An anthology of dark and scary stories

The haunting of the painted lady

I have always been an art lover. I think I inherited this from my grandmother. She had been a painter for many years and tried her best to instill in me a love of fine arts. I have many fond memories of trips to museums and galleries with him, seeing countless beautiful and thought-provoking pieces.

Sculpture and photography were good, but painting always had a special place in my heart. Especially old oil paintings. It is very difficult to describe. Paintings have a kind of special property that you can only appreciate with your eyes. Pictures don't do them justice. The way light refracts off the oil and returns to your eyes gives them a life that no other medium can.

Well, as much as I liked doing oil paintings, I was never that good myself. As a child, my grandmother tried to give me an education. She would create a breathtaking scenery, while the only thing I managed to create was a huge mess.

Despite my obvious lack of talent in the oil painting department, it didn't diminish my love for the craft one bit. My grandmother had a room dedicated to the paintings she created or collected, which she called her "gallery." I spent hours and hours staring at that room in wonder.

Despite me being a child, my grandmother had no problem leaving me alone in a room with paintings worth thousands of dollars. She knew that even as a jumpy little girl, I had too much respect for them to want to harm them. However, he had one rule that had to be strictly followed at all times in the gallery: if any paintings in the gallery were covered, you could not expose them. Not even to peek.

Now some people may consider this a weird rule, I certainly did this as a girl, but there is a reason behind it. Oil paints are very sensitive, and it is possible that the pieces they cover may be damaged when exposed to light or various other factors.
But regardless of the logic, I made sure to follow that rule. Or at least I did, until my grandma found her latest piece.

I remember visiting my grandmother's house and running straight to the gallery. I went to the corner of the room when I was forced to stop by the shouting. There, in the middle of the room, was an incredibly large painting, propped up on an easel and covered with a long, dark curtain.

I had never seen this piece before and its sheer size astonished me. My curiosity got the better of me for a moment, and I found myself slowly reaching out a small hand to unveil the mysterious piece. But as soon as my hand grasped the dark velvet, my grandmother entered the room angrily.

"Evelyn what are you doing? You know the rules about covered painting!"

My hand immediately came back towards me and my head became angry upon realizing my action.

"I'm sorry grandma. I forgot. This painting, it's huge! What is this?!"

My grandmother's expression softened and she placed her hand on my shoulder.

"This painting was just given to me by a friend. Her ill sister painted it shortly before passing away. She said she couldn't bear to look at it because it made her too sad, so she gave it to me."

"May I see it?" I asked.

"Perhaps later. It's very sensitive because it's in poor condition. I'm going to try to preserve it though. After I'm done, I'll let you see it like with all the others." she warmly responded.

Although my curiosity was not satisfied, I agreed and resigned myself to looking at all the other pieces in the gallery. Content that I would no longer cause any sort of mischief, my grandmother returned to the sitting room.

I lay there in the soft plush carpet, gazing at the works of art until my focus drifted. Despite how bad I knew it was to disobey my grandmother, my curiosity continued to burn hot in my chest. I had already stared at each and every piece in the gallery to detail, and had grown restless. I had to see what was beneath the curtain.