The Dreadborne Mannor

Chapter two; A grim portrait

    The man continued his way up the porch, taking a key from a potted plant, the poor thing having withered and rotten away ages ago. Yet the key still sat there, in the exact same spot he remembered his mother had told him. And as he carefully inserted it into the keyhole, he felt a wave of anxiety wash over him, but he pushed it down and twisted the key, effectively opening the door.

    Once he stepped into the home and looked around, Javier was left feeling appalled at his aunt's living conditions. His heart sank at the sight of the scattered mud tracks that littered the stone flooring, deep black eyes landing onto the sight of the worn-down furniture, thick layers of built-up dust covering almost every surface of the place. Still, he continued inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it.

    The man hung his coat on the rack at the entrance, walking down the hall to examine the place, not before calling out to his aunt and wife.

- "Hello? Is anyone home? Aunty Márie, Aunt Amelea, where are you? It's me, Javier, I'm here, sorry for not writing back."

    He yelled from the entrance, then made his way through the halls, taking his time to admire each of the dusty paintings. Although, one caught his eye like no other, a painting unlike the rest, clean as if new yet its date was old, from many decades ago.

    It was a painting of his dear, beloved mother holding him in her arms, back in a time where he was just a small baby, free of any worried or issues. Not a single problem there to keep him up at night. And there she was, a woman whom, at a very early age was accused of witchcraft. Although the words the priest had spoken that day were not untrue, his mother had always been more curious to ask about the dark side of things, she had always been a very kind and loving woman to anyone who'd let her, especially her son. The older man held not right to have accused his mother of such heinous acts.

Though, in the ever so old yet pristine painting, his mother looked... different.. Much more malevolent, the beautiful golden glimmer of her hazel eyes was far gone, replaced by a deathly glint in a pair of bloody crimson eyes that were far from the gorgeous orbs he had longed so many years to see once more, such a long time after she was poisoned and found dead in her sleeping quarters.

He felt so horrible, terrified of the painting, the mere sight of it causing his heart to race with dread as his stomach plummeted down into an unknown abyss. He wanted so terribly to look away, tear his eyes off the unnerving painting yet his entire body stood ever so firmly, so still that he was unable to rip his eyes from the horrendous painting.

That was until he heard a soft, weak voice calling his name. That was his aunt, there to take his attention off the unnerving artwork and place it onto her.

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