Chapter 8: The Portrait*
1060 Words
Morning in Blackwood Manor smelled different.
Not like rain. Not like stone.
Like dust that had been sleeping for twenty years and just got woken up.
Evelyn woke alone.
Damien’s side of the bed was cold. The sheets didn’t even have a dent. But his watch was still on the nightstand. Black. Heavy. Ticking.
On the pillow: _Don’t get used to this._
Her chest did something stupid at that.
She got up. The floor was freezing. The locket at her throat was warm. Always warm now.
She didn’t go to her room. She went to the portrait gallery.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. No Martha. No footsteps. Just her shoes on marble and the sound of the house breathing.
The Blackwoods stared at her as she passed. Oil paint eyes. Gray. Cold. Judging.
All except one.
The last portrait. Shrouded in black velvet.
The cloth was old. Faded at the edges. It smelled like mothballs and grief.
Evelyn’s fingers hovered over it.
“Don’t.”
She jumped.
Damien.
He was behind her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Dark circles. White shirt wrinkled. But his eyes were sharp. Watching.
“You told me not to look,” Evelyn said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
“I did.”
“So why are you here if you don’t want me to?”
Damien didn’t answer. He pushed off the wall and walked to the portrait. Stood right in front of it. Close enough to touch.
For a long time he just stared at the black cloth.
Then he said, “She died in that dress.”
Evelyn’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“The night of the fire. White dress. Pearl earrings.” His voice was flat. “They never found the body. Just the dress. Burned.”
The air felt thinner.
Evelyn reached out before she could stop herself and pulled.
The velvet slid down with a soft _whump_ of dust.
The portrait was revealed.
And the world tilted.
The woman in the painting was beautiful. Dark hair. Pale skin. Gray eyes that looked straight through you.
She was wearing a silver locket.
And she had Evelyn’s face.
Not similar. Not close.
Exact.
The same mouth. The same scar above the left eyebrow that Evelyn got at 9 from falling off a bike. The same way the left eye was half a shade darker.
Evelyn made a sound. It wasn’t a word.
Damien didn’t look at the painting. He looked at her.
“How does it feel,” he said quietly, “to meet your ghost?”
“My name is Evelyn Carter,” she said. Too fast. “From the Bronx. My mom was a nurse. She died when I was 6. I have a brother—”
“I know your story,” Damien cut in. “I’ve read the orphanage files a hundred times.”
“Then how—”
“Because she was pregnant,” Damien said. “With me.”
Silence.
The house creaked.
Evelyn took a step back. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” Damien finally turned to her. “The woman in that painting is my mother, Celeste Blackwood. And 20 years ago she gave birth to a girl. Not me. A girl. Two months before me.”
Evelyn’s knees felt weak. “Twins?”
“Fraternal,” he said. “But you were taken the night they died. Hospital records say you died too. Fire. But the body was never found.”
The locket burned against her skin.
“You think I’m her,” Evelyn whispered.
“I know you are,” Damien said. “The locket proves it. The key proves it. The house proves it.”
“How do you know it’s not just a coincidence? People look alike—”
“Because of this.”
He reached out. His thumb brushed under her left eye. Right where the painting’s eye was darker.
“You have her heterochromia,” he said. “One in a million. And only Blackwoods have it.”
Evelyn slapped his hand away. “Stop touching me.”
“Then stop looking like her,” he snapped back. Then immediately regretted it. She saw it in his face.
He ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled.
“I’m not good at this,” he said. “Twenty years of looking. And now you’re here, and all I can think is... what if I lose you too?”
The word _lose_ hung there.
Evelyn crossed her arms. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you didn’t scream when the house breathed last night,” he said. “I know you drink your water like you’re afraid it’s poison. I know you sleep with your fist around that locket.”
Evelyn stared at the portrait. At her own face, 20 years younger, in oil paint.
“Who killed her?” she asked.
Damien went still. “We don’t know.”
“Liar.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. “We have suspects. Everyone in this house. But no proof.”
“Was it you?” The question came out before she could stop it.
Damien’s jaw ticked. “I was three years old, Evelyn.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t apologize to me. Not for that.”
Footsteps. From the west wing. Slow. Deliberate.
Both of them turned.
Nothing there. Just shadow.
But the black cloth that had been on the floor was now draped over a nearby chair. Neat. Folded.
No one had touched it.
Evelyn’s breath caught. “Did you—”
“No,” Damien said. He grabbed her wrist. “We’re done here.”
He pulled her away from the portrait. Down the hall. Fast.
Behind them, a whisper.
_“Sister...”_
Evelyn stumbled. Damien caught her.
In his ear, barely audible: “Don’t let her have the key.”
Then nothing.
Damien stopped walking. Let go of her like she burned him.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
Evelyn nodded. She couldn’t speak.
Damien looked back at the portrait. At the woman with Evelyn’s face.
His expression was unreadable.
“Welcome home, sister,” he said. So quiet she almost missed it.
- Writer
