The Forgotten Portrait

The attic was a treasure trove of forgotten memories. After my grandmother passed away, I was tasked with sorting through her belongings. Among the dusty boxes and old furniture, I found it—a portrait of a woman I didn’t recognize. She was beautiful, with piercing green eyes and a faint, mysterious smile. The painting was signed at the bottom: "E. Blackwood, 1922."

I brought the portrait downstairs and hung it in the living room. It seemed to brighten the space, adding a touch of elegance to the otherwise dull room. But that night, I noticed something strange. The woman’s expression had changed. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of sadness. I shook it off, thinking it was a trick of the light.

The next morning, the painting had changed again. This time, the woman’s eyes were wide with fear, and her hand was raised as if to ward off something unseen. I felt a chill run down my spine but convinced myself I was imagining things.

That night, I woke up to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. I grabbed a flashlight and crept to the door, my heart pounding. The hallway was empty, but the portrait caught my eye. The woman’s expression was now one of anger, her eyes glaring directly at me. I stumbled back, slamming the door shut.

I spent the next day researching the painting. There was no record of an artist named E. Blackwood, and no mention of the portrait in my grandmother’s belongings. I decided to visit the local library, hoping to find some answers.

In the library’s archives, I found a newspaper article from 1922. It described a series of mysterious deaths in the town, all linked to a woman named Eliza Blackwood. She had been accused of witchcraft and was said to have cursed those who wronged her. The article mentioned a portrait she had painted before her death—a self-portrait that was rumored to hold her soul.

I rushed home, my mind racing. The portrait was no longer in the living room. I searched the house, finally finding it in the attic, propped up against the wall. The woman’s expression was now one of triumph, her eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

I grabbed the painting, determined to destroy it. But as I lifted it, the room grew cold, and the air filled with whispers. The woman’s face began to change, her features twisting into something monstrous. I dropped the painting and ran, but the whispers followed me, growing louder with each step.

That night, I dreamed of Eliza Blackwood. She stood in the attic, her eyes filled with rage. "You cannot escape me," she whispered. "I am part of you now."

When I woke up, the portrait was hanging above my bed, the woman’s face calm and serene. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw her reflection instead of mine.