The Stranger’s Portrait

Spread the love

The rain beat against the studio windows as Adrian dipped his brush into the deep crimson on his palette. The small room was cluttered with easels, half-finished canvases, and the smell of turpentine. A faint melody played from the crackling record player in the corner, its mournful tune matching the storm outside.

This latest commission was for a man named Richard Kane, a local businessman who’d insisted on being painted in a specific pose—seated by a window, his gaze distant, a golden pocket watch in hand. Adrian didn’t usually take requests like this, but times were tough, and he couldn’t afford to turn away paying clients.

By the time the session ended, Adrian was exhausted. He stepped back to examine his work. The portrait was striking, lifelike in a way that almost unnerved him. Richard’s eyes seemed to follow him, their intensity piercing even through the painted medium.

“Marvelous,” Richard said, slipping on his coat. “You have quite the gift, Mr. Holt.”

Adrian accepted the compliment with a nod, eager to be alone with his thoughts. But as the door clicked shut behind Richard, a strange unease settled over him. Something about the painting felt… off.


Two days later, Adrian was flipping through the local newspaper when his stomach dropped.

“Prominent Businessman Found Dead in Car Crash.”

The article detailed how Richard Kane’s car had skidded off a bridge during the storm, plunging into the river below. A photograph of Richard accompanied the piece. His eyes in the photo bore the same haunted quality as they had in the painting.

Adrian stared at the newspaper for a long time, his coffee growing cold.

It was a coincidence, he told himself. Just a tragic accident.


But it happened again.

His next commission was for a woman named Eliza Hall, a socialite who wanted a portrait for her upcoming gala. She posed in an elegant dress, one hand resting on her chin, her lips curved into a faint smile. Adrian completed the painting in three sessions, the final result capturing her beauty—and something else, something he couldn’t quite name.

The day after the portrait was delivered, Eliza was found dead in her mansion. The newspaper headline was chilling: “Tragic Fall Claims Socialite’s Life.”

Adrian couldn’t deny it anymore. The portraits weren’t just paintings. They were harbingers.


He tried to stop taking commissions, but word of his talent had spread, and clients came knocking regardless. Each time he relented, the same pattern followed. A man with a cane, a young girl holding a violin, a couple embracing—each subject met their demise within days of the portrait’s completion.

Adrian’s guilt grew heavier with every painting. He considered destroying his canvases, but something always stopped him. The images seemed to resist him, their eyes pleading silently from the paint.

Desperate for answers, he began researching curses, folklore, anything that might explain what was happening. His search led him to a dusty bookshop, where he discovered a tome titled The Art of Souls.

The book detailed ancient rituals where portraits were believed to trap fragments of a person’s essence. In rare cases, the connection between artist and subject could grow so strong that the painting became a conduit—channeling fate, death, or worse.


Adrian’s worst fear came true when his next subject wasn’t a stranger.

It was Caroline, his sister.

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s for Mom. She wants a portrait of us together before she moves to Florida. You know how she loves your work.”

Adrian tried to refuse, but Caroline was persistent. And part of him wondered—hoped—that this time would be different. Surely the curse couldn’t touch someone he loved.

He worked slowly, agonizing over every detail. Caroline sat patiently, occasionally laughing at his grim expressions. When he finally finished, he stared at the painting in horror.

The same strange quality was there—the lifelike intensity, the faint shadow of tragedy in her eyes.

That night, Adrian couldn’t sleep. He sat in his studio, staring at the portrait. The thought of Caroline meeting the same fate as the others was unbearable.

There had to be a way to stop it.


The next morning, Adrian returned to The Art of Souls. There, buried in the final chapter, he found a passage about breaking the connection between a cursed painting and its subject. The ritual required two things: the painting itself and the person it depicted. The artist had to destroy the painting in their presence, severing the link before the curse could take hold.

Adrian called Caroline and asked her to come over that evening. She laughed, teasing him about his dramatic tone, but agreed.

As the hours passed, a terrible sense of dread grew in Adrian’s chest. He heard faint whispers in the studio, though he was alone. The paintings on the walls seemed to watch him, their painted eyes filled with accusation.

When Caroline arrived, she immediately sensed his unease.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, frowning.

Adrian didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a knife and turned toward the painting.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.


The moment the blade pierced the canvas, the room seemed to shudder. A piercing wail echoed through the studio, and the lights flickered wildly. The other paintings on the walls began to warp and twist, their colors bleeding together. Caroline screamed, but Adrian kept slashing at the portrait until it was unrecognizable.

Then, silence.

Caroline stood frozen, her face pale. “What was that?”

“It’s over,” Adrian said, though he wasn’t sure he believed it.


For a time, things seemed to return to normal. Adrian stopped painting altogether, the fear of the curse too great to ignore. He even considered leaving town, starting fresh somewhere far away.

But one night, as he sat in his empty studio, he noticed something strange.

The torn fragments of Caroline’s portrait were gone.

In their place was a new painting—a self-portrait.

Adrian stared at it, his blood running cold. The eyes in the painting were his, but they weren’t just watching.

They were waiting.

And somewhere deep in the shadows of the studio, he heard the faintest whisper:

“Your turn.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *