Painter

No one in the small town of Ravenshade knew much about Elias Reed. He arrived one autumn afternoon, settling into the abandoned house at the edge of town. He was a painter—at least, that’s what people assumed. Every day, he could be seen through the large attic window, his brush gliding over the canvas, lost in his own world. But Elias never spoke.

At first, the townspeople were curious. A stranger with such talent should have been welcomed, yet something about Elias unsettled them. His paintings, when displayed at the local gallery, were breathtaking—scenes of forests bathed in silver moonlight, faces captured in expressions so real they seemed alive. But there was always something… off. A shadow in the background, a figure watching unseen, a darkness hidden beneath the beauty.

Despite the unease, the gallery owner, Mr. Hensley, saw an opportunity. Elias’s work sold quickly, attracting buyers from outside town. Collectors admired the depth of emotion in his paintings. “It’s as if the soul of the subject is in the art itself,” one critic remarked.

One person, however, was drawn to Elias’s work in a way no one else was—Clara Holloway, the town’s librarian. She had always been fascinated by art, but Elias’s paintings felt different, as if they were trying to tell a story. And so, against the warnings of others, she decided to visit him.

The house was eerily silent when she knocked. No answer. Yet, the door creaked open on its own. Inside, the walls were lined with unfinished paintings—each one depicting a different person from town. Faces frozen in surprise, fear, sadness. But the strangest part? Some of those people had gone missing.

Clara's heart pounded as she stepped closer to a painting of Margaret Fields, the baker’s wife who had disappeared two months ago. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the small scar on her cheek. It was as if Margaret had been trapped inside the canvas.

Then, Clara heard the sound of a brush against canvas. Slowly, she turned.

Elias was there, sitting before an unfinished painting—of her.

Her breath caught. The painting was nearly complete, capturing every detail of her face. But in the painting, her eyes weren’t just looking ahead; they were filled with terror.

“You see it, don’t you?” Elias finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost regretful.

Clara took a step back. “What have you done?”

“I don’t create art,” he murmured. “I capture souls.”

She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. She felt an invisible force pulling her toward the canvas. The edges of her vision blurred. The last thing she saw before darkness overtook her was Elias lifting his brush, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

The next day, a new painting appeared at the gallery—a stunning portrait of Clara Holloway. It was her, down to the last detail, yet something was missing. The warmth in her eyes. The life.

People marveled at it, never realizing that Clara hadn’t been seen since.

Rumors spread, but no one connected the disappearances to Elias. More paintings appeared, more faces captured in haunting realism. Some who stared too long at the portraits swore they saw the eyes move, lips parting in silent pleas.

One night, Mr. Hensley, the gallery owner, decided to confront Elias. He went to the silent house, determined to demand answers. The next morning, a new painting was displayed at the gallery.

It was of Mr. Hensley.

And in the attic of the silent house at the edge of town, Elias picked up a new canvas. The next masterpiece awaited.