Borrowed Faces

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 We planned the trip for months. Just the five of us. A weekend away. A cabin in the middle of nowhere. The drive was long, but we were excited. When we arrived, the cabin felt more secluded than I expected. Weathered wood, overgrown garden, creaky porch. Perfect for us.

Inside, it was cozy but old. Dusty furniture. A flickering fireplace. Floorboards creaked. We unpacked and explored.

I went into the attic first. The others scattered. In the attic, I saw old trunks and furniture. And then, the portraits. They were old, beautiful, but something was off. The faces looked too familiar, too real.

I pulled the first down. A man, his face strong, his eyes too sharp. He stared at me, like he knew me.

I called the others up. They agreed. "They look like relatives," Emma said, tapping the painting.

That night, we sat by the fire. We laughed, but we kept glancing at the portraits. It felt like they were watching us. The air was thick.

The next morning, something changed. The man in the first portrait? His eyes were wider. Too wide. Almost mocking.

I thought I was imagining it. I tried to brush it off. "Maybe it’s just the light." But the others were uneasy.

The day passed, but the portraits kept changing. Emma’s painting, once of an older woman, now showed a younger, innocent face. But her smile wasn’t right. It was too knowing.

I felt a cold chill. I tried to laugh it off. "It’s just a weird trick of the paint," I said. But when I looked again, I felt the expression in the painting was alive.

That night, we covered the paintings. It felt wrong to look at them. But when we slept, the cabin felt suffocating. The silence was thick. I woke up in the dark. My heart pounded. The portraits were uncovered.

They had changed.

The man’s face was mine. But not mine. My eyes were wide. My expression twisted. Mocking me.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away. It was like the painting was telling me I would never leave.

I staggered out of bed. The others were awake, pale. Their eyes darted toward the portraits.

We couldn’t leave fast enough. We packed up, desperate. But as we walked out, I swore I saw the last portrait shift. The face was grinning. A twisted, knowing grin.

We never talked about it again. But the feeling stayed. Now, when I look in the mirror, I wonder: Is that really me staring back?

I’m afraid to find out.

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