When I was around seven years old, my dad used to keep these unique, detailed paintings which were worth a lot of money. Where he got them from, he never told us. The paintings would be everywhere around the house, but there was one painting that always had caught my attention. In the middle of the living room, above the television, was a huge painting. It looks normal. You would see a boy in a farm feeding a horse while this man stood there looking at the boy. I assumed that was his father.
One night, for some reason, I couldn’t sleep. I know my parents don’t like it when I walk around the house when it’s late, so I tried to fall back to sleep. After an hour, I gave up. I jumped out of bed to get something to drink from the kitchen. I opened my bedroom door and felt a cold breeze. The corridor was dark and small. I felt a bit uncomfortable with all the paintings around me. It looked like they were watching me. I slowly walked through the corridor towards the stairs leading down. The stairs made a creaking noise as I stepped on them. I tried to be as silent as possible so I wouldn’t wake my parents up. Once I was downstairs, I walked into the living room on my way to the kitchen, when I noticed something.
The living room was completely dark, I couldn’t see a thing. Except for one thing; the painting above the television. I looked at it and noticed it had changed. Instead of seeing a happy boy feeding a horse, I saw the kid with very odd clothes and a knife, a person laying dead on the ground and a skeleton looking at the kid encouraging him. I looked away immediately and ran to the kitchen. I felt my heart beating in my neck. I forced myself to calm down. How can it even be possible for a painting to change? I must just be seeing things. After all, it was around 1am.
I grabbed a glass of water and went back upstairs without even looking at the painting. The next day I had woken up by my dad shouting from downstairs. “WHAT THE HELL?” I ran downstairs to see what was wrong. My dad looked at me and pointed at the painting. There was a huge cut. “Don’t tell me you did this, son.” I looked at him with my frightened, blue eyes. “Why would I have done that?” I replied. He walked away frustratedly. I looked at the painting and everything looked normal, despite the cut. But when I looked closer, it seemed like the boy’s mouth turned from a smile into a smirk. That’s nonsense, I thought.
That evening, my dad said he would try and make the painting look the same way as before. He was busy for a while so I decided to go upstairs and play with my Nintendo DS. Suddenly, I hear my dad scream. It was the most horrifying scream I have ever heard. My mom was out shopping that day, so she couldn’t check it out. I walked downstairs to see what happened. I yelled, “Dad? Is everything okay?” No response. I kept repeating it and my heart beated faster each time I heard nothing but silence. I looked around the house, but there was nothing to be seen. I was about to call the police, until I noticed something in the painting. It was… my dad.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure what I saw. He was still there. The kid had a knife, hanging above him. I panicked. I wanted to call the police but they wouldn’t believe me. I wanted to call my mom, but she left her phone at home. Nothing I could do. I screamed when I saw the kid in the painting move. He looked at me, his eyes turned red and he had blood all over his face. He put his finger in front of his mouth, making the “Shhh” sign. He turned to my dad, cut in his chest and carved the words: “Betrayal”.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I don’t know if my dad is still alive or not, but that painting had to be thrown away. I grabbed it, went to the fireplace and burned it. The fire gave me a soothing, calm effect. I do claim to have heard screams. After that day, my dad had gone missing. No one has ever seen him since then. Only I knew the truth. A haunted painting, or whatever it was, grabbed him and killed him inside the painting. Of course, no one would believe me if I told them. I just said I had no idea. I really do miss my dad, but I’m relieved in a way he didn’t return. What if he became just like the boy? After months of looking, the police gave up. My mum still is devastated. Whenever I walk around the house, the paintings frighten me more everyday. Maybe there are more paintings like that. However, my mom didn’t want to throw them away because it is the only thing of my father she has left. Although the painting is gone, each time I walk by the TV I feel a cold breeze and hear a strange sound. The sound of someone getting hurt.
