The Painting

"Good lord!" mother exclaimed. "That is one abhorrent painting. Why would you do this?" she asked.
"I wanted something to decorate my wall" I replied, trying not to sound as offended as I was.
"But did it have to be this?" mother said with a frown as she nodded towards the painting.
"Well, I like it, and this is my apartment, so I can do whatever I want" I said, immediately wincing as I regretted my words. She did not notice. Mother sighed and turned to face me with the overbearing smile of a mother whose twelve-year old had just proclaimed they were no longer a child, patting my shoulder as she said "of course, my dear."
I was twenty years old and she still managed to make me feel like a child.
She looked toughtful for a moment, and then said "Well, you always did have a questionable taste in art". I was exasperated. It was not like her taste in art was anything special. All she had were posters of what looked like childrens paintings, sloppy crinkling in the corners because father was astonishingly poor at framing posters. He definitely did not have the talent for a future career in .. picture framing? Whatever that was called. Well, not that he had ever expressed any intent of becoming a picture framer. But if he had, it definitely would not work out well.
At least I choose an actual, real painting. It was an old oil painting of an old man with a solemn expression on his face. He had a wrinkly weatherbeaten face with day old stubble on his chin, bushy overgrown eyebrows, and a light tan. He had thin lips, tightly pressed together in scowl, like he was judging you. It looked so realistic.
"Well, at least you had the good sense to hang it on your bedroom wall instead of in the living room. Though I have to say I would find it quite creepy to have this old man stare at me as I lay asleep. But that's me", mother said, kissing me on the cheek as she turned to leave. I did not reply. I stood for a while staring at the painting, into the gray lifeless eyes of this stranger. My mother was being ridiculous, I thought to myself. It was, after all, just a painting and not a living thing. Staring at me as I lay asleep? I shook my head and chuckled half-heartedly.


That night I sat on my bed, watching the painting for a moment. "Goodnight" I told it, and immediately felt pretty stupid. I turned off the light and settled in my bed. As I was drowsing, something startled me awake. I had a distinct feeling of being watched. I sat up with a shudder, scanning the room with my eyes and seeing nothing until I suddenly locked eyes with the old man on the painting. I was suddenly choking with fear, absolutely certain those gray, supposed to be lifeless, eyes were looking right at me. I wanted to scream, but I could not. I wanted to turn on the light, but I could not. I do not know how sleep managed to claim me in the end, but so it did, and I woke up in the morning feeling like I had a vague memory of a nightmare involving the painting. Curse my mother for putting these imaginations in my head.


As I went on with my day, I could not shake the feeling of unease. It was like my mind was being drawn to the painting, and I found myself actually avoiding my bedroom the entire day which was ridiculous. When I went to bed that night, I did not look at the painting. Once again I was startled awake right as I was about to fall asleep. I could feel him watching me, though I was too afraid to look. It felt like my heart was about to explode in my chest, adrenaline rushing in my veins. I was paralyzed with fear for what felt like hours. I finally managed to snap out of it. I turned on the light and fled the bedroom. It took me an hour before I felt calm enough to lie down on my couch and sleep. Doing so did my back no favors, and the next day the pain forced me to reconsider if I would ever sleep on the couch again. Instead I decided to face my fear. I marched into the bedroom, stood in front of the painting staring at the old man in defiance. My courage, however, faltered, and I was the first to look away. "Wait, what?" I spoke out loud, startled at my thought process. The first to look away. From a painting. "I'm going insane", I told myself. "Absolutely insane".


In spite of everything, I had a great day. An old friend came to visit. Benny, my long-time friend since middle-school.
"Oh my-, what on earth is that?" he said. I just shrugged casually. Well, kind of casually. Or not at all casually.
"Why are you so tense?" Benny asked.
"No reason" I said. "Well, except I've had a few crazy nightmares recently. Or, at least I think so. It's strange. It didn't feel like I was asleep at all."

"So, what happened?" Benny asked, sipping on a cup of tea. I told him what had happened to me.
"Do you think I'm going insane?" I asked.
"Nah man. I don't think so." After a pause he continued "maybe you have sleep paralysis?".
I slapped my forehead as the realization hit me. "How did I not come to that conclusion on my own", I said.
It was now Benny's turn to shrug.
I'd been awake but feeling paralyzed. It should have been obvious.
"Should probably talk to your doc" Benny said.

After tea Benny and I went outside. We burned the painting right there on the curb, bypassers looking at us like we were crazy. I did not care. I nodded as I told myself it was finally over.
That night I felt content going to bed. I knew if it happened again, I would be aware of what was happening. I would know it was not real. The painting was gone, and I'd have no reason to be afraid. I would, in fact, not be afraid. Or so I thought.


That night the old man came back with a vengeance. Struggling against the feeling of being paralyzed, I managed to turn and look at the painting. I was not afraid, I told myself, not believing a single word. I was going resume my staring contest with the old man, and I was not going to lose this time. I would show him. But when I looked at the painting, the old man was smiling wide, teeth showing. It was a horrifying smile that did not reach his eyes. Instead, his eyes were seething with the most pure hate I'd ever seen. His rage was so intense it was palpable, and what followed was the most gutwrenching fear I had ever felt. It was like the walls were closing in on me, and I thought I would faint. I wanted to snap out of it, but I could not. Instead I shut my eyes forcefully, waiting for it to pass. The next time I opened my eyes it was morning. I glanced at the painting and felt nauseus, the rush of fear lingering in my body. I hurried to leave my bedroom and closed the door behind me.
I went about my day as usual, avoiding my bedroom like the plague. In the early afternoon I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I took a sip as I was walking back into the living room thinking of Benny, when suddenly it hit me like a shockwave. We had burned the painting. I didn't even realize I had dropped the cup until I heard it break into a thousand pieces against my floor, tea splashing all over my slippers. I ran towards the bedroom. I had to look. With a shuddering breath, I slowly opened the door. It made a long, drawn-out creaking noise.

The painting was still there on the wall. The old man looked exactly like he did when I first bought the painting. Solemn. Slight scowl. Except the eyes. The eyes were contorted with a horrifying rage.