The Portrait in the West Wing

The storm arrived the same night Eliza Ravenscroft did.

Rain thrashed the windows of Wescroft Manor, wind howling through broken eaves and ivy-covered chimneys. The great house, nestled on the cliffs of Northumberland, had stood for nearly three centuries, weathering time—and secrets.

Eliza had not returned since she was a girl. But the sudden death of her great-uncle Lionel had left her as the sole heir. At twenty-eight, she found herself staring up at the gothic estate she'd only ever seen in family photographs and night terrors.

The caretaker, Mr. Bennett, greeted her with a bow and a lantern.

"Miss Ravenscroft," he said in a voice roughened by age and salt air. "The manor is yours now. Every key. Every door."

She nodded, damp from the rain and cold in her boots. "Even the West Wing?"

Mr. Bennett hesitated. "If you choose. But it has remained closed for thirty-two years. Since your grandmother disappeared."

Eliza looked toward the dark hallway behind him. She remembered the stories whispered by her mother: the locked doors, the cries at night, the wing no one dared to enter.

The Door Reopens

Later that evening, sleep eluded her. The manor creaked and groaned like a living thing. Candles flickered. The portraits along the walls seemed to tilt ever so slightly, as if watching.

She rose from bed and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. In her hand, she carried the ring of old iron keys Bennett had handed her, along with a warning.

"Some things in this house don’t want to be disturbed."

Down the hall, past rows of ancestors frowning from oil paintings, she found it—the door to the West Wing. Dust caked the brass handle. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key. With a stubborn click, the lock gave way.

The door groaned open.

The air inside was cold and heavy. Sheets draped over antique furniture like ghosts. The hallway ahead was lined with portraits, older than the rest of the manor. Candle in hand, she stepped inside.

At the end of the corridor stood a massive painting in an ornate gold frame, taller than Eliza herself.

It was the only one not covered.

The Woman in Green

A woman sat in a high-backed chair, her auburn hair falling in waves, her emerald dress laced at the throat with a sapphire brooch. Her face was hauntingly beautiful, lips pressed in solemn silence. But her eyes… they were unlike any painted eyes Eliza had ever seen.

They were alive.

The plaque beneath read:

Lady Evelyn Ravenscroft, 1874 – ???

“She waits.”

“She waits,” Eliza whispered. “For what?”

Suddenly, her candle extinguished—snuffed out by an unseen breath.

She froze.

Then a whisper echoed behind her.

“Eliza…”

Her heart seized.

She spun around. No one. Just the musty hallway and looming shadows.

Turning back, her breath caught. The woman in the portrait had changed.

Her lips were parted slightly now. Her eyes—wider. The candle she had dropped earlier now glowed again, flickering weakly on the ground.

Another whisper. Closer.

“Eliza… set her free.”

Something compelled her to move closer. The painting shimmered faintly, like heat rising from summer pavement. And there—just beneath the top layer of paint—she saw it: a faint outline. Another face.

She reached out and touched the canvas.

The surface rippled.

With trembling fingers, she peeled back a corner of the painting. The top layer cracked like old bark. Beneath it, a second portrait was hidden—one she recognized instantly.

Her grandmother. Margaret Ravenscroft.

But it wasn’t a peaceful depiction. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her hands were pressed as if trying to push through the canvas itself.

A scream built in Eliza’s throat, but before it escaped, hands gripped her shoulders from behind.

The Family Secret

“Eliza!”

She whirled. Mr. Bennett.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped.

“I warned you,” he said grimly. “The house remembers. It takes what it’s owed.”

“What is this? Why is she in the painting?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he guided her out of the wing, bolting the door behind them.

In the study, over brandy and firelight, he explained.

“Lady Evelyn was the first. Her husband, Lord Alaric, was an occultist. They say he made a pact with the house. Power in exchange for a bloodline bound to the manor. Every generation, a woman is taken. Their soul painted into the canvas. Preserved. Watched.”

Eliza’s voice cracked. “And my grandmother?”

“She was next. Lionel found the old ritual in Alaric’s journals. He didn’t understand what he was doing until it was too late. After she vanished, he sealed the West Wing and never entered it again.”

“Then why did you let me go in?”

Mr. Bennett looked at her with eyes full of sorrow.

“Because the house has chosen again. And this time, it wants you.”

Eliza stood. “No. I won’t be a part of this. I’ll burn that painting. I’ll tear down this whole cursed house if I have to.”

“You think fire will stop it?” Bennett asked softly. “It lives in the wood, the walls, the very soil under your feet.”

The Final Canvas

She didn’t sleep that night. Nor the next.

But on the third night, the whispers returned.

“Eliza… help us…”

She returned to the West Wing with a palette knife and a lantern. One by one, she peeled back the layers of paint. Portrait after portrait. Underneath each ancestor was another woman—frozen, wide-eyed, pleading.

Evelyn. Margaret. Eleanor. Jane. Dozens of them.

Their eyes all looked the same.

At the end, one space on the wall remained empty.

A blank canvas.

Waiting.