The Unfinished Painting

I have always been able to see things others can’t. As a child, I would tell my mother about the man in the corner who watched her cook, or the little girl who played with my toys. She thought I had an imaginary friend, but I knew they were something more. As I grew older, the sightings became less frequent, and I learned to ignore the cold spots and the feeling of being watched. I believed I had left that part of my life behind.

That changed when my friend Maya asked me to water her plants while she was away for the weekend. She had recently moved into a second-floor apartment in an old colonial house on the outskirts of a sleepy town in upstate New York. The house had been converted into a duplex, and Maya lived in the upper unit, which belonged to an elderly woman named Mrs. Holloway, who was currently in a nursing home for a few weeks. Maya was her caretaker, and in exchange for reduced rent, she watched over her and the apartment.

I had been to the apartment once before, about a year ago, but I had been going through a difficult breakup, and my mind was elsewhere. This time, as soon as I stepped into the foyer, I felt a heaviness in the air. The stairs creaked under my feet, and the smell of old wood and dust filled my nostrils. When I reached the top and unlocked the door, the feeling intensified. It wasn’t the usual mustiness; it was a profound sense of sorrow, as if the walls themselves were grieving.

I walked through the living room, trying to shake off the unease. The furniture was old-fashioned, with doilies on the armrests and a grandfather clock that ticked too loudly. I noticed a closed door at the end of the hallway, painted a slightly different shade of white than the rest. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maya had mentioned that Mrs. Holloway’s late husband used to paint, and that his studio was kept locked. ‘She never lets anyone in there,’ Maya had said. ‘She says it’s his space.’

As I watered the plants, I kept glancing at that door. It seemed to radiate a coldness that was out of place. I tried to ignore it, but my mind kept drifting back to it. I finished my chores and sat down on the old sofa to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. The house felt alive, and I was aware of every creak and groan. Then, I heard a faint scraping sound from behind the door—like something being dragged across a wooden floor. I froze. Maya had said the apartment was empty. The sound came again, closer to the floor. I knew I should leave, but I was drawn to that door.

I approached it and pressed my ear against the wood. The sound stopped. I knocked softly, and to my surprise, the door swung open a few inches on its own, as if it hadn’t been latched properly. The room beyond was dimly lit, with a single window covered by a dusty curtain. In the center stood an easel, with a canvas covered by a cloth. Canvases were stacked against the walls, and a wooden stool sat nearby. The air was thick with the smell of turpentine and old oil paint.

I stepped inside, my heart pounding. I lifted the cloth off the easel, revealing a painting of a woman in a white dress, standing in a field of sunflowers. Her face was unfinished—only the outline of her features, with hollow eyes and a blank expression. It was haunting. I noticed that the paint on the palette was still wet, as if someone had been painting just moments ago. That was impossible. Mrs. Holloway was in a nursing home, and no one else had been here.

A sudden chill ran down my spine. I turned to leave, but the door had closed behind me. I tried the handle, but it was locked from the outside. Panic rose in my throat. I banged on the door, but the sound echoed hollowly. I was trapped. I looked around the room, searching for another exit. There was only the window, which was painted shut. I noticed a small, rusty key on a shelf, but when I tried it, it didn’t fit. I was about to break the window when I heard a voice behind me. It was soft, almost a whisper: ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

I spun around, but no one was there. The voice seemed to come from the painting. I looked at the unfinished face, and I could have sworn the lips moved. A cold wind blew through the room, extinguishing the faint light from the window. In the darkness, I felt a presence—something oppressive and sad. I stumbled backward, knocking over a stack of canvases. They scattered on the floor, revealing more unfinished portraits, all of the same woman in different poses, each with the same hollow eyes.

A ghostly figure began to take shape in the corner. It was a man in an old-fashioned suit, his face contorted in agony. He pointed at the painting and said, ‘She left me before I could finish her.’ His voice was a grating whisper. ‘I’ve been trying to finish her ever since.’ I understood then: this was Mr. Holloway, trapped in his studio, doomed to paint his wife’s portrait over and over, never completing it because she had left him too soon—or he had driven her away.

I felt a surge of pity, but also terror. The ghost began to drift toward me, reaching out with cold, bony fingers. ‘You must carry on my work,’ he intoned. ‘You will finish her.’ I backed away, but the room seemed to shrink. I grabbed the first thing I could find—a palette knife—and brandished it. The ghost laughed, a hollow sound. ‘That will not hurt me.’

But I wasn’t aiming at him. I slashed the canvas, tearing the unfinished face in half. The ghost let out a furious shriek, and the room shook. Paintings fell from the walls, and the easel collapsed. The window burst open, and a strong wind blew through, scattering dust and cobwebs. The ghost recoiled, his form flickering. ‘What have you done?’ he howled.

I didn’t wait. I scrambled through the window onto the fire escape, not caring about the drop. As I ran down the stairs, I heard the ghost’s anguished cries behind me. I didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for breath under the streetlight. When I looked up at the window, it was closed, and the light was on. But I knew the painting was ruined, and I hoped that would free him.

I called Maya and told her what happened, omitting the ghostly encounter. She came home the next day, and when she checked the studio, she found the canvas slashed. She was upset, but I didn’t tell her why. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I moved away soon after, but I never forgot that apartment. The memory of that unfinished face haunted me for years.

Years later, I read in the local news that the old house had been demolished. I felt a sense of relief, thinking the ghost was finally at rest. But even now, sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the painting—and the woman’s face is slowly, ever so slowly, beginning to fill in.