The Vermillion Veil

It was 1973, and my parents, Deborah and Marcus, bought a sprawling Victorian house in the sleepy town of Ashford, Vermont. The house had been vacant for decades, and the real estate agent warned them it needed work. But Deborah fell in love with the high ceilings, the wrap-around porch, and the way the afternoon light filtered through the stained glass in the entryway.

When they first stepped inside, the house was eerily empty. No furniture, no drapes, not even a stray dust bunny. Except for one thing: a large, ornate painting hanging in the parlor. It was a portrait of a distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his sixties, with sharp cheekbones, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and eyes that seemed to follow you across the room. Marcus joked that the man looked like an older version of himself. Deborah did not laugh. Something about the portrait made her skin crawl, especially the way the painted eyes seemed to bore into her own.

They took the painting down, wrapped it in an old quilt, and stored it in the damp, cobwebbed basement. They told themselves they ‘d deal with it later, maybe have it appraised or donate it. But life got busy. They painted the walls, scrubbed the floors, and filled the house with their own belongings. The portrait was forgotten, except for the occasional creak from the basement that sent a chill down Deborah’s spine.

Years passed. Deborah and Marcus had three boys, and their oldest, Aaron, was now an adolescent with a rebellious streak. In 1975, with the house feeling cramped and the whispers of small-town gossip too close, they decided to move outside of town to an old farmhouse on ten acres of overgrown land. The day of the move, the air was thick with humidity and the promise of a storm.

As the movers hauled out boxes and furniture, Aaron was tasked with checking the basement for anything left behind. He descended the rickety wooden stairs, the only light a single bulb swaying overhead. There, in the corner, leaned the portrait, still wrapped in the moth-eaten quilt. His curiosity got the better of him, and he unwrapped it, revealing the stern face of the old man. The eyes seemed to glint in the dim light, and Aaron felt a sudden urge to keep it. He dragged it upstairs and propped it in the back of his father’s pickup, just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

The family moved into the farmhouse, which was drafty and smelled of mildew. Aaron, now fourteen, had a room in the attic, with sloped ceilings and a single round window. He hung the portrait on the wall opposite his bed, despite his mother’s protests. She had a knot in her stomach the size of a fist, but she couldn’t quite explain why, so she let it go.

That night, Deborah woke to the sound of floorboards groaning upstairs. She thought she heard Aaron’s voice, low and melodic, as if he were singing a lullaby. She climbed the stairs, her heart thudding. The door to his room was ajar. Through the gap, she saw Aaron standing in front of the portrait, his back to her. He was speaking in a language she didn’t recognize, his voice unnaturally deep for a boy his age. She pushed the door open, and Aaron turned, his eyes glassy, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘He talks to me,’ Aaron said, pointing at the painting. ‘He tells me stories about his life.’

Deborah forced a laugh. ‘It’s just a painting, honey. You’re dreaming.’ But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the painted eyes had shifted, focusing on her. She took the portrait down, despite Aaron’s protests, and locked it in the root cellar under the kitchen. She thought hiding it would end it, but she was wrong.

Weeks passed, and Deborah began to notice changes in Marcus. He’d always been a patient man, but now he’d fly into rages over trifles, his face turning red, his knuckles white. At night, she’d catch him staring at the kitchen floor, as if listening for something. When she asked what was wrong, he’d shake his head, but his eyes looked older, vacant. Aaron, too, grew sullen, skipping school and spending long hours in the attic, staring at the empty space where the painting once hung.

One afternoon, Deborah found a sketchbook in Aaron’s room. It was filled with drawings of the old man from the portrait, but each sketch was slightly different: the eyes more hollow, the mouth twisted into a grin, the skin peeling away to reveal bone. On the last page, Aaron had written a date: May 12, 1976. That was the day Deborah was supposed to give birth to her fourth child, a baby she hadn’t yet announced.

Panic surged through her. She ran to the root cellar, yanked open the door, and dragged the portrait out into the sunlight. The paint seemed to shimmer, and for a moment, she could swear the old man’s lips moved. ‘You can’t destroy us,’ a voice whispered in her ear, so close she could feel the warmth of breath. She spun around, but no one was there.

That night, a violent thunderstorm hit. The power went out, and the farmhouse was plunged into darkness. Deborah gathered her sons in the living room, lighting candles. Marcus was missing. She found him in the root cellar, sitting in front of the portrait, which he had unwrapped. He was speaking in the same strange language Aaron had used, his voice resonant and commanding. When he saw her, his eyes cleared, and he looked at her with a mixture of confusion and terror. ‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ he said. ‘I can’t stop it.’

Then the truth spilled out. The portrait had been passed down through Marcus’s family for generations, but with a dark secret. The man in the painting, Julian, had been a powerful cult leader in the early 1900s. His spirit was bound to the canvas, and anyone who looked into his eyes for too long could become a vessel for his consciousness. He fed on the life force of the family, aging them prematurely, and when he had drained enough, he would be reborn. The eyes in the portrait were not just tracking them; they were feeding.

Deborah knew she had to end it. She and Marcus, along with their sons, carried the portrait to the old stone well in the backyard, the one that had been sealed for years. They pried off the concrete cover, revealing a dark, gaping hole. The rain was pounding, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves. They raised the portrait above the well, and just as they were about to drop it, the canvas rippled, and a hand reached out, gripping Aaron’s wrist. The boy screamed, his face contorting, and for a second, his features melted into that of an old man’s.

Marcus grabbed a shovel and swung it at the hand, which recoiled with a hiss. They shoved the portrait over the edge, and it tumbled into the darkness, the sound of it splashing below. They quickly sealed the well with a new slab of concrete, chanting a prayer that Deborah’s grandmother had taught her. As dawn broke, the storm ceased, and an eerie calm settled over the farm.

They moved away shortly after, leaving the farmhouse and the well behind. Deborah gave birth to a healthy baby girl, whom they named Rachel. But sometimes, when Rachel played alone in her room, she would smile at empty corners, and when asked why, she would say, ‘The old man in the well is singing to me.’

Years later, when I was born, my mother, Deborah, told me this story as a warning. I never believed her, until one day, when I found an old photo from 1976. In the background, on a shelf, I saw a small wooden doll that looked just like the man in Julian’s portrait, except it was older, wrinkled, and had an unnerving grin. I asked my mother about it, but she just shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘He’s not done with us,’ she whispered. And I knew, with a cold certainty, that the story was true, and that the old man had found a new way to linger.