Part 1

PUBLISHED IN AUG.2023

by Blair Daniels

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.

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