The Painted Circle

When we first moved into the old farmhouse on Hemlock Road, I knew something was off. The outside was charming—white siding, a wraparound porch, and a big red barn out back. But inside, the air was thick with a smell of damp earth and old dust, and the walls seemed to close in on you. I was only ten, but I felt it right away.

Our bedroom was in the attic, a converted space with slanted ceilings and a single dormer window. My sister, Emily, and I shared it. On the first night, we noticed the wall opposite our beds: a circle of childlike stickers, each one an angel with red X’s drawn over their eyes. In the center, in bold letters, it read ‘Say a Prayer.’ We tried to peel them off, but they wouldn’t budge. Even scrubbing with soap and water didn’t work. It was as if they had been painted on.

In the far corner, behind my bed, there was a large red 666 painted crudely on the wall. The paint looked fresh, but it had been there when the locksmith let us in. We told our parents, but they just said it was ‘kids messing around’ and promised to repaint. They never did.

I tried to ignore the creepy wall art. I spent most evenings reading on my bed, the lamp casting a warm glow over my book. But I always felt like something was watching me from that corner. Sometimes, I’d catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned, there was nothing.

One night, I was deep in a story about a girl and her ghost dog when I heard my name called from the hallway. ‘Maya,’ it whispered, ‘come here.’ It sounded like my sister, but her tone was off—too soft, too sweet. I called back, ‘Emily, I’m reading. Can it wait?’ No answer. I sighed and went back to my book, but the voice called again, more insistent. ‘Maya, please come.’

I put down my book and crossed the room to the door. I opened it, expecting to see Emily in the hallway, but she was fast asleep in her bed, covers pulled up to her chin. I stood there, confused. The voice had sounded so real. Just then, I felt a cold draft from the attic door at the end of the hall. It was ajar, and I saw a faint light flickering from within.

I should have woken my parents, but curiosity got the better of me. I pushed the door open and climbed the narrow stairs. The attic was cramped and dusty, filled with old crates and furniture. In the center, under a bare bulb, was a small table. On it lay an old Bible, open to a page, and a single, sharp knife. The knife was crusted with something dark.

A chill ran down my spine. I reached for the Bible, and as I touched it, I heard a voice whisper in my ear, ‘Say a prayer.’ I spun around, but the attic was empty. The voice came again, louder this time, from all around. ‘Say a prayer.’

I tried to run, but my legs felt like lead. I looked at the wall—there was a new sticker, this one of an angel with black eyes, right next to the others. It hadn’t been there before. In that moment, I realized that the stickers weren’t stickers at all. They were markers, sealing something in.

I fell to my knees and began to pray, not even knowing what I was saying. I prayed to God, to anyone, to make the voice stop. Suddenly, the light bulb flickered and burned out, plunging the attic into darkness. I heard a child’s laugh, and then nothing.

When I came to, I was back in my bed, the morning sun streaming in. Emily was already awake, looking at me with a strange smile. ‘You had a bad dream,’ she said. But I saw it—a sticker on her hand, one of the angels, with red X’s over its eyes. I looked at my own hand, and there it was too.

We tried to wash them off, but they wouldn’t come off. And from that day on, we would sometimes see each other standing in the attic, holding the knife, blood on our hands, whispering, ‘Say a prayer.’