The Last Portrait of Aunt Meera

I never thought I would see her again. The last time I’d laid eyes on my aunt was in 2001, when I was just a kid, and the memory of her broad smile and the way she tousled my hair was fading like an old photograph. Her name was Meera, and she had spent the last twelve years in a small town in southern India, caring for her two sons after her husband left. I’d heard she was sick, but it wasn’t until the video call from my parents that I felt the urgency.

‘She’s in the hospital,’ my father said, his voice strained. ‘The doctors found clots in her brain. She’s asking for you.’

So I flew to India, a place I barely knew, to see a woman who had once been a whirlwind of color and laughter but was now reduced to a fragile figure in a hospital bed. The air in that room was thick with antiseptic and something else, something that made my skin prickle. Tubes snaked from her arms, and monitors beeped in a steady rhythm. But her eyes, when they found mine, were sharp and bright.

She beckoned me closer, her voice a rasp. ‘I have something for you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been waiting to give it to you in person.’ From under her pillow, she pulled out a small, tarnished locket. It was shaped like a heart, with a faded engraving of a peacock on the front. ‘This belonged to your grandmother,’ she said. ‘But it’s more than a keepsake. It holds a secret. When I’m gone, open it. But be careful. Some secrets are not meant to be revealed.’

I wanted to ask more, but the nurse came in and said she needed rest. I promised to visit the next day. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The locket felt heavy in my pocket, warm against my thigh. I resisted the urge to open it, thinking she would explain. But the next morning, when I arrived, her bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled, and a single petal from a marigold lay on the pillow. A nurse told me that she had passed away in the early hours. They had tried to call, but my phone was off.

Grief hit me like a wave. I had flown halfway around the world, and it hadn’t been enough. At the funeral, her sons—Raj and Vijay—greeted me with hollow eyes. They told me that their mother had been acting strangely in the last weeks, muttering about ‘the painter’ and ‘the unfinished portrait.’ They dismissed it as dementia, but now I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had left me something important.

After the cremation, I stayed in her house, a sprawling bungalow with peeling paint and a garden that had gone wild. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old jasmine. I found her bedroom, where a large, draped cloth covered a canvas on an easel. I pulled it off and gasped. It was a portrait of me, but not as I was now—it showed me as a young girl, with a knowing smile I didn’t remember. The painting exuded a strange oil scent, and the eyes seemed to follow me.

Later that night, I sat on the bed, the locket in my palm. My heart thumped as I pressed the small clasp. It opened with a soft click. Inside were two things: a tiny, rolled-up piece of paper, and a miniaturized photograph of a man—a stranger with sharp features and eyes that were black as coal. I unfurled the paper. It read, ‘He will return for what was taken. Do not trust the mirror.’

A chill ran down my spine. Before I could make sense of it, the room grew cold, and the lamps flickered. From the corner of my eye, I saw the portrait shift. The painted girl’s smile widened. I stumbled back, but the door slammed shut. A whisper, dry as fallen leaves, filled my ears: ‘You shouldn’t have opened it.’

In the mirror across the room, my reflection moved independent of me. It raised a hand and pressed it against the glass, leaving a smudge that looked like a scratch. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed. The locket fell from my hand, clattering on the floor. The photograph stared up at me. The man’s eyes in the photo seemed to bore into my soul. I grabbed the locket and ran out of the house, not stopping until I reached the street, where the night was quiet except for the distant howl of a dog.

For weeks after, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. In my hotel in Mumbai, I checked every mirror and saw no distortion. But I knew the secret was not fully revealed. I needed to understand. I contacted my cousins, who told me that our grandmother had been a tantric healer, and that the locket was said to contain a trapped soul—a man who had once tried to steal her power. They believed that Meera had been guarding it for years.

And now it was in my possession. The fear gnawed at me, but so did curiosity. I decided to go back to the house, to see if I could find more clues. The house was exactly as I left it, the portrait now covered again. I pulled the cloth off. The painting had changed. The young girl was gone, replaced by my current image, staring back with terror in my eyes. In the background, the figure of the man from the photograph was now visible, standing behind me, his coal-black eyes piercing through the canvas.

I knew then that he was trapped in the locket, and the portrait was a gateway. My aunt had painted it to keep him away, to distract him, but she had died before finishing. Now, I was the one he sought. I had to complete the painting, or he would use me to break free. Desperate, I gathered brushes and oil paints from the studio, and I started to paint. I had no skill, but my hand moved as if guided. I painted over the man’s figure with layers of green and gold, trying to erase him. The room grew cold, and the mirror across from me clouded.

In the mirror, I saw my aunt’s reflection. She was faint, like a ghost, and she signaled for me to turn around. I did, and there, standing at the doorway, was the man from the photograph. He was solid, and his smile was full of sharp teeth. ‘You cannot banish me,’ he said. ‘I have been waiting for a vessel.’

I backed away, but his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was like ice. I screamed and flung the locket at the mirror. The locket shattered the glass, and for a moment, everything went silent. When I looked again, the man was gone. The mirror was broken, but in the fragments, I saw my aunt’s face, and she was smiling. She mouthed, ‘It is done.’

I never returned to India. I took the broken locket and the portrait, and I now keep them in a sealed box, hidden in my closet. Sometimes, at night, I hear a faint scratching, like nails on glass. I know he is still trying to get out. But the secret is mine to guard now. I am the next guardian. And I pray I never have to paint again.