The Paint That Never Dried

In the sweltering summer of 2008, I was fresh off my licensure exam, floating on a cloud of relief. The oath-taking was three weeks away, and for the first time in years, I had nothing to do but breathe. Then my drummer, Vera, called with news that our band had landed a gig at the Rusty Anchor, a dive bar known for its sticky floors and surly regulars. We were to play Friday night, and afterward, we’d drive straight to the coastal town of Lobo, where my keyboardist’s grandfather owned a secluded beach house. It was meant to be a weekend of sun and surf, a reward for our years of grinding in garages and small-time venues.

The gig itself was a blur of sweat and feedback, our set list a jumble of covers and originals. The crowd was indifferent, but we didn’t care—it was our first paid show, and the money would cover gas and groceries for the trip. By the time we packed up our gear, it was past midnight. The drive to Lobo took two hours on winding coastal roads, the headlights cutting through the darkness as we sang off-key to the radio. I was riding shotgun, with Vera asleep in the back, and the others following in the van. The air smelled of salt and decaying seaweed as we finally pulled up to a two-story house that looked like it had been frozen in the 1970s.

The house was called ‘Bahay ni Lolo’ by the family, but the name plate had long since rusted. The porch light flickered, casting halos on the peeling paint. We stumbled inside, our laughter echoing in the empty, dusty rooms. The place had a musty odor, like old newspapers and mothballs. We grabbed the few rooms with beds, leaving the master bedroom for last since it was the largest. I ended up in a small room at the end of the hall, its walls a faded pink, with a single window that overlooked a dead garden. The sheets were thin and smelled of mildew, but I was too tired to care. I fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing somewhere in the distance.

I woke to a sense of wrongness. The room was darker than it should be, the window showing not the garden but a wall of mist. The air was cold and damp, like a cellar. I sat up, my heart pounding. On the wall opposite the bed, I noticed a patch of paint that was darker than the rest, roughly the size of a door. It looked wet, almost like fresh paint, but there was no smell of chemicals. I reached out to touch it, and my fingers sank into a cold, viscous substance that seemed to absorb the light. I yanked my hand back, but some of the substance clung to my fingers, glistening black. I wiped it on the sheets, but it left a stain that seemed to shimmer, like oil on water.

I called out for the others, but my voice seemed to be swallowed by the room. I stumbled into the hallway, and the house was silent. The living room was empty, our bags still scattered, but no sign of Vera, Marco, or the others. I checked every room—all empty. Panic rose as I ran outside. The beach was shrouded in fog, the waves barely audible. I thought I saw a figure standing at the water’s edge, but it vanished when I blinked. I went back inside, and the house felt larger than before. Corridors stretched, doors appeared where none had been.

I found a door at the end of a new hallway, painted the same dark color as the patch in my room. It was slightly ajar, and I heard a faint humming from within. I pushed it open, and inside was a room that seemed to exist in a different era—a child’s bedroom, with toys from decades past, and a bed with a worn teddy bear. On the wall, there was a painting of a house similar to this one, but in the painting, the windows were dark, and a figure looked out from the second floor. I felt a chill as I realized the figure was me.

I ran out of that room, and the hallway shifted. I found myself in the kitchen, where the linoleum floor was sticky with a black substance. The back door led to a porch that overlooked the garden, but the garden was gone, replaced by a void of darkness. I screamed for help, but my voice echoed back to me, as if the house was mocking me.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes. I was in a room that I hadn’t seen before, covered in old photographs. They were of a family—a father, mother, and a young girl. In every photo, the girl had an inky black stain on her face, and her eyes were hollow. I realized the girl was the same age as the room I had woken in. The photo on the end was of the girl standing in front of a wall, and she was painting it black. The paint can in her hand was the same color as the substance that had touched me.

Suddenly, I heard laughter from the living room. I crept back, and there they were—Vera and the others, sitting on the couch, talking as if nothing was wrong. But when they turned to me, their eyes were black, like voids. They smiled in unison and said, ‘You’re back.’ I tried to run, but my feet were glued to the floor. The black substance had spread up my legs, and as I looked down, I saw it climbing my body.

I woke up again, this time in my room, the same pink walls, but the window showed a sunny beach. My friends were standing over me, shaking me. ‘Dude, you passed out,’ said Marco. ‘We thought you had heatstroke.’ I looked at my hand—it was clean, no stain. I thought it was a nightmare. But as I got up, I caught my reflection in the mirror. There was a dark mark on my neck, shaped like a handprint. And in the corner of the room, I saw a small patch of paint on the wall that was darker than the rest, still wet.

The rest of the weekend was tense. I was jumpy, and the others noticed. I told them what I experienced, but they laughed it off. ‘It’s just an old house,’ said Vera. ‘Maybe you had a bad trip from that expired seafood we ate.’ But I couldn’t shake it. I swear I saw the little girl in the window of the house across the street, watching me. That night, we decided to leave early. As we packed our bags, I noticed a paint can in the corner of the garage, old and rusted, exactly like the one in my vision. It was filled with a black, viscous liquid. I didn’t tell the others. I just wanted to get out.

We drove back in silence, and I couldn’t stop looking at the rearview mirror. The house grew smaller until it was just a speck, but I felt its gaze on me. When I got home, I took a long shower, scrubbing my skin until it was red. But the mark on my neck remained. It never faded, and neither did the feeling that something was following me. In the following weeks, I would catch glimpses of that black substance at the edges of my vision—in the corner of a room, in the shadow of a tree. And sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I swear I see a small figure standing behind me, holding a paintbrush.

The house in Lobo was never mentioned again by my friends, but when I tried to look it up online, I found nothing. It was as if it never existed. But the paint on my neck is proof enough. Now, years later, I’ve learned to live with it. I cover it with a scarf or a high collar. But at night, when I’m alone, I can feel it—the slow crawl of that cold, black paint, spreading just a little bit more, as if it’s trying to reclaim me. And I know, someday, I’ll have to go back and finish what she started.