The Painting in the Parlor

The smell of turpentine and dust clung to the old house on Maple Street, a place my mother had rented after the engagement fell through. It was a Victorian relic with creaking floors and a parlor we never used, save for one peculiar feature: a large, fading portrait of a stern-faced woman with hollow eyes, hanging above the dormant fireplace. I was seventeen, not sixteen as in my earlier recollections, and my brothers, Ethan and Marcus, tolerated my presence with the weary patience of older siblings. We had moved there after Mom’s split with Pastor Tom, a man whose kindness had curdled into something controlling, though I never learned the details. Mom threw herself into her faith and her work at the church, leaving us to navigate the house’s uneasy silence.

Four nights before my birthday, the sleep paralysis returned with a vengeance. I woke pinned to my mattress, a weight like a stone on my chest, and a figure standing in the corner—not the typical shadow, but a woman in a brown dress, her face obscured. I couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. Her head tilted, and a sound like dry leaves skittered across the floor. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I gasped awake, drenched in sweat, but the air in my room held a faint scent of lavender and rot. I told myself it was a night terror, a side effect of stress. But the next morning, I noticed the portrait in the parlor had shifted. The woman’s eyes, once fixed on the center of the room, now seemed to follow me as I walked past.

Ethan dismissed it as my imagination. Marcus, the skeptic, offered to paint over it just to shut me up. Mom, ever devout, said a prayer over the house and sprinkled holy water in the corners, but she refused to remove the painting, citing its heirloom value. ‘It’s been in the family for generations,’ she said, though I knew her side of the family had no such relics. That night, I left my door cracked, and I heard slow creaks on the staircase, heavy as if someone was dragging themselves up. I held my breath, waiting. The creaking stopped outside my door, and I saw the shadow of feet in the hallway light. I whispered a prayer, and the shadow withdrew.

On the third night, I decided to confront the painting. I took my mother’s crucifix and a small bottle of oil, and I entered the parlor after midnight. The portrait loomed, the woman’s face now clearer—her mouth open in a silent wail, her eyes leaking black tears that had not been there before. I raised the crucifix and commanded whatever it was to leave. The room grew cold, and the painting’s eyes turned to me. A raspy voice filled my head: ‘You are not the one I seek. Where is Thomas?’ Thomas was the name of the man who had jilted my mother. I backed away, terrified. The voice grew angry, and the painting trembled. I turned to run, but the door slammed shut. The portrait’s canvas began to bulge, as if something were trying to claw its way out.

I don’t remember the next hour. I found myself in the backyard, shivering in the moonlight, with the crucifix gone and my shirt torn. Inside, my brothers were arguing, and Mom was weeping in the kitchen. They said I had run out screaming about a woman in the wall. The painting was gone. In its place was a bare patch of wallpaper, darker, like a stain. That night, I slept in Mom’s room, and I heard voices from the parlor—pleading, then screaming. I buried my face in the pillow, but the sounds seeped through.

On my birthday, we had a small cake. But in the afternoon, a visitor arrived: an elderly woman with a cane, claiming to be the great-niece of the original owner of the house. She asked to see the parlor. Mom was hesitant, but the woman insisted. When we entered, the painting was back on the wall, restored to its original sternness. The visitor gasped, ‘It’s her. My great-aunt, Agatha. She died in this house, waiting for her husband to return from the war. He never did. She cursed the house, saying whoever wronged her would suffer.’ She looked at us with pity. ‘You must find the diary. It’s hidden in the fireplace. She buried it with her secret.’

We searched and found a loose brick. Inside was a small, leather-bound diary. As Mom read it aloud, we learned that Agatha had been betrayed by a woman who stole her husband’s affection. The diary mentioned a ritual to trap a soul in paint, to torment the betrayer. My mother went pale. The woman in the painting was not the ghost—she was the betrayed, and the real demon was the one who painted her. The diary said the demon was released when the painting was destroyed, but it would seek a new host. That’s when I realized: the figure in my room had been the demon, not Agatha. And now, it was in the house, free.

I looked up as a chill passed through the room. The portrait’s eyes moved again. The elderly woman clutched her chest and collapsed. Marcus went to help her, but she was dead. As we stood in shock, the painting’s mouth curved into a smile—an unnatural, wide grin. The voice filled the room: ‘Thomas is here now.’ My mother screamed. We all turned to see that my brother’s face had gone slack, his eyes black as pitch. The last thing I remember before I ran was my mother’s prayer, and Marcus’s body lurching toward me, his hands outstretched. I never looked back. I live in another state now, with new names, but I still see Marcus in my dreams, his mouth moving silently, forming the words, ‘Find me.’ And sometimes, when I’m alone, I smell lavender and rot, and I know it hasn’t forgotten me.