The Unfinished Portrait

The old house was a relic of a forgotten century, its timbers breathing sighs that settled into my bones. I was fifteen, spending the summer with my grandmother, a woman who spoke to her plants and kept the curtains drawn against the light. The house, a crooked, ivy-choked manor on the edge of a moor, had always felt watchful, but this year, it felt hungry.

My room was at the top of a narrow, twisting stair. The wallpaper was a faded damask, peeling in places like old skin. At night, I would lie in bed, listening to the house settle, and I would see him: a figure in the doorway, tall and dark, wearing a long coat the color of a stormy sea. He had no face. Just a smooth, pale oval where his features should have been, and he would stand there, perfectly still, as if waiting for me to acknowledge him.

One afternoon, I was coming back from the bathroom when I saw a black, oily shape crawling up the stairs. It moved with an unnatural, fluid motion, pausing at the top and then slipping into the hallway. I stood frozen, my heart hammering, and then I ran to my room and locked the door.

My grandmother claimed not to believe me. ‘It’s just the old house, child,’ she said, but her eyes flickered with something like fear. She told me about an ancestor, a painter who had died in this house, leaving an unfinished portrait in the attic. ‘He was a bitter man,’ she said. ‘He wanted to be remembered, but he never finished a single face. He said he was saving them for later.’

That night, I felt a cold presence in my room. The temperature dropped until I could see my breath. I heard breathing, slow and deep, right by my ear. And then, I felt a pressure at the end of my bed, as if someone were sitting there. I pulled the covers over my head and prayed for morning.

The next day, I went to the attic, driven by a morbid curiosity. The attic was dusty and cluttered, filled with old trunks and broken furniture. In the corner, draped in a white sheet, was a large canvas. I pulled the sheet away to reveal a portrait. It was a man in a navy coat, standing in a similar pose to the figure I had seen, but his face was blank. Not unfinished in the sense of missing strokes, but literally a void, like the skin had been erased. Around the void, the paint was thick and textured, as if the artist had tried and tried again to create a face, but nothing stuck.

I touched the canvas, and my finger came away with a smear of paint. Instinctively, I wiped it on my arm. The paint felt cold and viscous, like congealed blood. I stumbled back, and in that moment, I saw the figure again, now in the attic, standing before the portrait, his blank face turned toward me. And I realized with horror that the void on the canvas was growing larger, and the figure was becoming more solid.

I ran out of the attic, slamming the door behind me. But the presence followed. That night, I lay in bed, and I saw him again. This time, he was closer, leaning over me, his blank face inches from mine. I could smell oil paint and dust. And I felt my own face begin to tingle, as if something were being erased.

I screamed, and my grandmother burst in, her eyes wide. She took one look at me and gasped. She rushed to the attic and returned with the portrait. She stared at it, then at me, and said, ‘He’s taking your face.’

She told me the legend: the painter had cursed his own portrait, vowing to steal the faces of those who looked upon it, to create a perfect image for himself. And now, he had chosen me. I could feel my features becoming numb, my smile fading, my eyes losing their focus. My grandmother began to weep, and I knew she couldn’t stop it.

In desperation, I grabbed a black marker from my nightstand and ran to the portrait. I scribbled over the blank face, drawing a crude, screaming mouth over the void. The moment I did, the room shook with a terrible, silent howl. The figure in the doorway began to writhe, his blank face turning grotesque, and then he dissolved into a cloud of dust.

The portrait fell to the floor, cracking. And I felt my face return, warm and whole. My grandmother and I stared at each other, trembling. The old house was quiet, and for the first time, it felt empty. But I know the painter is not gone. He’s just waiting for another face. And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I still see a man in a navy coat, holding a paintbrush, watching me. I know he’ll be back.