Glory

The offer was impossible to refuse: a secluded studio stocked with the rarest pigments, including the legendary mummy brown—paint crafted from the remains of ancient bones. The patron, fully aware of Elena's fixation on the arcane, welcomed her inside and delivered a single ominous instruction: “Do not open the door until the work is finished.”

The symbols she painted felt primordial, their meaning older than human thought. They poured from her brush with a rhythm that felt almost musical, weaving themselves into the strokes with unnatural ease. Elena painted relentlessly, her movements no longer her own. The canvas seemed alive, hungrily absorbing the pigments as though desperate to be born.

And then the scratching began.

It was faint at first, a subtle rasping that seemed to emanate from behind the walls, from somewhere just out of reach. Then came the whispers, barely audible, soft as a lover’s murmur against her ear. The air grew thick, pressing down on her chest. Yet her hand moved with a mind of its own, etching symbols with an urgency that defied reason. Each line seemed to tether her more tightly to the painting, as though binding her to its growing power.

She could feel it—a presence stirring, watching, waiting.

When she placed the final stroke, a profound silence enveloped the room. The whispers ceased. Elena staggered back, staring at the canvas. It was no longer a painting but a living thing, pulsing with ancient malevolence.

She turned to the door, her instincts screaming to escape. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and pulled, but the lock wouldn’t budge. It was cold, fixed in place, and mocking in its defiance. She hadn’t opened the door as the patron warned—but now she found she couldn’t.

Behind her, the scratching resumed. Louder. Closer.

Her breath hitched as she turned.

It stood there, towering over her, its eyes as black as the paint she had used. Its grin stretched wide, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth. Shadows clung to its form like living things, twisting and curling in the dim light.

Elena realized the truth too late.

She wasn’t the creator. She was the tool. And now, she was the sacrifice.