Lena found the old portrait in an antique store, covered in dust. It showed a Victorian girl sitting stiffly, her expression blank. The owner claimed the artist went mad painting it, but Lena laughed it off and bought it anyway. She hung it in her living room that night, admiring its eerie charm.
By midnight, she noticed something off. The girl’s lips seemed slightly curved. Lena turned on a brighter light. The portrait was the same—expressionless. She blamed fatigue and went to bed.
Around 3 a.m., a quiet tapping woke her. It wasn’t from the window—it came from the portrait. The girl’s head was tilted now, her eyes focused directly on Lena’s bedroom door. Her smile was unmistakable.
Frozen, Lena watched the girl’s tiny painted hand press against the inside of the canvas, pushing outward. The tapping grew louder, more desperate, like fingernails on wood.
Cracks formed across the painting as the girl’s smile widened into something inhuman. She whispered from inside the frame: “Make room for me.”
The canvas tore open.
The next day, the portrait hung perfectly intact on the wall again—only now Lena was the one trapped inside, her painted eyes silently screaming.
