The Dark Painting

I can feel it there, always lurking, waiting. As if its eyes were piercing my skin, looking deep into my soul. The frame’s gold glimmer has faded with time .This painting has to be over a century old. It has been resting on the wall of my grandmother's old house, which we inherited after she died last week, for as long as I can remember. I didn't know her very well, though I remember visiting once, I was about 5 at the time. The house in itself had seemed dark, like evil had been looming above me, waiting for my guard to come down.

The painting however, felt different, as if it were more than just mere strokes on a canvas. It felt as though there was a presence inside, watching me, as if it remembered who I was. I remember leaving early, the house scared me too much, the eerie sounds at night. I heard those same sounds tonight, was it all in my head? I can't take it any longer, I need to know.

I grabbed the lamp positioned on my night stand and began down the dark cold hall. In seconds I found myself looking into the frame, at her. I never did notice how beautiful the woman in the painting was. She sat with the posture of a queen, commanding yet graceful. Her dress shined with gold specs. Imitating what the frame once was. Her hair, styled to perfection, framed her face in a way which made her eyes shine. Her beauty pulled me in.

Her hand stretched out to me, calling me in. I felt an obligation to accept, so I did. That is when my world fell dark.

Now, I watch helplessly as her next victim, as clueless as I, walks towards us. Her eyes shine with the kind of curiosity that draws you in like nothing ive known before.

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