine. He matched her speed,
his breath coming faster now the thrill of the hunt
surged through him, pushing away all thoughts of galleries and
childhood memories. This was what he lived for, this exquisite
moment of anticipation. His fingers twitched, imagining the feel of
cold steel against her warm skin, of her soft flesh
yielding beneath his touch. The woman's steps faltered as he
approached the corner. She fumbled in her purse, likely searching
for her phone or keys. Thomas closed the distance between them,
his shadow now overlapping hers on the sidewalk. He imagined
pressing himself against her, feeling her warmth, her trembling body
against his. He could see the rapid rise and fall
of her chest, hear the catch in her breath. She
was so close now he could reach out and touch
her if he wanted. The urge to do so was
almost overwhelming. His body responded to her proximity, a rush
of arousal, making his pants uncomfortably tight. The woman turned
the corner sharply, her pace now just short of a run.
A small whimper escaped her lips, barely audible, but like
music to Thomas's ears. The sound sent a jolt of
electricity through his body, heightening his arousal. For a moment,
he imagined grabbing her, feeling her struggle against him, He
could almost taste the salt of her tears, see the
life drain from her eyes as he created his masterpiece.
In his mind, he saw her dress torn, her skin
marred by his blade, her body posed in a grotesque
imitation of ecstasy. His breathing grew ragged, his hands clenching
and unclenching at his sides. The urge to reach out
and seize her was almost unbearable. He could feel the
heat radiating from her body, smell the sweat beating on
her skin. But then, as quickly as it had come,
the urge passed. Thomas kept walking straight ahead, his face
a mask of calm indifference. He passed the corner without
a second glance, continuing down the main street as if
he'd never noticed the woman at all, not tonight. As
he walked away, he could hear the woman's desperate running
footsteps fading into the distance. Thomas allowed himself a small smile,
adjusting his clothes to hide the evidence of his excitement.
Rico stood firm, his jaw clenched in frustration as he
stared down Captain Doyle in his cramped office. The overhead
fluorescent light buzzed annoyingly, adding to the tension in the room.
Leave it, Captain, She's one of ours. Rico insisted, his
voice edged with urgency. We can't just leave it. Captain
Doyle leaned back in his creaky chair, sighing heavily. He
glanced at the paperwork on his desk, as if searching
for the right words. Look, Martinez was, it's too high profile,
too sensitive. So what we just forget about it? Forget
about Elena, Doyle replied softly, his tone tinged with resignation.
Go clear some cases. Detective Thomas Ashton sat at his
sleek Maha ug andy desk, the glow of his computer
screen illuminating his face in the dimly lit office. He'd
been idly researching Jake Holloway, the artist whose painting had
stirred such unexpected emotions in him. What had begun is
casual curiosity, had turned into a deep dive into the
man's life. As he scrolled through Jake's social media profiles
and various articles about the up and coming artist. There
was Jake grinning widely in front of a modest but
charming suburban home, his arm around a pretty brunette wife.
Another photo showed him in a sun dappled backyard, laughing
as he played with two young children, a boy and
a girl. Thomas clicked on a video. Jake was in
his studio talking about his creative process. I draw a
lot of inspiration from my family, Jake was saying, his
voice warm and genuine. They ground me, you know, keep
me connected to what really matters. The camera panned, revealing
a large, goofy Golden Retriever sprawled at Jake's feet. Jake
reached down to scratch behind the dog's ears. This is Buddy,
he's my studio assistant, Jake joked, his smile widening. Thomas
felt his breath catch Buddy. Of course, the dog was
named Buddy. He continued scrolling each image and snippet of information,
painting a picture of a life that seemed almost too perfect.
Jake volunteering at local art programs for kids. Jake and
his family at the beach building sand castles. Jake receiving
a Community Service award for his work with at risk youth.
A loving family, a successful career built on genuine talent
rather than manipulation and fear, A sense of belonging and
purpose that didn't involve blood and scalpels, even the dog,
especially the dog. Philadelphia, nineteen seventy one. The summer sun
beat down on the tree lined street as Margaret ashed
and walked with her son Tommy and their golden retriever puppy, Buddy.
The day was warm, the air thick with the scent
of fresh cut grass and blooming flowers. It happened in
an instant. A red rubber ball bounced into the street,
followed by a thin brunette girl no more than eleven,
chasing after it without a care in the world. Margaret's
eyes widened in horror as she saw the car approaching,
its driver, Oblivious to the impending tragedy, Tommy hold Buddy,
Margaret cried, dropping the leash and rushing forward. She waved
her arms frantically, flagging down the car. As she reached
for the girl. The driver slammed on the brakes, tires
screeching against the asphalt. In the chaos of the moment,
no one noticed Buddy slipping away from Tommy's grasp. The puppy,
confused and frightened by the commotion, dark into the street
just as the car skidded to a stop.
Speaker 2: Next time, on the artist, a Killer's canvas.
Speaker 1: As the past and present collide, Thomas Ashton faces the
ghosts that have haunted him for decades, from the quiet
streets of Philadelphia to the glittering art galleries of Miami.
The truth behind the Artist's origins begins to unravel. Meanwhile,
Detective Mick Rayes grapples with the case that defined and
destroyed his career as a new generation turns the Artist's
reign of terror into binge worthy entertainment. In the Halls
of Power, Senator Greg Henley and his wife Mariella make
their bid for the nation's highest office, unaware of the
dark forces that have shaped their path, and as the
final brush strokes allayed on this twisted masterpiece, the line
between artist and monster blur liked never before. Don't miss
the shocking conclusion in episode ten Kiaroscuro, where light and
shadow dance in a deadly finale that will leave you
questioning everything you thought you knew about The Artist.
Speaker 2: The Artist is a Calaroga Shark Media production hosted by
Aidan I Flanagan, written by Aidan I Flanagan and John McDermott,
produced by Mark Francis Executive Producers John McDermott and Mark Francis.
Portions of the podcast may have been produced with the
assistance of AI. If you enjoyed this series, check out
the inspiration podcast Murder Weekly, available wherever you get your podcasts.
This show is also available commercial free. Check the show
notes for more info and how you can buy merch
for the artist. Calaroga Shark Media