They’re watching again with their beady eyes and plastered smiles, forever etched into an old canvas. I first noticed their demon-like stares at a local flea market, partially hidden behind a rusting green garbage bin. The family of four, one boy, one girl, a man, and a woman dressed in Victorian dated clothing just staring into an unknown void. Something about their stiff mannequin-like appearance intrigued me, or maybe it was their eyes, their hypnotizing eyes that lured me into their world. My mind was filled with intrigue and wondered about the discarded portrait and its mysterious tale. The picture was encased in a gold frame embroidered with whimsical engravings that stood out against the depressing painting. The painting had no price tag the first warning I failed to see. I approached the booth owner with the photo in hand, a frail older woman with pale droopy skin, long drained of warmth and color. Her eyes a dark midnight black sunken in the depths of her face, gazing lazily at the people around us. A strange birthmark covers one side of her jaw in an unnatural shape of a heart. Scraggly gray thin hair covers her head with a few stray pieces hanging in her eyes. She honestly looked like a person not of this world but belonged to the realm below. I ask her how much for the portrait; with this question, a smile creeps across her thin chapped lips, revealing a mouth of rotten black teeth. She says the photo is free, an item that she found at the side of the road. Excited with my free find, I failed to notice the vile smile and secret wink given to the older woman by the little girl in the painting. Excited, I make my way home, bringing with me an unexpected horror.

A few days pass, and my portrait has found a home on one of my bedroom walls, directly across from my bed, as I found pleasure in gazing at the painting every night before bed. On one particular rainy night, I found myself starting a little longer than usual. Something was different. Something changed, but I didn’t know what. The photo still showed a boy, a girl, a man, and a woman. They still stand set in their spots staring directly out of the painting. Their faces frozen in a frown. But something still nagged me at the back of my mind, telling me something was different. I went to bed that night unaware of a knife placed ever so carefully in the bottom right corner of the photo, glistening ever so brightly in the moonlight coming through my window and wandering eyes looking for an escape. The following day I awake to an eerie tension in the air. The air felt thick and heavy, slowly suffocating me. Craving fresh air, I cracked the window breaking the seal of the humid, stifling atmosphere. As I got ready that morning, that nagging feeling returned but, this time with added fear and horror, but I was still unable to find the source of my feelings. Night approaches again, and I glance at the photo; something definitely changed tonight. The eyes no longer stare out of the frame but towards the bottom right of the painting. I was unsure of what I saw because I had a few glasses of wine that night to ease the tension on my mind. Believing that what I saw was just an illusion of my mind, I went to sleep with dreams seen in black and white. Unbeknownst to me, that would be the last night I ever dreamed.

As the night deepened, I heard sounds of ripping fabric accompanied by a distant scratching. Now and then, I heard the release of deep unrestricted breaths, but my eyes remained closed as I believed I was still in the realm of dreams. The breathing becomes louder as the sound of ripping ceases and footsteps pace against my aging mahogany wood floors. The sounds of breathing come closer, and a peal of excited giggles now join with quiet footsteps and ragged breaths. My damp face, drenched in salty drops of sweat, is met with a cold breeze sending chills down my spine. At this point, I knew that I was no longer dreaming as my dreams had never been this vivid. I fight my tired eyelids to open and reveal the mystery behind my sudden chills, but my eyelids fail to move, almost like a stack of bricks lay carefully across my lids, preventing me from seeing the world. I still heard giggling, but sounds of hushing became more prominent. When I finally opened my eyes, the morning light shone through my curtains, illuminating the photo on the wall. But instead of the gloomy frowns, I found the faces now showed bright, almost wicked smiles and a slash across the canvas with a tiny crack along the bottom of the frame. Pieces of gold and a white fabric littered the floor below the painting, showing the daring escape. I stood staring at the image, just lazily gazing at the haunting eyes. Their eyes mocked me, finding fun in my failure to comprehend what they had done.

From that moment onwards, I noticed them watching me. Every move I made, their eyes followed, their gaze became my shadow. A few years have passed, and they still stay suspended on my wall, staring directly into my soul. Every night they come out and play, laughing and running throughout my house. They even found a way into my mind, taking away my ability to dream. Instead, I see haunting images of their life before and the many souls they have taken. I often see an image of a young woman around my age, with a familiar heart-shaped birthmark on her jaw, gazing longingly at me with tears brimming in her eyes and regret covering her face. Over time she is replaced by an image of me with tear-filled eyes and a face of despair looking into an abyss of forgotten dreams and haunting nightmares.

-Sheanna M.