by N. M. Howell
I approached the chair and ran my hand along the velvety surface of its arms. I inhaled deeply and smelled dust and the faintest hints of perfume. Through the dim light, I noticed the fabric had faded to a light golden brown on both arms and seat, suggesting that the chair itself was heavily used. I looked about the room and wondered why it was so empty. I tried to imagine the old woman sitting in the chair alone, staring at the painting. The thought overwhelmed me with deep sadness.
I would be lonely too, being cooped up in a massive house such as this, living alone with nothing to keep me company besides my artwork.
I shivered and strung my camera over my shoulder as I walked out of the room to find more of this so-called infamous art collection. I paused as I reached the door and glanced back quickly at the painting on the wall. My heart skipped a beat as I could’ve sworn that the painting’s eyes followed me. I stepped back into the room and stared deeply into the eyes of the portrait, but it didn’t move. Of course, it didn’t move. It was a painting. I stretched out my arms, let out an audible sigh, and steeled myself against the eerie feeling that I couldn’t seem to shake. With a deep breath and another slow exhale, I confidently walked out of the room to find more of Mrs. Hemingway’s art collection.
Chapter 6
I tried to push the sense of magic from my mind as I found myself walking into a large formal dining room that must have been at least thirty feet long. I immediately walked towards the large windows and opened the curtains, but the windows were boarded up from the outside and there was barely any light seeping through the small cracks in the wood.
Fortunately, my eyes had adjusted somewhat, and with a little help from the backlight on my camera, I could see well enough. There was a long wooden table that ran the full length of the room and was fully set with cutlery, plates, and wine glasses. It was surrounded by about twenty tall-backed formal wooden chairs, all covered in a thick coating of dust. A large wooden piano sat alone at the far end of the space, reflecting what little light shone on it from my phone.
I looked around and noticed a dozen paintings on the wall and lifted my camera to begin taking pictures. I started with the picture on the closest wall and snapped a quick photo. The flash nearly blinded me in the darkness, and it took a solid minute for the spots in my vision to disappear. It did illuminate the room, though, and I got a good look at the space around me. The walls were completely covered with large, ornately-framed portraits. There was hardly any wall space that wasn’t covered in art. It was quite the display.
The flashes from my camera illuminated the space enough for me to catch a glimpse of the artwork. The portrait was of a young man, and he looked to be wearing clothes from the 1920’s. He had a sad expression on his face, like the old man in the previous room, and whoever had painted it had managed to capture so much of the man’s emotion. I found myself growing sad just looking at him. His eyes were particularly mesmerizing, and I got lost in their sadness.
I pulled myself out of the daze a moment later, and moved on to the next painting. I figured I might as well document as much as I possibly could, so I could pick and choose that would work for the paper later. It would be infinitely easier had the lights been on and I could frame a proper shot, but given the circumstances, I would have to just snap as many photos as I could manage, and sort through them all later.
I continued to photograph each painting in turn, and by the time I reached the end of the largest wall, I had to sit down and steady myself on a nearby chair. My head was spinning and the stars didn’t seem to want to disappear from my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for my sight to come back, and when it finally did, the room seemed even darker than it had before. The constant bright flashes couldn’t be doing anything good for my eyesight, that was for sure.
The paintings were all of people—close-up portraits of everyone from old couples to young children—and I even noticed a portrait of a dog on the far wall. I slowly made my way through the room like a bee fluttering from picture to picture, snapping quick photos before moving onto the next. When I finally reached the largest picture at the end of the room, though, I felt the blood drain from my face. I took a few steps back to get a better look, and snapped another photo to light up the room.
The portrait was of two large men. They were dressed in orange coveralls with a moving company logo on their chests. There was something about the painting that had me on edge, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
Realization quickly dawned on me. These were the same two men I saw at Jordan’s restaurant the day before. Both had been sitting at a table staring at each other in silence, much like they were staring at me straight out of the painting. They had the same empty expressions, the same clothes, the same everything. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. There was no doubt in my mind that these two men were the same ones I saw before. I attempted to clear the lump in my throat with a cough, but my throat tightened up on me. Whether out of fear or from the dust, I couldn’t tell.
I shook my head, trying to come up with an explanation for what I saw. There must be a logical explanation for why two people I had just seen the day before were sitting before me in a portrait in a strange old lady’s home, even though the tenseness in my body seemed to suggest otherwise. They could be old friends of hers, perhaps. The men looked to be about the same age as they were depicted in the painting, so it must have been painted quite recently. Maybe they helped her move into the house, and she thanked them by having a portrait done? The idea was strange, but not impossible.
I pulled my gaze away from the two men and turned back towards the rest of the room. My eyes hadn’t adjusted much, but I could at least now faintly see the portraits on the wall. To be honest, there seemed to be a strange familiarity about the paintings. It caused my heartbeat to grow rapid, but I tried to think rationally about it, and I supposed there was nothing strange about having paintings of ordinary people.
I glanced back at the painting of the two men, and considered the possibility that it could be a coincidence. They could be anybody, really. My mind could be playing tricks on me. I was on edge, and it was dark. Maybe my mind was making connections that weren’t really there. It did happen, given my line of work. Journalists were always trying to make a story out of the most mundane things.
I turned back to the painting of the two men one last time to get a final look. The portrait was hung high on the wall, and I pulled a nearby chair over to stand on, so I could get a better look of their faces.
The two men in the restaurant had been staring at each other, I didn’t even make eye contact with them. So, really, I didn’t get a good look at their faces. Even still, it was quite shocking how similar these two men looked to the men I saw. I tried to push it from my thoughts and moved on to the next painting, stealing glances back at the two men as I walked away from the portrait. There was no way. My mind was just playing tricks.
I proceeded to take pictures of the paintings on the opposite wall. I lifted my camera to snap a photo of the next painting. This one was of a young woman playing cards on a small wooden table. A bouquet of flowers and a glass vase sat next to her. It was a nice portrait, and the woman was smiling, although, there was a certain sadness I recognized in her eyes. My heart had fallen back to its regular beat, and I moved on to the next painting. I had just spooked myself, that was all. Easy to do in a dark, empty mansion.
I raised my camera and snapped the next photo, but when the room illuminated and I saw the portrait before me, I nearly dropped my camera.
Staring back at me from the large ornate golden frame was a young girl of about four years old. She had bright golden, curly hair and a purple dress with buttons down the front. She stared at me with sad eyes, and I looked back at her in shock. That girl had been at the restaurant the day before as well. I looked back to the other painting on the wall of the two movers and then back to the young girl in front of me. My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. I held my hand over
my chest and felt my heart beat a mile a minute. I was spooked, alright. And this time I had a feeling it was justified.
I turned the camera’s display on and held it up to the portrait so I could see the girl’s eyes more clearly in the light. Her sad eyes looked down at me, and there was no mistaking it. This was the same girl that came into the restaurant when I was there with Bailey. She had come in with her parents, and she had the same blank expression on her face as the two men at the table across from them. Her mother has been trying to get her attention, but she was blank. It was particularly strange for a girl of her age, and it had caught my attention even then.
But no, there was no way. My mind was seriously playing tricks on me. Why would an old woman have paintings of a random child, and what were the chances of be being in the same place as all three of these people the day before. I shook my head at how stupid I was being. Of course, it was just a coincidence. My nerves were just on edge, and I was reading too much into things. This girl could be anybody, and was likely a relative or something. There must be thousands of small girls with blue eyes and curly blond hair that look just like this painting.
But as I stared up at the painting, I felt that unfamiliar energy prickle my arms again. It grew even stronger this time, and I couldn’t brush it off anymore. There was magic around me, and I felt crushed under its weight.
I closed my eyes again and extended my senses out, to try and see if I could pick up on the magic. It was stronger in this room than it had been before, and my magical sense flared as I became more aware of the power around me. I focused my energy to get a sense of the source of the magic, but it seemed to be coming from various sources all around me. There was a single source near me, though, that seemed to be exuding a significant amount of magic. My eyes flew open as I traced the magic to the portrait in front of me.
“What the…” I reached my hand out to touch the painting, and recoiled when a powerful electric shock sourced through my finger tip. I jumped back, my heart beating wildly in my chest. The magic was strong. It was the strangest and most unfamiliar magic I had ever experienced, and I had no idea what it was from or why it was there. I wondered if the artist could have been a witch, or some sort of paranormal being. It would explain why the paintings seemed to be a source of the magical energy. Maybe the rumors of this place being haunted weren’t just rumors, after all. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Brody about it when I got home.
There was one thing I knew for sure, though. Something strange was going on, and my instincts told me to flee.
Chapter 7
I was just about to call it a day and head home, when I heard foot steps down the hall. I took a steadying breath and tried to calm my nerves, then approached the door to greet Mrs. Hemingway. But when I peered around the door down the hall, there was no body to be seen. Not even a shadow.
“Hello?” I called out. My voice was met with a soft echo, but no one responded. I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide, trying to see if they would adjust to see far enough towards the end of the hall. I listened in the silence, but couldn’t detect any movement either by sound or by sight. The foot steps had stopped, and all I could hear was my heart beating loudly in my ears. Could I have imagined the foot steps?
I let out a slow, deep breath and tried to regain my composure as I walked back into the dining room. I stared at the painting of the child as I walked by. I wanted to leave, but I also knew JoAnn would be disappointed if I didn’t capture more of the art collection and get a proper interview with Mrs. Hemingway. I would have to just swallow my nerves and get the job done. Then I could run home crying like a baby, and get some answers from Mrs. Brody.
I can do this, I told myself. I had no idea how many more rooms there were or how many hundreds of paintings this woman might have on her walls. I might not have to capture them all, but I would at least have to get a sense of the extend of the collection. I wouldn’t be able to write about it without at least seeing more of the collection. I took another deep breath and steadied myself, mentally convincing myself that I was confident enough to do this. Haunted houses didn’t exist, after all, right? I was a witch, in any case. I could handle a silly haunted house. A shiver crept its way up my spine at the thought.
I glanced back at the portrait of the girl and sighed. “Well, might as well get this over with.” I strung my camera over my shoulders and eagerly left the dining room to go see what else I could find, but I paused at the door and stepped back to look at the paintings on the wall one last time. There was no way that painting could be a coincidence. I recognized those bright blue eyes and golden curls. I was confident it was the same girl. But how? I stood in silence for a moment, pondering, and realized there could be any number of explanations as to why these portraits were on her wall.
The two men could’ve helped her move a number of times, and perhaps they were old friends of the old lady. She may have honored them by having their portraits done. And the girl could easily have been the daughter of a friend. Or even a granddaughter, or great-granddaughter. There were many young blond-haired children in the world; my mind was just playing tricks on me. Of course, that made sense. She was a beautiful girl and who wouldn’t want a portrait of her on their walls? I finally calmed down, realizing how silly I’d been before. If only I could turn the lights on, maybe the place wouldn’t seem so haunted and spooky. I let out a nervous laugh as I left the room and walked down the hall to see if I could find the old lady to ask her a few questions.
She had disappeared from her room, though, and there was no trace of her to be found. I stepped out of the hall and called out for her, but I was again met with nothing but eerie echoes.
I sighed and stretched my arms out, trying to think logically about the situation. I thought back to the restaurant earlier in the day and pictured the little girl’s face. Curly hair and blue eyes were not uncommon for children and could easily have been a coincidence. Same with the two men in the moving outfits. I stood in silence, leaning against the wall as I stared down the hall, contemplating. I remembered the young girl’s cold, empty eyes as she stared at the ceiling in the restaurant. I closed my eyes and could see those same eyes staring back at me from the portrait. The mover that looked at me shared the same dead eyes. I then remembered talk of the piano. My eyes flew open, and I swallowed and felt my face grow clammy as I realized the truth. Those were the same people in the paintings, and the strange energy of magic that I felt in the room was no coincidence. I turned and ran back down the hall towards the room with the paintings. I stood panting in front of the portrait of the little girl and picked up my camera to snap another photo. If I showed it to Bailey, she would probably be able to confirm whether this was the same girl are not.
My body was shaking and I couldn’t stop it. My heart was racing in my chest, and I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I sighed and picked up my camera to flip through the photos I had taken, to make sure that they were exposed well enough to be both used in the paper and to show Bailey. I froze when the camera’s display turned on.
The frame was empty.
Chapter 8
I looked up at the portrait and back down to my camera, my heart beating even faster my chest. If I didn’t get a handle on things, I was going to have a heart attack or pass out. I flicked to the next photo, and again the portrait didn’t show up. A golden frame and an empty canvas looked back at me from the digital screen of my camera. I pressed the arrow button again and again and again, flipping through all the photos I had taken in the house, and not one of them showed the portraits in the frames. I clicked my camera off and let it hang down from my neck as I stared frozen at the bright, empty eyes of the young girl looking back at me.
Minutes must’ve passed because my eyes blurred and I found myself teetering, nearly falling over onto the ground. I had to take hold of the back of one of the dining chairs to settle myself. I slowly put one foot in front of the other to walk out of the room, desperate to leave the strange plac
e behind. But as I left, I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. My muscles tensed and I turned immediately back towards the painting.
The little girl blinked.
I blinked back. Wait, what? A cold dread washed over my skin as I froze. I wanted nothing else but to run as fast as I could out of that house and never look back, but my feet were glued to the floor and my mouth hung open in shock and confusion. The heavy silence of the room pressed against me, and I heard nothing but the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, ready to explode.
“Hello?” I finally managed. It was one thing to talk out loud to inanimate objects. It was another to talk out loud and expect an answer.
I stepped towards the painting of the girl and raised my hand towards it. The little girl looked down at me, and a tear streamed down her face. I gasped.
“Don’t be mad,” the little girl cried, her voice as high and sharp as a small bird’s song. I clasped my hands over my mouth to prevent myself from screaming. She looked down at me, her eyes consumed with such sadness. I couldn’t help but touch the painting’s face with my finger. I felt the same shock of magic, but didn’t pull my hand away. I was shocked and confused, and at the same time wanted to offer comfort to the little girl’s painting.
Okay, maybe I was going crazy. I rubbed my eyes and half expected the painting to become normal again, but unfortunately for me, it didn’t.
“Why would I be mad?” I finally managed to croak out, my voice as rough as sandpaper. My legs threatened to give out beneath me, and I pulled a chair forward to collapse on.
