The Empty Easel

I’m Mara, and this is the only time I’ve ever felt the world slip sideways, showing me something that shouldn’t exist. It happened years ago, at my friend Elowen’s house, a sprawling Victorian with creaky floors and dusty corners. Elowen’s room was at the end of a long hallway, past the bathroom and her sister’s studio. The studio door was always closed, but sometimes you could hear the scratch of a brush or the low hum of a song.

One autumn, Elowen rearranged her room. She swapped out her old writing desk and two director’s chairs for a tall oak shelving unit, filled with books and trinkets. I remember helping her move the chairs into the attic, their wooden frames groaning as we dragged them up the narrow stairs. The back of her room now held the shelf, and from the hallway, you could only see its spine, a dark silhouette against the window light.

One evening, I was walking past her open door, heading to the bathroom. I glanced sideways, not really looking, just a flicker of peripheral vision. And there, in the back of Elowen’s room, I saw the old desk and the two director’s chairs. The shelf was gone, replaced by the ghost of the past. A little girl sat in one of the chairs, her back to me, blonde hair in two braids, wearing a faded pink dress with a torn hem. Her hands moved as if shaping clay, and her head tilted as if she were talking to someone beside her—someone I couldn’t see.

The air thickened. I froze, my heart hammering. I blinked, and it was gone—just the shelf, the books, the window. I told Elowen, but she shrugged, saying the house was old, full of drafts that played tricks. But I knew what I saw.

Weeks later, I was helping Elowen’s sister, Carys, clean out the attic. We found a box of old photographs and children’s drawings. One drawing caught my eye: a little girl with blonde braids, in a pink dress, sitting in a director’s chair, a smiling woman beside her. On the back, in faded pencil, were the words, ‘Lily and Mum, 1962.’

Carys looked at it, her face pale. ‘Lily was my grandmother’s sister,’ she said. ‘She died when she was seven, in this house. She loved to draw, but she never got to finish her last picture.’ She pointed to the drawing—the girl’s hands were raised, as if painting an invisible canvas.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept to the hallway, peering into Elowen’s room. The moonlight cast long shadows. The shelf stood solid. But as I turned to leave, I caught a flicker in the corner of my eye—the girl, now facing me, her mouth moving, her hands gesturing toward an empty spot on the wall. I stumbled back, and she faded.

I never went back to that house. But sometimes, when I see an empty corner or a forgotten chair, I catch a glimpse of her, still waiting to finish her story. And I wonder if she ever finished that drawing, or if she’s still there, asking me to help her finish the scene. I always turn away. Some stories are best left uncompleted.