Have you ever come across a painting that gives you the chills every time you look at it? You know the kind. One where the portrait just feels… off. Like you’re being watched whenever you walk into the room. Well, my wife brought one of those home a couple days ago, and it is driving me insane.
I guess I should explain a little bit, huh? My mother-in-law passed away a few weeks ago. Sad, right? Not really. My mother-in-law was kind of a… oh, how do I put this without sounding too harsh? A bitch. A nasty, vile, abusive old hag who deserved every shitty thing the world threw at her. There. I think that does her justice.
Anyway, my wife and I were cleaning out her mother’s attic when she found it. The painting was tucked away in a corner under a filthy, yellowing sheet. Left to rot, where it should’ve stayed.
“Hey babe, look at this,” Bailey said, tossing aside the dingy, moth-eaten fabric. My heart dropped the moment I glanced up. I gulped, a dry lump trundling down my throat.
The portrait depicted a man with bushy brown hair wearing late eighteen hundreds style clothing. His piercing stare intertwined with that disapproving frown radiated a sinister aura that sent dread seeping into my bones.
“Y-yeah. It’s, um, cool,” I muttered, praying that she’d throw the damned thing into the trash pile. But, of course, Bailey had other plans.
“I like it. Feels nostalgic. Don’t you think so?” I mentally rolled my eyes. I definitely did not think so.
“Uh, yeah. That’s a good word to describe it.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll put it in the keep pile.” Lovely. Awesome. Just what I wanted.
After a couple more exhausting hours of sorting through junk, we left with a Kia Soul packed to the brim with antiques. As my luck would have it, the painting sat front and center among the clutter, staring daggers at me whenever I glanced in the rearview mirror. I wanted nothing more than to chuck it out the window going eighty miles per hour. But, for the sake of my wife’s happiness (and to avoid being bitched at for the next week), I refrained.
“Where do you think we should put Roger?” Bailey asked, setting the painting down on the couch.
“Roger? You named it?” I huffed, placing the absurdly heavy box that I was carrying onto the ground. “And remind me again, what did we put in here? Cement blocks?”
Bailey giggled. I smiled warmly back at her. Every time she laughed, a little hit of dopamine surged through my system. Sometimes it felt like my sole purpose in life was to make her do that.
“Yes, and yes. I figured if he’s going to be staying with us, it would be fitting for me to give him a name. Those are my mom’s old magazines. You were the one who said they might be worth something.”
“Oh, yeah…” My gaze wandered from my wife to the painting. Its cutting stare was both enthralling yet terrifying at the same time. And I hated it. I hated how Bailey talked about it. I hated that it was in our house. Heck, I hated that we’d pulled it out of the attic in the first place. But what could I do?
“Mark? Mark, honey, are you okay? You look pale” Bailey said, her brows knitted together as she placed a hand on my arm.
“Yeah. Fine. I’m just tired. Probably need to lie down for a bit. I’ll help unpack the rest after I take a nap.”
“Alright, just let me know if you need anything.”
I nodded, trudging up the stairs. Truth be told, I didn’t need a nap. I needed to find a way to get rid of that creepy painting. And fast.
Okay, I may have told a little white lie right there. I was out like a light the moment my head hit the pillow. After a deep slumber, I groggily glanced at my phone. Five minutes until six. Just in time for dinner.
I patted myself on the back for not oversleeping my meal, hungrily skipping down the stairs. The tantalizing aroma of meatloaf and mashed potatoes teased my tastebuds, practically carrying me into the kitchen. Bailey stood with her back to me, long black hair cascading down her shoulders as she retrieved our dinner from the oven.
“Babe, whatever you cooked, it smells incredible.” She turned to me, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, aren’t you sweet? That nap really did you some good.”
“You aren’t wrong,” I said, planting a kiss on her cheek. She leaned into me as I wrapped my arms around her. We stayed like that for a moment, my wife purring like a cat, before she broke the silence.
“Dinner’s ready. Sit,” she ordered, gently removing my hands from her torso.
“You got it, babe.” I whipped around, preparing to claim my seat, and froze. No fucking way. She couldn’t be serious. I was frozen, out of shock or anger, I still don’t know.
The painting sat at the head of the table, in my seat. That wasn’t going to fly with me. Nuh uh.
“Bailey, what is that thing doing in my seat?”
“Oh, Roger? He told me that he wanted to eat with us.” My jaw fell to the floor. She had to be joking, right?
Rage began to boil inside me, granting me mobility of my limbs. I marched up to the vile thing and snatched it up, trying to hide my discomfort as its icy stare bore into my chest.
“I am not giving up my chair to an inanimate object. No way, Jose.”
Bailey shrugged, looking me dead in the eyes. “Suit yourself. But Roger won’t be happy with you if you do that.”
I paused for a moment. If this was a prank, she sure was playing it up. I glanced back at the table. Should I… return it?
Hell no, it was a painting for fuck’s sake. Was I really that gullible? I proceeded to the dining room, itching to set the freaky thing down. I placed the frame against the wall, out of view of the kitchen table. The last thing I needed was “Roger” glaring at me while I ate.
Dinner was marred by an awkward silence. I anxiously masticated my meatloaf and potatoes, all the while wondering if I’d screwed up. Maybe Bailey was having some sort of mental break? I mean, she didn’t have the best relationship with her mom, but she didn’t exactly hate her guts either. I decided that my best course of action was to wait it out. Grief can manifest itself in strange ways.
“I’m going upstairs. Gonna try and get a little writing done. Can you take care of the dishes?”
“Yeah, I got it. Um, Bailey?” She paused, one foot on the bottom step, staring at me expectantly.
“Is everything okay?”
She sighed, averting her gaze. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay. I’m always here if something’s bothering you. You know that you can talk to me about anything, no matter how big or how small. I love you.”
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips. “I know. I love you, too.”
I finished up with the dishes, even going as far as to knock out some of the laundry and sweeping so that Bailey wouldn’t have to later on. I returned the broom and dustpan to their place beside the washing machine, and began to head back to the living room. I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks. I could feel eyes burning into my back.
I spun around, heart beating a mile a minute. The tension partially dispersed from my system when I saw who that gaze belonged to.
Roger. I exhaled, placing a hand over my chest. “You nearly made me shit myself, you fucking dickhead.” What was I doing? Did I really expect the thing to respond?
“Good.”
My blood turned to ice. I couldn’t believe my ears. Did Roger just… speak?
No, that’s silly. Paintings can’t talk. Logically, I knew that. But something told me that my ears weren’t deceiving me.
I scoffed as I walked into the kitchen. Yep, that confirmed it. I was definitely getting rid of that creepy thing. I returned with the sharpest knife from the block. I slashed Roger across the face and stood back to admire my handiwork. I knew that I’d probably get an earful in the morning, but I’d gladly take that over having to meet that thing’s soul-sucking gaze for another second.
The canvas flapped as I hoisted up the frame and began carrying it outside. I threw the abomination onto the curb and smirked as I sauntered back inside the house. Problem solved. Or so I thought.
I awoke the next morning with a lingering sense of satisfaction. It was a Saturday and I’d get to spend the entire day lounging around with my wife. Nothing better than a day to relax, am I right?
“Morning babe,” I said, pouring myself a cup of joe.
“Someone’s in a chipper mood today.”
“You got that right. A whole day to do nothing but spend time with my best friend? Count me in.” Bailey chuckled as a smile began inching across my face.
“You’re a doofus,” she said, lightly socking me in the arm.
“Ow, that hurt!” I quipped, rubbing my deltoid like she’d done some real damage.
“Oh, stop. You’re never serious.”
“I am when it comes to you,” I said, kissing her cheek.
“Okay, okay, I’ll take your word for it. Now, go get the paper, Lover Boy.”
“Yes ma’am. On it,” I said, saluting her as I turned to walk out the door. I suddenly skidded to a stop. Dread swallowed me like a python.
Roger’s cold, dead eyes stared back at me from the dining room wall.
The painting had somehow been mended, as if I’d never damaged it at all. I could feel the color drain from my face. That shouldn’t be possible. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Uh, babe… why is the painting hanging on the wall?” Bailey’s brows furrowed.
“What paint- oh, you mean Roger! He told me that he wanted to be more elevated. You didn’t seriously expect me to just leave him on the floor, did you?”
No, I expected the fucking thing to be crushed by the trash compactor and buried in some distant landfill under a mile of garbage.
“Yeah, you’re right. Silly me.”
Roger ruined the whole rest of my day. Just his presence was enough to unsettle me, even from all the way across the house. I tried my best to focus on enjoying my alone time with my wife, but that monstrosity made it impossible. Something had to be done.
“Babe, aren’t you coming to bed? It’s getting late,” Bailey said, peeking her head around the corner of the stairway.
“Yeah, just give me a few more minutes. There’s something that I need to take care of.”
“Whatever. See you up there.” She disappeared back around the corner. I rose to my feet once I heard the door to our room click shut. It was now or never.
“I hope you like barbecues,” I said, aggressively yanking the painting from its spot.
“Don’t.”
A deep, menacing voice assaulted my ears. Okay, I definitely didn’t make that up. A nauseating cocktail of fear and perseverance coalesced in my stomach. I glowered at Roger, our gazes connecting.
“Shut up. One, I’m not going to take shit from a fucking painting in my house. Two, I hate you. I’ve hated you from the moment Bailey found you in that filthy, spider-infested attic. I swear that I will do everything in my power to cut you out of our lives. And I mean that.”
I awaited a response, but received none. I continued on to the shed, breaking our staring match, and snatched a can of gasoline. I marched up to the burn barrel that I’d bought the previous winter, and I stuffed Roger inside. A devious grin blossomed on my face as I doused the painting in gas. This had to work. It just had to.
I flicked my lighter, igniting a piece of newspaper. I tossed it into the barrel and watched as flames erupted from within, sending smoke billowing high into the warm summer air. There was something almost… relaxing about the whole experience.
After around forty-five minutes, I soaked the remaining embers and gathered up the wet ash. I dumped the gloppy, sooty remnants into a glass jar and sealed it tight, securely locking it inside the shed. I wasn’t taking any chances.
Once I was done, I wearily trudged upstairs. Ridding your house of evil entities is no walk in the park, let me tell you.
I shed my clothes and collapsed into bed beside my sleeping wife. My heart overflowed with adoration upon seeing her. I snuggled up close to her and shut my eyes, wondering what I did to deserve such an amazing woman, as I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to an empty bed. Bailey was nowhere in sight, but that wasn’t unusual. She always was an early bird.
I groggily rubbed my eyes, shuffling down the stairs. That was strange. I didn’t smell any food cooking. Bailey usually always had something good prepared when I woke up. I quickened my pace, rounding the corner. She wasn’t there.
“B-Bailey?” I called out. No response.
I quickly whipped out my phone. Maybe she’d texted me?
Zero new messages.
I began to panic. Bailey always told me when she left the house, even if it was just to go check the mail.
I frantically searched the whole downstairs for any sign of her. I rushed into the dining room and stopped. A cold sweat broke out across my body and my head started to spin.
Hanging on the wall, right where Bailey had placed it, was the painting. But something was wrong.
Roger was missing.
I trembled as I stepped closer to inspect the empty backdrop. And that’s when I noticed it.
A piece of paper was neatly tucked into the painting’s frame. My hands shook violently as I picked it up and read what was written on it.
I told you not to do that.
I have a sinking feeling that Roger has taken my wife. And I’m terrified. Because I think he’s coming for me next.