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The Portrait


It was a cold and stormy night. I had been asleep until I heard a loud thumping noise coming from the study.
I opened my eyes to see a bright light coming from the hallway. I glanced around my room for a while and decided to venture toward the door. I stood up in a hurry, put a longer night shirt on, and made my way to the door. When I opened it and peeked into the hallway I saw that every light from my room to the study was flickering and flashing and one of my mothers favorite mirrors that sat at the top of the stairs had been cracked, I looked around trying not to scream or make any other sound. Eventually I knew I had to find out what was going on in the study, was it a burglar? I questioned and then walked forward to feel the ground pulsing and shaking. Soon a warm drop of red liquid landed on my face I looked up to see that my ceiling also had splashes of red on it. I screamed and began running toward the study, I couldn’t control my body anymore. I started yelling in hopes of someone hearing me, but no one was home. It was just me.

I reached the study and looked around the room in fear of what caused all of the terror, “Free me!” a strange crackling voice whispered in my ears. I jumped and turned around.

Earlier a man with gray hair stopped to give me a painting one of my parents had ordered. The painting itself looked like a wreck so I hardly took notice of it then. I just assumed it was an old painting that they ordered out of historical value. I laid it in their study and left it.
The portrait was of a woman hung with her wrist around a tree, she had long blonde hair and a painful expression to match the tears of blood dripping down her face. A sword was sticking through her chest and her feet were being burned. This woman was terror in herself, “Free me! Help me!” it cried out. I screamed louder, the walls starting to collapse. I tried to run but my feet wouldn’t move. “FREE ME!” bloody letters appeared on my wrist, I felt a stinging sensation. Now I had no choice, “how?” I asked trying not to cry, “Say the words,” another set of words appeared on my other arm, “You are free!”

I awoke with sweat pouring off my face, I ran straight to the study, everything looked normal until I saw the painting. The same woman stood with her arms holding the handle of the sword that still went straight through her chest. Bloody tears still poured down her face, but now she was smiling.

I dropped to my knees in fear, soon the world faded and I awoke in my bed. My parents told me how they found my with a knife in my hand which explained the wrist cuttings. I was forced to take medicine because I was “mentally sick,” when I told them about the painting they said they haven’t seen or ordered anything I described.
Eventually I was allowed to leave my room. Everyday I see the painting hanging in the study smiling at me. No matter what I say no one sees it but me.



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