Evelyn Hart had never been afraid of old houses. In fact, she was drawn to them the peeling wallpaper, the creaking floorboards, the way sunlight filtered through dusty windows to make the ordinary feel uncanny. So when she inherited Blackthorn Manor from an aunt she barely remembered, she accepted it without hesitation. The letter had been short, almost cryptic:
"Take care of the house, Evelyn. It chooses its own residents."
She laughed aloud at the wording. Houses didn't choose people, she told herself. Yet as she approached the iron gates of Blackthorn Manor that evening, the joke felt hollow. The gates groaned and rattled in the wind, like joints of some enormous, slumbering creature. Beyond them, the manor stretched into the twilight like a dark, hulking shadow. Its windows glinted faintly, catching the last rays of the setting sun. They were eyes. They were watching.
Evelyn parked her car on the gravel driveway, the stones crunching loudly in the silence. The air smelled damp and metallic, heavy with the scent of moss and something else she could not name something sharp and decayed. She carried her small suitcase through the creaking front door and into the grand hallway.
The interior was dimly lit by a single chandelier, its crystals coated in a layer of grime that scattered what little light there was. Dust motes floated like tiny specters, and the faint odor of mildew clung to the ornate woodwork. As Evelyn walked further inside, she felt the house adjust itself around her. It was subtle at first: a floorboard groaned where she had not stepped, a curtain swayed though there was no draft, shadows stretched unnaturally long along the walls.
And then she saw it.
The portrait.
It hung at the far end of the long hallway, framed in dark, twisted wood that seemed to have been carved from the roots of a dead tree. The figure in the painting was a woman, unnervingly beautiful, pale skin almost glowing in the dim light, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, and lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. But it was her eyes that stopped Evelyn cold.
They were black—no, not black, but so dark brown they swallowed the light around them. They were alive. They watched. And though Evelyn knew it was impossible, she could feel them following her every step.
"Just a painting," she whispered to herself, but the words sounded hollow.
Evelyn approached cautiously, drawn by a combination of fear and fascination. As she stood before the portrait, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. It was more than the woman's eyes; it was the atmosphere around the painting. The shadows seemed thicker, the air colder, heavier. She reached out her hand, just to touch the frame—and paused when she felt a shiver run through her fingertips.
A whisper curled around her ears, faint and raspy, like the wind through dead leaves:
"Stay… with me…"
Evelyn jerked back, her heart hammering. She spun around, expecting someone—anyone—but the hallway was empty. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady her racing pulse.
"It's nothing," she told herself. "I'm just tired. Just… imagining things."
She dragged her suitcase toward the stairs leading to her room. Each step groaned under her weight, as if protesting her intrusion. But when she reached the top of the stairs, her eyes were drawn back to the portrait.
It had not moved. Of course it hadn't. It was a painting.
And yet… she swore the woman in the portrait was smiling wider now.
Evelyn shook her head. She tried to focus on practical matters: unpacking, finding the bathroom, checking the locks. But the image of that face lingered at the edge of her vision. She felt as if she could hear soft, almost imperceptible movements—footsteps that were not her own, a sigh that did not belong to her, a shifting in the shadows that made her stomach churn.
That night, sleep came in fitful, shallow bursts. Evelyn dreamed of the portrait. The woman's eyes were closer now, filling the entire canvas, her smile stretching impossibly wide. She reached out with painted fingers that bent and twisted in ways that no real hand could. Evelyn woke gasping, sheets tangled around her, the room cold and silent—except for a scratching sound at the door.
Morning brought little comfort. Sunlight filtered weakly through heavy curtains, illuminating the dust motes that still floated lazily in the air. Evelyn tried to shake off the unease, telling herself that the house was old, the noises normal. She explored the rooms, cataloging the peeling wallpaper, the old furniture covered in white sheets, and the air thick with age.
But the portrait stayed with her. Every hallway she passed, every turn of the staircase, she caught glimpses of it at the corner of her eye. Its eyes seemed to follow her, unwavering.
Days passed. Evelyn began to notice strange occurrences that she could not explain. Objects would shift slightly from where she left them, doors that she knew were closed would be slightly ajar, and in the quietest moments, she could hear faint whispers echoing through the hallways. She tried to ignore it, reasoning that the house was old and her imagination was overactive.
But the painting was not content to watch from afar. One evening, as she carried a tray of tea down the hallway, she froze. The woman in the portrait had moved. Not fully, but subtly—her head tilted, her eyes narrowing as if scrutinizing Evelyn. Her smile had grown, and for the first time, Evelyn felt the unmistakable weight of a presence behind her.
She dropped the tray, the cups shattering, the tea staining the wooden floor. Her heart raced. She wanted to flee, but the hall seemed impossibly long, the shadows stretching toward her like fingers. And then she heard it clearly—a whisper, unmistakable this time, emanating from the painting itself:
"You can't leave. Not yet."
Evelyn stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of a rug. She scrambled to her feet, her mind a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. The house was alive. The painting was alive. And whatever resided in that dark, painted gaze had chosen her.
No one had warned her that Blackthorn Manor did not give up its residents easily.
Evelyn closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She had inherited a house, she thought, but what she had really inherited was something far older, far darker, and far more insistent than any building or human could possibly be.
And the cursed portrait waited, patiently and eternally for the next move