My husband insists on keeping this one painting of a woman...

My husband insists on keeping this one painting of a woman...

When my husband and I first got married and moved in together, we had a few fights. On personal space, on chores… and on décor.

Namely, my husband insisted on keeping this weird painting of a woman.

“Who is she?” I’d asked when I first saw it, leaned against a mountain of moving boxes.

“Dunno. Got it at a rummage sale.”

It was an original painting. Oil, I think, judging by the way the light reflected off the brushstrokes. It depicted a young woman standing in a dark room, looking over her shoulder at the viewer. She was actually rather beautiful. Blonde hair falling over her shoulders like a waterfall. A white cotton dress. A dainty, heart-shaped face that was somehow haunting rather than cute.

She was illuminated brightly, but the room behind her was dark. The contrast and her pose reminded me a little bit of Girl With A Pearl Earring. But it didn’t feel classy, or pensive, or beautiful. Instead it felt… creepy.

Especially because my husband insisted on hanging it above our bed.

“I mean, it’s a beautiful painting,” I said. “But it just doesn’t fit with the modern décor.”

“Neither do your Funko Pops.”

“Okay, but they’re small. This painting is enormous. For Pete’s sake, the woman is nearly life-sized!”

“I want to keep her where she is.”

It seemed like a big deal to him, so I dropped it. But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night with the horrible feeling that I was being watched. Then I’d look up and see her haunting gray eyes staring down at me.

I didn’t get much sleep after that.

And there was the one time I swear she moved. “Was her hand always like that?” I asked Eric, after getting into bed one night.

“Hmm?”

“Her left hand. The fingers are kind of open, reaching out behind her. Like she’s waiting for someone to grab her hand.”

“Yeah, she was always like that.”

I could’ve sworn she wasn’t always like that. Then again, I generally avoided looking at the painting. It was so uncomfortably realistic. When I stared into those gray eyes, I almost felt like I was making eye contact with a person.

I lasted two weeks. Then I begged Eric to move it.

“Can we please move the painting somewhere else? I really hate looking at it when I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s the nicest piece of art we have. It belongs above the bed.”

“What about the sunflower one?”

“That’s just a print,” he complained. “And it’s so basic.”

“Come on. I’ll move my Funko Pops out if you move the painting out.”

He heaved a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll move her.”

That was another thing. He often referred to the painting as “her.” It was weird.

So he moved it to the stairs. But honestly, that was worse. Every time I went downstairs, there she was. Staring at me from above the landing with those piercing gray eyes. At least when the painting was in the bedroom, I was usually asleep or facing the opposite direction.

I hit my breaking point a few days after that.

For some reason I couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for an hour, I decided to grab a snack downstairs. I got to the top of the stairs… and there she was.

I hadn’t turned on the main lights—only the nightlight in the hall bathroom was on. With everything so dark, the background of the painting melted into the shadows. But the woman still stood out, with her pale face and white dress.

And my stupid, sleepy brain interpreted it as an actual person standing there.

I jumped about a foot in the air. And I would’ve fallen all the way down the stairs, had I not caught the banister at the last second.

“Can we pleeeease get rid of that painting?” I asked the next morning.

Eric turned away from the stove, set the spatula down. “Why?”

“Last night, it scared the frick out of me. I nearly fell down the stairs.”

He stared at me, as if unable to understand. “She… scared you?” he asked slowly.

“Well, more like startled me. I thought it was actually a person standing there.”

He looked at me.

Then he broke into laughter. And, after a few seconds, I started laughing too. It was pretty stupid, now that I thought about it. I know I was sleepy, but still—I thought the painting was a person?! What, did I think we were being burglarized by a young, beautiful, blonde woman in a nightdress?

“For now, I’ll move her into my office. Then you don’t have to look at her at all.”

“That sounds good.”

And for a while after that, things were okay. I sort of noticed Eric spending more time in his office than usual, but he also had a big deadline for a brief coming up. And what, how would that be related to the painting, anyway? It’s not like he was staring at her for hours on end.

Except that’s exactly what I caught him doing.

One night he didn’t come downstairs to eat dinner with me. I called up to him a few times. No reply. So I went upstairs and walked into his office—to find him staring at her.

He was just sitting there. With his computer closed. No papers on the desk. Swivel chair turned towards the woman in the painting.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, when I walked in. Then he quickly stood up. “I was just about to come down. Just sent in the brief a few minutes ago. They’re really happy with it.”

He smiled broadly at me, as if nothing were wrong, and then slipped past me. I listened to his footsteps thump down the stairs.

Had he actually just finished working?

Or was he just sitting in here… staring at her?

I ultimately decided not to bring it up. The painting was out of my sight and that was great. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry, like my own deadline coming up for an article I hadn’t even started.

But then, on Friday afternoon, I accidentally overheard him on the phone. His voice was muffled through the thick wooden door, but it wasn’t hard to hear him. He was shouting, almost.

“I’ll have it in by tonight—”

“No, I knew it was due on Wednesday—”

“Well, my wife fell down the stairs. I had to take her to the hospital.”

Those words sent a chill through me. I barged in.

“Why are you lying about me falling down the stairs?”

His face paled. He ended the call and turned towards me. “I’m so sorry, Tara. But I needed an excuse. I missed the deadline on that brief, and it’s my job on the line—"

“The brief you told me you finished two days ago?”

He nodded, silently.

I crossed my arms. “Look, Eric, your work is your business. But we’ve spent, like, all of one hour together all week. Because you’ve been locked in here all day, every day. I mean, are you even working? Or are you just sitting in here, staring at her?”

His dark eyes locked on mine. And then his voice grew soft.

“You’re jealous of her.”

“… What?!”

“You shouldn’t be, Tara,” he said, stepping towards me. “The painting makes her prettier than she was.”

I froze. Stared at him.

Then I finally found the words. “Are you saying… this is a painting of someone you know?”

“No,” he said slowly. “Sorry, I misspoke. I meant, whoever this is a portrait of, I’m sure it’s a flattering likeness. All portraits are flattering like that.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Who is this a painting of, Eric?”

“I told you, it’s not—”

“Eric.” I stepped towards him. My legs felt weak, wobbling underneath me. “Who is this a painting of?!”

He only shook his head.

***

I couldn’t sleep that night.

I know, it sounds silly, being so worked up over a painting. But you have to admit it was weird. He was obsessed with this thing, for whatever reason. Why didn’t I see the painting when we were dating? Did he hide it away in the basement? That was the one place I’d never been. Had he built a little shrine down there, painting, candles, the whole nine yards?

The thought of it made me sick.

Is it an ex-girlfriend? An ex-wife, even, that he never told me about? Getting a painting commissioned must have cost a fortune. Especially a huge, detailed one like this. I mean, as much as I hated that thing, it was clearly done by someone incredibly gifted. The glint in those piercing gray eyes, the small dimple on her right cheek…

But clearly he wasn’t keeping it to appreciate the artistry.

He knew her.

And whoever she is, he’s obsessed with her.

And then I got the craziest idea.

I sat up in bed. Slowly, quietly. Turned to Eric. He was fast asleep. Then I slipped out from underneath the covers, grabbed my phone from the nightstand—and tiptoed out of the room.

My bare feet padded softly across the hallway as I made my way towards his office. Then I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.

The office was cold—much colder than our bedroom. Goosebumps pricked up my bare arms. But I didn’t waste any time. I reached over, fumbling across the wall, and hit the switch.

The light flicked on.

The blonde woman stared down at me from the wall. Her eyes seemed to follow me as I took Eric’s leather chair and dragged it across the hardwood. Once against the wall, I stepped up onto it.

We were staring at each other, face to face.

I’d never been this close to the painting before. My face inches from hers. This close, I could truly appreciate the detail. Each individual eyelash painstakingly drawn, curving up from its follicle. Threadlike striations of light and dark gray filling her irises. Her skin, so pale and creamy, dotted with the tiniest of pores.

But I wasn’t here to appreciate the artwork.

I lifted my phone—and took a photo.

Then I brought up a reverse image search.

It took a few minutes for me to find the right website and upload the photo. But when the results loaded… I gasped.

I expected maybe one result, if I were lucky. Some sort of facial recognition that would match the painted face to a photo. Or, maybe the artist’s website would come up, and mention who the subject was. But instead—dozens of thumbnails filled the page. Of the exact same painting I’d been staring at for weeks.

Fingers trembling, I clicked on the first one. It led to a news article.

Search Continues for Missing Franklin Art Student

My heart dropped. Little black dots danced in my vision. I collapsed into the chair behind me, trembling, and began to read.

Anya Kelsing, 23, went missing after a hike with her boyfriend…

The two became separated when they came upon a bear…

Her backpack was found roughly a mile from where the sighting occurred, but no trace of Anya was found…

And the caption under the painting.

Kelsing is a third-year student at Franklin College, majoring in Fine Arts. She recently completed a self-portrait that was exhibited at Le Coeur (above)

I clicked on the next article, and the next—but they all said the same thing. Hike, bear, disappearance. All of them showed a photo along with her self-portrait; she looked strikingly identical to her painted likeness. None of them mentioned the boyfriend’s name, but it had to be Eric. The most recent article, from five years ago, was a video clip of her parents begging for her search to continue. Sadly, judging by the news articles, it never did.

I don’t know how long I sat there. All I know is that I was suddenly jolted from my thoughts by a loud thump in the hallway.

Footsteps. Coming towards the office.

I shot up. He can’t find me here. I glanced around the room, looking for someplace—any place—that I could hide. But it was probably too late. Surely he’d seen the light on, from under the door…

I ducked under the desk just as he stepped into the room.

“Tara?”

I clapped my hand over my mouth, trying to silence my ragged breathing. He’s going to see the chair out of place. He knows I’m here. He knows…

“Tara, you in here?”

Why did I hide? I could’ve just said I came in here because I heard a noise. Needed a pen. Couldn’t sleep. Why the fuck did I hide? Now he’s going to know that I know…

“Tara?”

But maybe it’s fine. Maybe the bear got Anya, maybe Eric had nothing to do with it. Isn’t that more likely than Eric being a murderer?

“There you are.”

I looked up—and screamed.

Eric was crouched there, in front of the desk, staring at me.

“I—I was looking for a pen,” I stuttered, lamely. “I wanted to write down—I remembered I have to pick up groceries tomorrow and I needed to add something…”

He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. “I don’t think that’s the truth, Tara.”

Make a break for it.

I started to lunge out from under the desk. His hand quickly shot out and grabbed my wrist. Hard. “You figured out who she is, didn’t you? That’s the only reason you’d be hiding from me.”

I trembled in his grasp. “What did you do to her?” I whispered.

He let out a dry laugh. “So you think I’m a murderer. How nice, that’s the first conclusion you jump to.”

“No—no, I don’t think you’re a murderer.” I swallowed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If he killed her, and he knows you know… then you’re dead too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Just… what happened? They didn’t find a body. Did the bear get her?”

He didn’t reply. Just stared at me, silently, with those cold dark eyes.

“I was jealous,” I continued, desperately, “but now I understand. I wish you’d just told me. To lose someone like that… of course you’d want to keep the painting. It’s all you have left of her.”

“You should have just left it alone,” he said, his tone oddly emotionless. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

I screamed as he lunged for me.

It’s over. His hands were clenched tight on my wrists as he dragged me out from under the desk. I pulled back, trying to wrench myself free, but it was no use—

Thump!

A loud crash sounded behind us. Eric whipped around, and for a split second—his grip released.

I acted instantly. Pulled free from him and ran, pivoting around the desk and racing towards the door. As I glanced back, I saw Eric, starting after me.

But I also saw what had made the noise.

The painting of Anya had fallen from the wall. It lay askew on the floor, her gray eyes staring emptily upwards.

***

I was always a fast runner.

Eric was only halfway down the stairs by the time I was at the bottom. Bursting out into the cold air, I began to scream. He grabbed me from behind and tried to pull me back inside, but it was too late. Lights were flicking on. Our neighbor rushed out of his house, dialing 911.

It was over.

The police arrested Eric for assault. And once I told them my story, of his obsession with Anya’s painting, they were able to search our house. And hidden in his office drawer, in a small box, was a pair of gold earrings.

The same earrings Anya wore on the hike that day.

The case is slowly mounting against him. I’m hoping, praying Anya gets justice and that a jury convicts him of her horrible murder.

And would he have done the same to me, if I hadn’t escaped? If Anya’s painting hadn’t fallen off the wall?

There was an explanation, of course. When Eric had moved the painting to his office, he’d mistakenly installed one of the hangers into pure drywall. The weight of the painting had caused it to rip out, and the painting fell.

But sometimes, I think Anya was watching over me. That her self-portrait carried a piece of her. And that night, she’d protected me from falling victim to the monster who ended her life.

The painting now hangs up in my foyer. Every day I walk by it, and new details pop out at me: the deep, shadowy green of the room behind her. A perfectly-painted strand of blonde hair. The glint in her piercing gray eyes.

And sometimes, I think she’s smiling back at me.