The Gallery Of Ghosts
1223 Words
Sera didn’t move. She couldn’t. The words “someone’s watching you” rang like a bell in her ears, drowning out the storm, the paintings, even the pounding of her own heart.
Elias stood beside the canvas like a shadow brought to life. He wasn’t threatening, not in the way strangers on a dark night often were—but his presence unsettled her in a different way. He knew too much. Said too little.
She stepped back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “What are you talking about? Who’s watching me?”
He tilted his head, studying her. “You haven’t noticed anything? Unmarked letters? Flickering lights? Dreams that don’t feel like dreams?”
Her skin prickled. The hallway light in her apartment had been flickering for days, and she’d written it off as bad wiring. A note with no signature had shown up last week—just three words: You’ll regret it.
She had brushed it aside. Paranoia wasn’t new to her. But now, the memories settled around her like falling ash.
“What do you know about my sister?” she asked, trying to steady her voice.
Elias walked toward a door behind the gallery wall. “You’ll want to sit for this.”
“I don’t sit for cryptic men in art galleries.”
“Then stand and tremble. Your choice.”
Despite herself, she followed. The door creaked open to reveal a staircase spiraling downward, swallowed by darkness. She hesitated.
“You want answers?” he said. “They’re not upstairs.”
She took the first step. Then another.
The smell changed—paint gave way to damp wood and something faintly sweet, like dried flowers. At the bottom of the stairs, she found a room far removed from the gallery above.
It was warmer, dimly lit by hanging bulbs. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old sketchbooks, photographs, and dusty canvases wrapped in brown cloth. A narrow desk stood in the corner, and on it, a single candle flickered beside a small, weathered journal.
Elias picked it up.
“This belonged to your sister,” he said.
Sera froze. “No, it can’t. Her things were never found.”
“They were kept. Hidden. Like everything else tied to this place.”
He handed her the journal. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Inside were pages of frantic handwriting—scrawled notes, drawings of the same faceless figure over and over, and one page circled again and again.
“They said it was just a story. A curse. But I saw it. I saw him. He wears the faces of those we trust.”
Sera’s breath caught. “She was losing her mind.”
“No,” Elias said, voice steady. “She was starting to understand.”
She stared at the pages. What had her sister gotten involved in?
“Why show me this now?” she asked again.
Elias moved beside her. “Because it’s happening again. And this time, they’ve chosen you.”
She snapped the book shut. “Who are they? What is this?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled the cloth off a painting behind her.
Sera turned—and gasped.
It was her. Painted in precise, eerie detail. Her expression blank, eyes wide. But what chilled her wasn’t the likeness.
It was the date scribbled in the corner: One week from now.
“How is that possible?” she whispered.
“That,” Elias said, “is what we need to find out.”
Sera stepped back from the painting, her throat dry. “This—this isn’t real,” she muttered, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the fear clawing up her spine.
Elias remained silent, letting her process the truth—or at least what she thought was the truth. The air around them had turned colder, heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
“Tell me this is a sick joke,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the painting. “You paint strangers and assign them death dates for what—attention?”
“I wish it were that simple,” he said quietly.
Sera turned sharply. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He walked to the painting and brushed his fingers along the edge of the canvas. “Every person I’ve painted like this… disappears. Exactly on the date written.” His voice was hollow now, distant.
Sera blinked. “You’re saying… you’re cursed?”
He nodded once. “Not by choice. It started with a woman named Madeline. I painted her for a portrait competition. When I finished, her expression was off—stiff, frozen. Not what she’d shown me in life. Three days later, she vanished. Then I saw it: I’d written the wrong date. The date she disappeared.”
Sera’s heart thudded painfully. “And my sister? Was she one of them?”
Elias turned toward her slowly, eyes clouded. “Your sister came to me for answers. She thought someone was following her. She brought one of my older sketches with her… one that had her reflection in a mirror behind the subject. I hadn’t even noticed. But she had.”
Sera felt like the floor was tilting. “So she believed you?”
“She believed something was wrong. Something watching her from behind the canvas. She said it whispered through the brush strokes. That it only revealed itself in oil and shadow.”
Sera laughed—short, sharp, panicked. “You do realize how insane this sounds?”
“Yes. But you’re here. You saw the painting. You know I’ve never met you. And yet there you are—your face, your fear, painted before you even stepped into this gallery.”
She wanted to run. To bolt up the stairs and never look back. But something deeper—an invisible tether—held her there.
“I don’t believe in curses,” she said finally. “But I believe my sister was terrified. And I believe someone made her disappear. If you’re lying, Elias, I swear I will—”
“I’m not lying,” he cut in. “And if we don’t find the truth behind that painting, you won’t have a chance to finish that sentence.”
The words landed like ice in her bloodstream.
A sudden knock upstairs made them both flinch.
“Did you lock the gallery?” Sera whispered.
Elias shook his head, already moving toward the staircase. “No one comes here after dark.”
Another knock. Then the door creaked open.
Sera followed him cautiously, her fingers still clenched around her sister’s journal. When they reached the top, the gallery was empty—except for a single red envelope sitting on the reception desk.
It hadn’t been there before.
Elias picked it up slowly. There was no name. No stamp. Just a wax seal pressed with a symbol—an eye inside a triangle.
He cracked it open.
Inside was a black-and-white photo of Sera standing outside her apartment. It had been taken from across the street. At night.
On the back was written:
“We warned her. She didn’t listen. Will you?”
Sera’s knees nearly gave out.
Whoever “they” were—they weren’t just watching.
They were getting closer.
- Writer
