The stairwell wall was no place to hang a dark and scary painting. Yet that is where my Aunt Marie hung her daughter's painting. I was a huge, scary, oil painting I had to look at every time I left the house. Below the painting hung several coats and coveralls. I knew something hid behind them waiting to come out and get me. I waited for my mother to walk down the stairs to pass the painting.
The painting had a swirling deep-purple background with a black silhouetted woman sitting there—one knee up, and arms draping to somewhere unseen. The color scheme made me feel cold and suffocating. The woman's blacked out face and jagged haircut added to the effect. My aunt had two dogs in the house. When I left, they would follow me to the doorway happy and barking. Once there, they would look at the painting and, front legs over back, return to the safety inside.
The woman looked right at me. Sometimes I could ignore her glares. Most of the time I could not. Once I heard her speak to me. "Keeeeent!" it breathed. I did not stay to hear the rest. I followed the dogs and went out the front door happy and peaceful.
One day the basement caught on fire. Soot in the old wood-burning furnace caught ablaze and smoked up the whole house. Smoke damaged many things in the stairwell, but not the painting.
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Forty years later, we were visiting my aunt's for Thanksgiving Dinner. We took our meal to the basement as we always did. The painting was still there. The foreboding figure caused me to pause. My childhood feelings returned. Not for long. The coveralls that hung on a hook beneath the painting shook, then the legs floated and came toward me.
"Come here, you!"
It was my youngest chasing his older brother, already engaged in a game of hide-and-seek. I smiled, and then had to peek behind those coveralls. There was a small set of shelves built into the wall holding a couple jars of screws, washers, nails and such. An ominous looking crack stretched like a jagged finger from behind the painting. It angled toward the doorway as if pointing to whomever walked in. It stopped a few inches from the doorway.
We had a great time that Thanksgiving, eating, talking, playing cards, watching the parade on TV, and recounting old stories. When it was time to leave, I gathered all our dishes and boxed them up to carry to the van. I walked passed the painting on my way out laughing about how it held no power over me anymore.
When I came back inside the door, I heard a crackling sound that came from the picture. I turned to see the crack in the wall grow right in front of my eyes all the way to doorway, down the frame right toward me. Then I heard in a familiar breathed voice,
"Keeeeeeeent!"
YOU ARE READING
That Night at Grandpa's (And Other Scary Stories)
Short StoryEach of the stories you are about to read are more than fifty percent true. Some parts you won't believe. Some stories are completely true. Feel free to ask my kids which of these stories are true. They might tell you. They might not. They have firs...
