The Unfinished Portrait

The old art museum in Crayport had been closed to the public for years, but the night guard, Mr. Hemlock, was known for his lax attitude. My friend, Leo, whose father was on the museum’s board, had swiped a set of keys, and we, a group of four, had started sneaking in after dark. The building was a cavernous relic, with high ceilings and long corridors lined with dusty paintings. We played hide-and-seek among the galleries, our footsteps echoing in the silent spaces.

The first few nights, we were jittery. The museum at night was a different beast. The air was thick and cold, as if the building were somehow aged by the darkness. We heard creaks and groans that we attributed to the old pipes, but they were persistent, like the building itself was sighing. The shadows were the worst. In the main hall, where no windows were, the shadows clung to the corners, and once, I swore I saw one shift and move, but I dismissed it as my eyes playing tricks.

We grew accustomed to the eerie atmosphere, convincing ourselves it was just the old building settling. But then there was the painting. In the east wing, there was a portrait of a woman, her face half-finished, the canvas left raw. The plaque read ‘Portrait of Eleanor Vane, 1923, artist unknown.’ We had passed it many times, but one night, I noticed the cold was intense near it, and the brushstrokes seemed to shimmer. Leo joked that the artist might have died before finishing it.

A week later, we were playing hide-and-seek again, and I chose to hide behind the large curtain in the east wing, near the unfinished portrait. As I pressed my back against the wall, I heard a faint sound – a woman humming a lullaby. I froze. The humming seemed to come from the painting itself. I peeked out, and for a split second, I saw the eyes in the portrait move, focusing on my hiding spot. I bolted, and the others laughed at my scare, but I couldn’t shake it.

The next night, we decided to play a game where the seeker had to find us in complete darkness, using only touch. I was the seeker, and as I groped through the hallways, I felt a cold hand brush my arm. I screamed, and when the lights came on, we saw that the unfinished portrait was gone. In its place was a blank canvas. We searched, but it was nowhere. That’s when we noticed the cellar door, which we had never seen before, ajar at the end of the corridor.

Curiosity got the better of us, and we descended the stone steps. The air was frigid, and we could see our breath. At the bottom, we found a small room lit by a single bulb. On an easel stood the portrait, but it was finished. The woman’s face was complete, with piercing green eyes and a faint smile. And behind her, in the background, we saw ourselves – Leo, Marcus, Rita, and me – standing in the museum, looking exactly as we did now, our faces filled with terror. The painting was dated 2024.

We tried to leave, but the door to the cellar was locked. We pounded on it, but no one came. The temperature dropped further, and the humming resumed, louder now. We turned to see the painting’s eyes flicker, and the woman’s smile widened. Her hand emerged from the canvas, reaching out, and the room filled with the scent of oil paint and decay.

Now, the museum is closed, and the east wing is sealed. But the painting remains, and if you listen closely, you can hear our screams, forever trapped within its frame.