[ 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 .

Clay carries an old tin can he uses to rinse brushes between use into the kitchen and turns the faucet. The water batters the bottom of the can with the same ferocity as the doubt in his head. 
 
 `` It does n't need to be a masterpiece, just focus on the process'', echoes from somewhere in the back of his head until the words come out as a faint whisper from his lips. 
 
 `` More happy trees today? ``, his wife Sharon calls out muffled from another room. Startled, Clay turns off the faucet and glances out the window. The sheet of white and cotton covered limbs scattered throughout the rear of his cabin bring him back. 
 
 With some resolution, he responds,'' uh, yea, perfect day for it, weather guy says we're getting another 7'' today.'' Hell, any day up here in the winter is a perfect day for it, he thinks. Every year he comes up to this part of Wisconsin seems to have the same forecast, only the inches of snow on screen vary. Does n't bother him though, the isolation is what he and his wife looked for shortly after retirement 11 years ago. Turning their summer vacation home to almost a permanent residence these days. 
 
 Back in the den, Clay tightens the screws on his rickety easel. Beneath, lies a paint blotted bedsheet from the old guest room no one has used in over a year. Not that it matters, the kids moved out of the main house over 20 years ago, and even the grand kids are sprouting their own branches of the family tree. Last June, his third great grandchild was born he has yet to see. More often than not, it's just him an Sharon these days, no matter where they are. 
 
 A 27'' Vizio sits in one corner of the den displaying a fuzzy haired man frozen in place while wielding a human sized paintbrush. He told Gary, his eldest son, he had no use for the damn thing, and that he hardly knew how to use it, but he brought it wrapped two Christmas' ago anyway. 
 
 `` Look Dad, I know you've said you do n't need this crap, but I'm sure Ma could use the break from you just staring out the window'', Gary says with a Wink to his mom. Then continues, `` I do n't know how but you all still somehow get the connection to run it, even out here in BFE.'' 
 
 Clay hates to admit it, and probably wo n't, but he has used it. Alot. Gary got it to pop up Netflix every time he turns it on too, telling him they just added those weird painting shows he and Ginny used to watch all the time before both went silent long enough for Sharon to interrupt about needing help with dinner. 
 
 A picture of Ginny, in her Junior Prom dress complete with yards of fabric and a hair do to match most women her age, if she was still here, would swear they never had occupies the only frame in Clay's den. Family photos from the decades litter the walls throughout the rest of the house, but his Ginny is the only one allowed here. That and an old tennis shoe atop the mantle, a women's size 7, sit side-by-side. 
 
 Clay taps the glass of the frame, says, `` I miss you honey, every day'', something he's made a habit of since setting them there and proceeds to the remote on the coffee table. 
 
 Clicking play, the fuzzy haired man tells his audience for probably the hundredth time about the joys of painting, how he's met so many wonderful people over the years since the show began, and today he was going to replicate a picture he took on vacation, a summer scene. Clay welcomed the warmth of this kind of picture in his snowed in enclave. 
 
 `` Today we'll be using Cadmium Yellow, Ultramarine Blue, Veridian Green, Burnt Umber, a smidge of Alizeran Crimson and as always, some Titanium White'', reports the fuzzy haired man. Without skipping a beat, he adds, `` do n't be afraid of any mistake, we call those happy accidents'' 
 
 Clay has painted along with this guy about 40 times now and grunts with the sentiment. His `` happy accidents'' feel more like car wrecks, but it has n't deterred him yet. His wife out of pity, or pride as she claims, has two of his more recent works hung in the living room for all to see. He'd be more embarrassed to have them there if it were n't just them staring at them day in and out. 
 
 They're halfway through the episode when instructed to switch over to a palette knife, in not having much of a studio, Clay grabs an expired credit card and icing spreader that do well enough whenever making a shack or fence post commonly added to these paintings. 
 
 He begins to add the crimson, white and burnt umber together, following along to add a box shape they'll come back to later, but first, the idea of a little creek emerges needing them to switch back to the 1'' chip brush, `` to block in the water''. 
 
 Clay curses the copy in front of him, he was n't going for anything abstract, but the blobs form something closer to a Picasso than the idyllic landscape on screen. 
 
 Having blocked in the water, Clay stares back at his work and overhears the fuzzy haired man say, `` and my favorite part, take your brush, dip in the thinner and then beat the living devil out of it''. The giddy hiccup that follows unnerves Clay, always does. 
 
 This is the point where the urge to create competes with the burning in his knees, and easily wins. He plops in the chair to watch the rest of the work come to life knowing his canvas is n't even worth poking with a stick to determine life. It's almost over anyway, these things seem come to life toward the very end of the episode after questioning how an ocean or woods will come to life after scrubbing in a layer of concentric circles in the first couple minutes. 
 
 The man goes through the motions adding happy little tree after happy little tree to the forefront until satisfied and decides to end this episode with his little shed from earlier. He replicates the wood grain and slanted roof of his shack before making one stroke too far, then reminding his viewers that there are no mistakes, only happy accidents. Bringing back the knife, he fixes his building with a slight addition then dabs in a shrub or two to make it recede again. Quite happy with his work, he thanks his viewers for joining this episode of The Joy of Painting, until next time and trails off. 
 
 Clay's eyes drift from the final product to his own, then out the window to the snow in lazy succession beginning to further build on the trees and wood shed out back. A summer scene shows on his TV, but he ca n't stop the feeling that he's looking at something familiar. As the snow melts in late spring the wooded area behind his cabin has it's own creek visible running perpendicular to the shed. 
 
 He glances between all three again and again until the picture on screen gives way to credits with the window on the bottom right counting down until the next episode. The auto play is about to boot when the scrolling marquee shows: 
 
 A SPECIAL THANKS: To my sweet Virginia 
 
 Clay springs from the chair and clutches his chest. 
 
 

