My Sister Warned Me Not to Look at the Painting. I Should Have Listened

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It all began when Mei, my sister, returned to our hometown. She was one of the top art restorers. But her last job had been too much. “It wasn’t the paintings,” she said, voice strained. “It was something inside them.”


She wouldn’t explain more.

When Mei returned, she brought only one thing: a huge canvas, wrapped in a dirty, yellowed sheet. It was as big as a door. I asked about it. She took hold of my arm. "Avoid looking at it," she said. “Not ever.”

That night, while she showered, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled back the sheet.

The painting showed a woman’s face. Not just a face, though—a visage that shouldn’t exist. Her proportions were wrong. Her eyes stretched too wide. Her lips were thin, frozen in a suffocating smile. Her irises were too dark—like endless wells.

Something struck me. The face wasn’t painted on the canvas. It looked like she was inside it. Pressed against it. Trapped. Her eyes followed me when I moved. When I turned to cover it, I swear I heard breathing. Soft. Shallow.

That night, I dreamt of her. The woman. She stood at the foot of my bed, smiling that same, thin smile. “You saw me,” she whispered. Her voice was dry, like paper. Her hand reached for my face.

I woke up screaming.

Mei burst into the room. She looked pale, furious. “You looked, didn’t you? You looked!” She dragged the painting downstairs to the basement. She locked the door. “It feeds on attention,” she muttered. “The more you look, the closer she gets.”

I thought it was over.

It wasn’t.

The dreams got worse. I stood in an endless gallery. Paintings covered the walls. Each painting showed her. The woman. Sometimes she wept. Other times, her grin split her face. The worst was seeing people I knew. Their faces were distorted. They screamed silently from inside frames.

One night, I heard Mei crying in the basement.

I found her there, cross-legged, staring at the painting. It had changed. The woman’s lips were open. Mei wouldn’t look at me. “She won’t let me go,” she mumbled. “I’ve stared too long. She’s almost here.”

I looked at the canvas. Something had changed.

The woman looked directly at me. Her mouth moved.

“Bring me more.”

The next morning, Mei was gone. Her shoes were still by the door. Her phone was charging on the counter. All that remained was the painting. It stood in the middle of the room. The woman’s face was clearer. More defined. Closer.

And she was smiling.

I can’t stop looking now. When I close my eyes, I see her. When I turn away, I feel her fingers on my neck. Last night, I heard a voice from the frame.

It wasn’t hers.

It was Mei’s.

“She’s almost out.”

If you find a painting—one wrapped in a yellowed sheet—don’t look at it.

And don’t let her see you.

“She just wants to be seen.”

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