The Eyes That Watched Me

They told me not to look too long.

They said her eyes could steal your soul.

But I stared anyway — and that’s when everything began to fall apart.

You think you understand fear. You think monsters live in the dark, under beds or behind creaking closet doors. But what if I told you the real monster was framed in gold, hung neatly on the wall, with emerald-green eyes that followed you wherever you went? My name is Zoya, and this is the story of how a cursed painting promised riches, demanded pain, and turned my life into a living nightmare.

It started the day my father brought home the painting. A large canvas covered in dust and cloth, which he claimed to have bought for a handful of coins from an old shop in a forgotten corner of the city bazaar. He was laughing when he walked through the door, saying our days of hunger were over. I didn’t understand how a painting could change our lives, but when he unwrapped it, I felt something cold pass through the room. It was a portrait of a girl — pale skin, deep shadows under her cheekbones, and piercing green eyes that stared right into your soul. Even in silence, she seemed to whisper.

My father hung her above our fireplace, claiming she brought good luck. And strangely, he wasn’t wrong. Money began to flow into our home as if drawn by unseen hands. Old debts were paid to us. New job offers came like rain. We moved into a cleaner, larger house. For the first time in my life, I had clean clothes, good food, and a room of my own. But while our wallets grew heavier, our hearts grew darker.

I noticed it first in the way the painting watched me. No matter where I stood, those green eyes locked onto mine. When I left the room, I still felt them. My sleep grew restless, haunted by dreams of that same girl walking through our halls, her velvet dress dragging across the wooden floor, her face expressionless. I woke up gasping for breath, clutching my bedsheets as if they were my last hope.

And then things turned cruel.

My father, once kind and broken by life, changed. He became obsessed with the painting. He talked to it. Prayed to it. I once caught him kneeling in front of it, tears in his eyes, whispering promises of loyalty. He stopped calling me by name. His eyes became hollow, and his voice grew colder. I was no longer his daughter. I was a burden. A threat. A sacrifice waiting to be offered.

Animals around the house began to vanish. Our cat was found dead in the garden, its eyes gouged out. My own reflection began to flicker in the mirror — sometimes showing me not myself but her, the green-eyed girl, watching me with a faint, terrifying smile. Every night, the house whispered. Walls creaked with voices. Lights flickered. I begged my father to throw the painting away. He slapped me hard enough to draw blood.

Desperate, I did my own research. In a forgotten library corner, I found a worn journal that told of a cursed painter named Yelena Vostrikov. She painted souls, it said. Not with brush or color, but with blood and sorrow. Her final masterpiece was of a girl whose family became rich and then vanished without a trace. That painting, the book warned, should never be owned. It demanded more than admiration — it demanded life.

I tried to destroy it. I soaked it in oil, lit it with matches. The fire danced around the frame but never touched the canvas. It laughed — I swear I heard it laugh. And that night, she came to me, not in a dream, but in flesh. Cold fingers touched my cheek as I lay frozen in bed. Her voice, a thousand whispers in one, promised freedom if I gave her someone else.

I refused. And I paid the price.

My father locked me in the cellar for days. No light. No food. Just her whispers, louder than ever. She said I was ungrateful. That I owed her. That my soul had been promised the moment my father accepted her curse. When he finally dragged me out, his eyes were glazed with devotion. He said she wanted more. That she needed a living sacrifice to renew the pact. He held a knife in shaking hands, chanting in a language that tasted like ashes in my mouth.

I fought. I screamed. I stabbed him with broken glass and ran barefoot into the freezing street. I never looked back.

Three years have passed. I live now in a shelter for girls like me. Scarred. Broken. Forgotten. But I can never truly escape. The painting was never found. Some say the house burned down. Others say it still stands, waiting. And sometimes, in dreams or reflections, I still see her. The girl with emerald eyes. Smiling.

Because once you’ve looked into her eyes…

She never stops watching.