I never believed in curses until the day I walked into that decrepit pawn shop on the outskirts of town. It was a rainy day, the kind that chills you to the bone, and I was looking for some old items to use as references for my paintings. I’m an artist, you see, a struggling one at that. But nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to find.
Tucked away in a corner, covered in dust and cobwebs, was a portrait. It was of an old man, his gaze so intense, so lifelike, it felt like he was looking right into my soul. His eyes, dark and deep, held a sorrowful yet menacing look that was almost hypnotic. Despite the unease it gave me, I felt an inexplicable pull towards it. Before I knew it, I had handed over the little cash I had and left with the portrait under my arm.
Bringing it into my studio apartment was the biggest mistake of my life.
That night, as the thunderstorm raged outside, the atmosphere inside my apartment shifted. There was a palpable sense of being watched. I tried to brush it off, to tell myself it was just the storm, but the feeling persisted, gnawing at my sanity. I would wake up in the middle of the night, my room bathed in the eerie glow of the streetlights, and I could swear those painted eyes were moving, watching me.
My art, which until then had been struggling for a direction, suddenly took on a new, dark intensity. The paintings I produced were unlike anything I had ever done – twisted landscapes, faces contorted in agony, scenes that seemed to spill my deepest fears onto the canvas. And the weirdest part? These paintings were selling. I was getting recognition, galleries were interested, and for the first time in my life, I was making good money.
But the success was hollow. Each brushstroke felt like I was signing away a piece of my soul. The old man in the portrait seemed to be feeding off my energy, his gaze growing ever more triumphant with each painting I completed.
Then the dreams started. Or should I say nightmares? The old man would step out of the portrait and into my dreams. He spoke of a world ruled by greed and despair, where art was not a pursuit of beauty but a tool for manipulation and control. His words were like poison, seeping into my thoughts, tainting everything I loved about art.
I became paranoid, irritable. Friends said I was changing, that I looked hollowed out, a shell of my former self. I tried to explain about the portrait, but who would believe such a story? It sounded insane even to my own ears.
Desperate, I attempted to get rid of the portrait. I sold it to another pawn shop, only to wake up the next morning and find it hanging on my wall again. I tried burning it, but the flames wouldn’t touch it. It was like the portrait was mocking me, showing me that I was trapped.
In my search for answers, I dug into the history of the portrait and discovered a tale as old as time. The artist who painted it had been like me, a nobody who stumbled upon fame. But his end was tragic. He became consumed by madness, ranting about a cursed portrait that sucked away his soul. He vanished without a trace, leaving behind only whispers of dark deals and a tainted legacy.
By now, my life was spiraling out of control. The more I painted, the more I felt like I was losing myself. Those eyes, always watching, seemed to be gloating, as if they knew this was my inevitable end. I started seeing the old man everywhere – in the shadows, in the crowds, always just out of sight but never out of mind.
I am writing this as a warning. The portrait is still with me, its curse as strong as ever. I can feel it draining my life, my creativity, my very essence. My once bright future in art is now a twisted nightmare. I am a prisoner in my own home, bound by a pair of haunting, inescapable eyes.
If you ever come across an old portrait in a pawn shop, no matter how captivating it may seem, walk away. Some things are not meant to be tampered with. Some prices are too high to pay.
And as for me, I fear it’s already too late.