The Hall of Unfinished Paintings

My great-aunt Edna’s house sat at the end of a gravel road in the pine woods of northern Minnesota, a place where the summers were short and the winters long. She had lived there for over sixty years, raising my mother and her two sisters in a house that smelled of wood smoke and linseed oil. I spent many childhood summers there, exploring the attic and the old barn, but as I grew older, the house began to feel different. It was the hallway on the second floor, lined with her unfinished paintings, that unsettled me. Dark, blurred figures seemed to move in their corners, and I would swear they were watching me. Whenever I told Aunt Edna, she would just smile and say, ‘You’ve been reading too many ghost stories, dear.’ or ‘It’s just the shadows playing tricks on your mind.’

One autumn evening, Aunt Edna and I sat in the parlor, listening to a crackling radio drama. She got up to brew tea, leaving me alone with the firelight. The house creaked, and I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. I didn’t dare look toward the hallway, but I heard a faint scraping sound, like a brush against canvas. I focused on the radio, trying to ignore it, but the scraping grew louder, almost rhythmic. Then I heard my name, whispered in Aunt Edna’s voice, but she was in the kitchen. My heart pounded as I felt a cold presence behind me. I turned slowly, and there, standing in the hallway threshold, was a tall, dark figure. It had no face, but it held a paintbrush, and its fingers dripped with a thick, black substance. It tilted its head, and I could feel a hunger, a longing for something I couldn’t name.

I ran to the kitchen, but Aunt Edna wasn’t there. The kettle was boiling, and the back door was open, letting in a gust of cold air. I called her name, but only the wind answered. I forced myself to walk down the hallway, past the paintings. Each canvas now showed a new figure, twisted and dark, but one was different. It depicted a woman, her face a smear of gray, standing in a hallway much like this one. She was reaching out, and in the background, I saw a small figure—a child. I realized it was me, drawn into the painting. I felt a tug, as if the painting was pulling me closer. I stumbled backward, but the hallway seemed longer than before, and the figures in the other paintings began to shift, their empty eyes turning toward me.

I fled the house, not stopping until I reached the main road. I called the sheriff, but when we returned, the house was empty. The paintings were gone, and the walls were bare. Aunt Edna was never found. I moved away, but I still dream of that hallway, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the dark figure holding a brush, adding the final stroke to my portrait. I know that one day, I will finish the painting myself, and join her in the hall of unfinished works.