The Brass Frames

In late October, when the Texas heat finally began to break, my daughter Clara was just six weeks old. My husband’s step-grandfather, Old Man Harlow, had passed quietly in his sleep, and the family gathered at the Finley & Sons Funeral Parlor, a converted Victorian on the outskirts of Austin. The place smelled of dust and lilies, and the stained-glass windows cast amber patches on the worn carpet.

We arrived around four in the afternoon, the low sun bleeding through the clouds. My husband, Marcus, held Clara’s carrier, and I followed, my heels clicking on the hardwood. His relatives—aunts with tear-streaked faces, cousins in too-tight suits—greeted us with soft embraces. They cooed over Clara, her tiny fists curling in the stale air. I smiled, but a chill traced my spine as we moved toward the casket.

The room seemed to angle inward, the walls pressing closer with each step. Marcus knelt on the prie-dieu, his head bowed in silent prayer. I turned to his grandmother, a frail woman named Rose, and asked if she’d hold Clara. She took her gladly, her weathered hands cradling the baby as she shuffled to a chair by the window.

I knelt beside Marcus, my left hand resting on his shoulder. To the right, on a wooden pedestal, stood a gilded frame with Old Man Harlow’s portrait. His eyes, sharp even in death, seemed to follow me. As I closed my eyes and whispered a Hail Mary, I heard it—a soft, rhythmic scrape, like fingernails on glass. The portrait began to shift on its mount, turning slowly, agonizingly, until its face was pointed directly at the relatives.

No one else noticed. They continued murmuring, dabbing their eyes. But the frame kept moving, the brass corners glinting as it rotated an inch, then another. I tried to focus on my prayer, but the sound grated in my ears. The image in the frame seemed to darken, the features distorting into a hollow grin. A breath of cold air brushed my cheek, and I heard a voice, thin and dry, like autumn leaves: ‘You shouldn’t have brought her here.’

I gasped and stood, my heart hammering. Marcus looked up, concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’ I pointed at the portrait, but it was perfectly still now, facing the room as it had been. Rose rose from her chair, Clara fussing in her arms. ‘Everything alright, dear?’ she asked.

I took Clara back, her warmth grounding me. The service continued, the priest droning on about eternal rest. But I couldn’t shake the unease. As we left, I glanced back at the picture. It had rotated again—now facing the door, as if watching us leave. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the frame turning, heard that voice.

Three days later, we returned for the burial at the family plot. After the graveside ceremony, I wandered into the funeral home’s office to sign the registry. The director, a pale man with bony fingers, asked, ‘Did you happen to notice anything unusual during the visitation?’ I hesitated. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘We’ve had complaints before. The portraits, they move. Some say it’s a draft. But old Harlow, he was a watchful man. He didn’t like strangers, and he definitely didn’t like new babies. I’d advise you to keep your daughter away from mirrors for a while.’

I laughed nervously, but that night, as I laid Clara in her crib, I caught a reflection in the window. For just a split second, I saw Old Man Harlow’s face, pressed against the glass, his papery lips parting in a silent warning. The next morning, I found the brass picture frame from the funeral home sitting on our kitchen counter. No one had brought it home. And when I picked it up, the glass was warm, as if still touched by a living hand.

I threw it in the trash, but the feeling never left. Months later, whenever Clara cries in the middle of the night, I look out her window. The streetlight flickers, and for a moment, the shadow of a man with a brass frame lingers under the oak tree, watching. Waiting. I’ve stopped asking questions, stopped looking too long into any reflective surface. Because I know now: some things follow you home, and they don’t let go until they’ve taken something you love.