Chapter 144

Carol never liked the paintings. It wasn't that they were strange or even ugly—no, it was something else. It was the way they made her feel, like eyes were watching her from every corner of the room, and no matter where she went, she couldn't escape them. She tried to ignore them, but they never let her. Her new home, an old Victorian house she had bought for its history and charm, was full of them—paintings on every wall, in every room, each one more unsettling than the last.

Most of them were landscapes, or portraits of people she couldn't recognize. But it wasn't the subjects of the paintings that bothered her—it was how they seemed to move when she wasn't looking. The eyes, in particular. They never seemed to stay still. It was as if they were watching her, following her movements around the house, but only when she wasn't looking directly at them. When she tried to focus, it was like they blurred out, as though the paint itself didn't want to be noticed.

She had told herself it was just her imagination, the kind of thing that happens when you move into a house that's seen better days. But the whispers in the back of her mind, the feeling that something was wrong, didn't go away. And there was the smell too. Old, musty, a bit like mold and dust, but there was something else to it—something sour that made her stomach twist when she was near the paintings.

One day, it was late in the afternoon, the sky bruised with the dark shades of an impending storm, when it finally happened. Carol stood in the hallway, staring at a portrait hanging just above the staircase. It was a woman, dressed in a faded gown, her face pale and cold. The woman's eyes were wide, a frozen expression of shock. Carol could've sworn she hadn't seen that particular painting before. It wasn't part of the house when she'd first moved in. But now, here it was—its varnished frame gleaming under the dim light.

Her breath caught in her throat. The woman in the painting was staring at her, her eyes wide, fixed on Carol. Carol took a step back, a chill crawling up her spine. She couldn't tear her eyes away. She didn't want to look, but she couldn't stop herself.

The woman's lips parted, and in a breathy whisper, Carol could've sworn she heard the words, "Get out."

She stumbled backward, bumping into the wall as she tore her eyes away. The whisper faded, but her heart hammered against her chest. The house felt cold suddenly, colder than it had ever been. She glanced at the portrait again, but it was still—too still. The woman's face was unchanged, locked in that same strange, shocked expression.

Carol swallowed, her throat dry. She had to leave. She couldn't stay here, not with... whatever this was. Not with that woman watching her.

But she couldn't bring herself to leave. Something tugged at her, something in the back of her mind whispering that she needed to stay, that something else would happen if she just waited. And so, Carol stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the portrait. The storm outside raged, the wind howling through the trees as the house seemed to groan under its weight.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes—time seemed irrelevant now. She couldn't say how long she had been staring at the painting when it happened. At first, it was small, barely noticeable—a flicker in the corner of her vision. The woman's eyes moved. Just a little. A twitch, like the smallest shift in focus. And then again. The woman blinked. Not the kind of blink that happens when you look away, but the kind that happens when someone in a portrait comes to life.

Carol gasped, stumbling backward. Her pulse raced, and her breath came out in shallow, panicked bursts. Her mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing. The woman in the painting wasn't a woman at all. She wasn't a figure of the past, locked forever in oil and canvas. She was... something else. Something wrong.

Before Carol could turn to flee, the woman's mouth opened again, wider this time, her face contorting into a grotesque parody of fear and agony. And then—then—Carol understood.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone. She needed to call someone. Someone would help her. She had to get out of here. But the phone's screen remained black, no matter how many times she pressed the buttons. The house... the house was making it impossible for her to leave. There was something in the air, thick and suffocating, and every time she looked at the painting, she felt her own breath catch, her chest tightening, as if it too were watching her.

Carol staggered back, stumbling out of the hallway and into the living room. But even here, it was impossible to escape. The paintings followed her—she could feel their eyes, their unblinking stares. She glanced at a portrait in the corner—a painting of a man in a dark suit. He hadn't moved before, but now, his head turned ever so slightly, just enough to catch her eye.

Her stomach twisted with panic. She backed into the wall, her hands sliding along the rough surface as she struggled to stay upright. The room felt like it was closing in on her. The paintings—every single one—were alive, and they were closing in. She could see them moving now, their figures shifting in the corner of her vision, barely perceptible, but undeniably real.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.

And then, just as she thought she might pass out, she heard a sound. A whisper. Not from the paintings, but from behind her. It was a voice. Low, soft, almost loving in its tone. But it wasn't comforting. It was the voice of something that had waited for too long.

"Carol," the voice said. It was her name, whispered like a lover's caress. "You shouldn't have stayed."

She spun around, but there was no one there. The house was silent again, except for the wind howling outside. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her legs buckled. She slid to the floor, gasping for air.

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She looked up.

The woman from the portrait was standing at the edge of the room, her eyes wide with terror. The woman stepped forward, her footsteps heavy and deliberate, as though the very act of walking caused the ground beneath her to tremble. Carol tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The woman's mouth opened again, and this time, the words were clearer.

"Get out. Before it's too late."

Carol's eyes widened. She tried to run, but the house held her in place, as though the very walls were alive, moving to trap her. She struggled, her hands slapping against the cold floor as she tried to crawl away. But her body wouldn't obey. She could feel the weight of the house pressing down on her, like invisible hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at the portraits. And the portraits—they were watching, every single one of them.

And then, just as the woman's voice whispered again, the last thing Carol ever heard was a sharp, horrible sound—a cracking, as though something in the house had broken. A wall, perhaps. A window. Her heart froze.

When Carol's friends arrived, the house was silent again. The storm had passed, and the sky outside had turned a dull gray. They called for her, but she didn't answer. They searched every room, but there was no sign of her. The paintings had returned to their original positions, unchanged, still and unmoving.

It wasn't until they entered the hallway and saw the portrait of the woman that they found her. At first, they didn't recognize her, but the more they looked, the more they realized—Carol was there, in the painting. She stood in the background, her face twisted in terror, her eyes wide, staring out from the canvas. She was inside it, as though she had always been a part of it.

The last thing they saw before they left was the woman, standing just beneath Carol's frozen, terrified face. Her lips, cracked and twisted into a smile. And then the whisper came again.

"Too late."