The Marble Corridor

I never thought much about the portrait of Mr. Aldric Harlow until my daughter, Lila, pointed at it with a trembling finger. It hung at the end of the Great Hall, a stern face with eyes that seemed to follow you, but I’d passed it a hundred times without a second glance. I’d been at the Aldric Harlow Academy for three years, a school for kids who didn’t fit anywhere else, and the portrait was just part of the scenery.

Lila was seven, in second grade, and she often came to my office after school. That afternoon, she burst in, her cheeks flushed, and asked for change for the vending machines. I handed her a few quarters and she skipped off down the hall. A few minutes later, I heard a sharp cry. I found her standing frozen in front of the vending machines, her hand still holding a coin.

‘They moved,’ she whispered. ‘The eyes. They moved.’

I laughed it off, telling her it was just a trick of the light. But when I looked at the portrait of Mr. Harlow, I felt a chill. The eyes seemed fixed on me, with an intensity I’d never noticed before. I shrugged it away and took Lila home.

That night, I couldn’t shake the image. The next day, I decided to investigate. The school had a small archive room in the basement, filled with old yearbooks and records. I found a file on Mr. Harlow, the founder, who had died of cancer decades ago. The file was thin, but one entry caught my eye: a letter from a former student, dated 1975, describing strange occurrences at the school, including the portrait’s eyes moving. The student wrote that Mr. Harlow had made a deal with something to keep the school alive after his death, and that his spirit was bound to the portrait.

I dismissed it as the ramblings of a troubled kid. But that afternoon, when Lila came again, she refused to go near the vending machines. ‘They’re watching me, Dad,’ she said, her eyes wide. I decided to move her to my office and keep her busy with coloring, but she kept glancing at the doorway.

A week later, I stayed late to grade papers. The school was empty, the halls echoing with my footsteps. As I passed the portrait, I stopped. The eyes were definitely looking at me now, not in a generic way, but with a kind of malevolent focus. I felt a sudden urge to look away, but I couldn’t. It was as if the eyes were pulling me closer.

I forced myself to walk on, but then I heard a faint whispering, so soft I almost missed it. It grew louder, pleading, ‘Help me. They’ve trapped me here.’ I spun around, but the hall was empty. That’s when I noticed the floor beneath the portrait was slightly discolored, as if something had been spilled and cleaned many times.

I called a colleague who had been at the school longer than me. She said, ‘We all know about the eyes. That’s why we avoid the Great Hall after dark. Some say if you look too long, you see things in the reflection of the glass.’ I didn’t believe her.

But that night, I dreamt of the portrait. In the dream, the man in the frame moved, stepping out of the painting. He looked gaunt, his skin gray, and he spoke in a voice that sounded like dry leaves. ‘I’m sorry for your daughter. She sees too clearly. The shadow in me needs a new vessel.’ I woke with a scream.

The next day, Lila complained of a headache and a strange feeling that someone was watching her. I took her to the doctor, but they found nothing wrong. On the drive home, she said, ‘Daddy, the man in the painting told me he’s going to get me.’ My blood ran cold.

I knew I had to destroy the portrait. That night, I returned to the school with a can of gasoline and a lighter. The Great Hall was dark, the portrait lit by a single shaft of moonlight from a high window. As I approached, the eyes widened in what seemed like alarm, and the whispering turned into a low growl. I doused the painting, but as I raised the lighter, I saw a reflection in the glass of the frame. It wasn’t my reflection. It was Lila’s face, pale and terrified, her mouth open in a silent scream. I froze.

I dropped the lighter and stumbled back. I couldn’t burn my daughter’s image. I heard a cold chuckle. ‘You can’t destroy me without destroying her,’ the voice said. ‘She’s part of the painting now.’

I rushed home, but Lila was already sleeping. In her sleep, her lips moved, forming the words ‘Help them.’ I woke her, and she looked at me with eyes that were not her own—they were the same piercing blue as Mr. Harlow’s portrait.

Now, I spend my days in the Great Hall, waiting. I stare at the portrait, and sometimes, in the reflection of the glass, I see Lila’s face alongside Mr. Harlow’s, both pleading with me to set them free. The hall is silent, but I hear their whispers, asking me to join them, to touch the canvas, to become part of the marble corridor that holds them all. And I know that one day, I will have to decide. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough.