[ WP ] Bob Ross was actually a serial killer that painted where he buried his victims . His paintings are becoming suspicious and the body count is rising .

Rick looked down at the crumpled picture one more time, which was now shaking in his hand. 
 
 It could n't be. The image was unmistakable now, he knew he had to return to that place, but he was afraid of what he would find. Bob Ross used to say that each painting was his own little world, a creation spawned from the mind, but that was a lie. The yellow forest meadow Ross had painted did not exist solely in the painter's head- it had already existed in Rick's life long before the brush had touched the canvas. 
 
 *The forest behind my old house, * he thought, feeling his heart begin to race. 
 
 He had found the old episode of Bob painting the picture of his backyard, and watched it in excruciating detail, over and over again. Listened to everything that Bob had said, the way he painted the picture, hung on every articulate attention to the scene, as if in a trance. Watching the stranger bring the meadow of his childhood to life with minute detail was surreal. 
 
 “ In your world, you can do anything your heart desires, ” Bob Ross said, as he pressed the brush to the canvas. Bob started the painting with two large elm trees, standing stoically in the meadow. It appeared as if Bob had conjured the pair from his imagination, but Rick would have recognized those two trees anywhere in the world. 
 
 Bob continued to talk as he painted. “ I used to walk around and look at a lot of nature. If painting teaches you nothing else, it will teach you to look at nature with different eyes. It will teach you to see things that have been there all your life, and you've never noticed. Enjoy nature... it's worthwhile. ” 
 
 In the context of the episode, Bob's comments seemed innocuous and cheery. Now, they made Rick's blood run cold. 
 
 “ Let's really make it come alive. ” Bob began to draw foliage, lining the trees with thick yellow bushes. “ If you've ever walked through the woods early in the morning, all the creatures are out playing in here. This is where they live, in all these bushes. ” 
 
 Rick stopped to stare at the giant elm behind his house, the one the Bob had lined with bushes in the episode. It looked exactly like Ross' painting, except for the ground. The ground beneath the trees were brown and barren. The bushes beneath them must have died out. 
 
 *Looks like the critters lost their place to play after you dug it all up and buried something under it, Bob. * 
 
 He turned back to the video. 
 
 “ Maybe it rained last night. ” Bob Ross began to dash blue into the front of the painting. “ After it rains you always have some nice rain puddles. Let's draw some in here- look, they hide in your brush. ” 
 
 It had rained the day that Rick's father had gone missing. He had stayed up all night with his mother, watching the blurred flash of patrol lights through rain spattered windows. The cops had found nothing. For weeks they had searched, until the memory of Rick's father had slowly faded from the spotlight of local news channels and came to rest in the back of Rick's consciousness, never to leave. 
 
 He returned back to the present, where he stood behind his old house. The shovel was trembling in Rick's hand now, as he stood beneath the giant elm. He knew what he had to do, but he no longer had the strength to do it. He looked up the clouds, which were large, overcast, and gray. *Anything but happy, * he thought. 
 
 Just then, he felt his phone buzz. He looked down. It was his mother. He picked up the phone, holding the receiver to his ear. 
 
 “ Rick! ” his mother said. “ They found you father. It was Ross, just like the rest. He was buried in one of the places he painted. ” Rick could hear his mother choking back tears. 
 
 “ I know mom, ” Rick said. “ I'm there now. The meadow behind our old house. ” 
 
 “ What? ” she said, her voice sounding confused. “ No, they found him in the mountains. ” 
 
 Rick put his the phone down for a minute. The sky was opening up, the clouds shrinking smaller, and turning whiter. *Happier. * 
 
 Just then, Rick heard a voice behind him. 
 
 “ Hey there friend. Nice day for a walk. ” 
 
 Rick spun around. A figure was standing before him. 
 
 The person was shrouded in the shadow of the elm tree. “ Who are you? ” he called out uncertainly. 
 
 “ Just a friendly face, ” the figure said. The man stepped forward out of the shade, revealing a large, fuzzy brown afro and a kind, tanned face. He was holding a pistol in his right hand, which was pointed at Rick. 
 
 “ I was just about to plant some bushes under these elm trees for the critters to play in. Then my painting will be complete. All that's left to do is sign my work. Would you like to be part of it? ” 
 
 Rick's throat ran dry. It was starting to drizzle now, but he was too numb to feel the raindrops. There would be puddles in the morning. 
 
 A single shot rang across the happy meadow, and all was silent. 
 
 *** 
 
 /r/ghost_write_the_whip 
 
 RIP Bob, miss you bro
