The Art of Sacrifice

The commission had been irresistible, a studio furnished with rare pigments, including mummy brown—the infamous paint ground from ancient bones. The patron knew of Harper’s fascination with the occult. He gestured her in, leaving a single cryptic instruction: “Don’t open the door, not until it's complete.”

The symbols she was to incorporate were older than language itself, flowing into the strokes like a melody. Harper painted feverishly, lost in a trance. The canvas drank the pigments eagerly, as though it knew it was being brought to life.

Then, the scratching began.

Faint at first, behind the canvas, behind the walls. Whispers followed, soft as breath against her neck, threading through the silence. The air thickened. Pressed heavy against her chest. Still, her hands moved as if possessed, tracing those ancient sigils. Each stroke bled deeper into the fabric, binding her to it.

She could feel something watching. Growing.

With the final stroke, the room fell silent. The whispers stopped. She stepped back, staring at the painting—alive with something far older than art. She’d summoned it.

Harper reached for the door. The lock, cold and immovable, mocked her. Her heart pounded as she clawed at it. The patron’s warning echoed in her mind, but she hadn’t opened the door. Now, she found, that she couldn't. It was locked from the outside all along.

Behind her, the scratching resumed—no longer soft, no longer distant. She turned slowly.

There it stood, eyes black as the paint she had used to create it. The demon smiled, wearing the darkness like a cloak.

Harper wasn’t the artist. She was the offering.