The Weeping Portrait of Ashford House

My name is Elsie Marlow, and I’m sixteen now, but the story I’m about to tell happened when I was eight, in the summer of 2011. I grew up in a small town called Pemberton, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. My family had just moved into an old Victorian house on the edge of town, a place my mother inherited from a distant aunt. It was a sprawling, creaking structure with peeling wallpaper and drafty hallways, but to me, it was a mansion of endless possibilities. That is, until the nightmares began.

It started one humid July night. I was lying in my bed, the window open to let in the faint breeze, when I was jolted awake by the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway outside my door. I sat up, listening. The footsteps stopped right outside my door. I called out for my mother, but no answer came. The house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to convince myself it was just the house settling. Ten minutes later, I felt a cold hand grab my ankle through the blanket. I yelped and kicked out, but there was nothing there. My heart hammering, I scrambled out of bed and ran to my parents’ room. They were both asleep, and when I shook my mother awake, she mumbled that I was having a nightmare. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I noticed something odd: a small, framed portrait in the upstairs hallway that I hadn’t seen before. It was a painting of a woman in a dark dress, her face partially obscured by shadow, but her eyes were unnervingly large and black. I asked my mother about it, and she said it had always been in the attic, but she’d decided to hang it up. I didn’t like the way the eyes seemed to follow me, so I turned it to the wall, but my mother turned it back, saying it was a family heirloom.

That night, I woke up again at 3:03 AM, this time to the sound of sobbing. It was faint, but coming from the hallway. I crept to my door and peered through the keyhole. The hallway was empty, but the crying grew louder. I saw a shadow moving along the wall, and then it stopped right at my door. I backed away, but the sobbing turned into a low, guttural laugh. Then I felt a cold breath on my neck, and I spun around—nothing. I looked at the mirror on my dresser, and for a moment, I saw the reflection of the woman from the portrait standing behind me, her black eyes wide. I blinked, and it was gone.

I spent the next few nights sleeping in my parents’ bed, but the presence followed. I would see shadows in my peripheral vision, hear whispers in my ear that sounded like my name, and feel icy fingers trail down my spine. I started carrying a crucifix and a Bible, but it didn’t help.

On the third night, I decided to confront the portrait. I took it down and hid it in the attic, but that only made things worse. The crying turned to screaming, and I could feel eyes on me everywhere I went. I told my mother, and she finally believed me. She called a local priest, Father Dominic, who came to bless the house. He took one look at the portrait (which had mysteriously reappeared on the wall) and turned pale.

He said the portrait was of a woman named Agnes, who had once owned the house. She had been a recluse who drowned her twin daughters in the bathtub before hanging herself in the attic. He said her spirit was restless, and she would latch onto the first child she could find. He performed an exorcism, but as the holy water touched the canvas, the woman’s face twisted into a monstrous grin, and she crawled out of the frame. I screamed as her cold hand wrapped around my ankle, and I felt myself being dragged toward the mirror.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, sweaty and terrified. The portrait was gone. My mother said Father Dominic had taken it to be destroyed, but I knew better. I could still feel her presence. To this day, I avoid mirrors. I can’t stand the thought of seeing her black eyes staring back at me, waiting for me to fall asleep, waiting to take me with her.

That’s my story. I’m just glad I’m out of that house, but I know she’s still out there, searching for her next victim.