Creepypasta Stories

Craters in Her Face

I've always been an art enthusiast. I guess I inherited that from my grandmother. She had been a painter for many years, and tried her best to instill a love of the fine arts in me. I have many fond memories of trips to museums and galleries with her, gazing upon the countless beautiful and thought provoking pieces.

Sculpture and photography were nice, but I always had a special place in my heart for paintings. Especially old oil paintings. It's hard to explain. There's a sort of special property to paintings that you can only appreciate with your eyes in person. Photographs do them no justice. The way the light refracts off of the oil, and bounces back to your eyes give them a sort of life that no other medium can.

Well as much as I loved oil paintings, I was never much good myself. As a child, my grandmother tried giving me lessons. She'd create a breathtaking scenery, whilst the only thing I managed to make was a colossal mess.

Despite my apparent lack of talent in the oil painting department, it did not in the slightest diminish my love for the craft. My grandmother had a room dedicated to the paintings she had created or collected, which she dubbed "the gallery". I spent hour upon hour in that room, staring in wonderment.

Despite my being a child, my grandmother had no qualms with leaving me alone in a room with tens of thousands of dollars worth of paintings. She knew I had far too much respect for them to damage them, even as a bouncy little girl. She did, however, have one rule that was to be strictly adhered to at all times in the gallery: if any paintings in the gallery are covered, you are NOT to uncover them. Not even to peek.

Now some might think this a strange rule, I certainly did as a girl, but there is reason behind it. Oil paints are very sensitive, and it's possible the pieces she had covered up could be damaged if exposed to light, or various other factors.

But regardless of the reasoning, I made sure to follow that rule. Or at least I did, until the day my grandmother received her newest piece.

I remember arriving at my grandmother's home for a visit and running straight for the gallery. I rounded the corner into the room when I was forced to screech to a halt. There, in the center of the room was an incredibly large painting, propped up by an easel and covered with a long, dark curtain.

I had never seen the piece before, and the sheer size of it astounded me. My curiosity overtook me for a moment, and I found myself slowly reaching out a tiny hand to unveil the mysterious piece. But just as my hand grasped the dark velvet, my grandmother entered the room, wearing a frown.

"Evelyn what are you doing? You know the rule about covered paintings!"

My hand instantly whipped back to my side and my head sulked at the realization of my actions.

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

My grandmother's expression softened and she placed a 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.