The Painted Closet

The bell rang, its shrill cry echoing through the empty corridors of Redwood Primary. For most kids, that meant freedom. For me, it meant the long walk to the bus loop, past the art room, where the smell of turpentine and wet clay clung to the air. I was nine, and I hated that part of the school. Not because of the smell, but because of the janitor’s closet at the end of the hall. Its door was always slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible, and the brass handle was tarnished, as if no one ever touched it. But someone did. We all knew the stories, the ones the year sixes whispered to scare the little ones. They said the closet wasn’t always a closet. It used to be a small room where a teacher stored her paintings. She went mad one night, locked herself in, and painted the walls with her own blood. They said if you listen at the door, you can hear the brush strokes. I never believed it.

I was late that day, having left my library book in the classroom. As I ran back, the corridors were empty, the only sound my shoes slapping against the linoleum. When I reached the art wing, I froze. The closet door was open wider than usual, and from inside came a rhythmic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard. I should have run, but curiosity got the better of me. I edged closer, my heart thumping. The scraping stopped, replaced by a low hum. It was a melody I didn’t recognize, but it sent chills down my spine. Then the door swung open with a creak, and I saw it.

Inside, the closet was not small. It stretched impossibly deep, a corridor lined with doors, each painted a different color. The nearest was crimson, the paint flaking, revealing a dark undercoat. The hum grew louder, and a draft of cold air rushed past me, carrying the smell of turpentine and something else, something sweet and rotting. A small painting was propped against the wall, facing away from me. I stepped in, my feet on cold concrete, and reached for it. My fingers brushed the canvas. It was wet.

I turned the painting around. It was a portrait of a girl, maybe my age, with too-wide eyes and a smile that was too bright. She was sitting in a room that looked exactly like my classroom, but the walls were covered in the same crimson paint. Behind her, the window showed a sky that was a sickly yellow. As I stared, the girl’s smile widened. Her head turned, and her eyes locked onto mine. ‘You’ve found me,’ she said, her voice smooth and wrong. ‘Now you have to take my place.’

I stumbled backward, trying to flee, but the door behind me had vanished. The corridor stretched both ways, lined with doors. Some were slightly open, and from them came the sounds of crying, whispering, or the occasional scream. I ran, pushing open doors, but each led to another version of the same corridor, each identical to the last. I was trapped. I collided with a door that was different from the others. It was wooden, with a brass plaque that read ‘PRINCIPAL.’ I twisted the knob, and it opened.

Inside, the office was normal, except for the smell of fresh blood. A man sat at the desk, but he wasn’t the principal. He was a tall figure in a gray suit, his face obscured by a shadow. ‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing to a chair. ‘You’re the new one. The painter will be pleased.’ He pulled a file from the drawer. It had my name on it. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ He opened it, and I saw a series of photographs, all of children, all with the same too-wide eyes. My own face stared back at me, my eyes too wide, my smile too bright.

I woke up in the clinic, a teacher hovering over me. ‘You fainted in the hall,’ she said, her voice kind. ‘You must have hit your head.’ I tried to tell her about the closet, but when I looked up, I saw the teacher’s eyes. They were too wide. And the way she smiled was too bright. I closed my mouth. That was ten years ago. I transferred schools, moved to a new city, tried to forget. But last week, I received a package. It was a small painting, wrapped in brown paper. The painting was of a girl, standing in a corridor of doors. The girl had my face, and in her hands, she held a brush dipped in crimson. On the back, in neat handwriting, were the words: ‘I’m still waiting.’