The night had grown deep. Outside, crickets chirped in rhythm, their sound slipping through the slightly open bedroom window. A dim, yellow light glowed weakly from the old bulb hanging above.
Dave lay on a thin mattress on the floor, right beside Alex, who had long surrendered to sleep. A faint snore escaped his friend's mouth. But Dave's eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling, unfocused.
His mind kept circling back to the strange painting in the attic.
Something was off. It wasn't just the way the painting seemed alive—it was the feeling it gave him. Familiar, almost close. But he couldn't explain why.
He shut his eyes, hoping to push the thoughts away.
It didn't work.
Dave shifted restlessly, taking a long breath.
"Why can't I stop thinking about that painting?" he muttered under his breath.
And then, he heard it.
The soft scrape of wood. Faint, but distinct.
From upstairs. From the attic.
Where the painting was.
***
Morning broke with the distant crowing of a rooster and the smell of burning wood drifting in from the kitchen.
Dave sat at the dining table, spoon in hand, barely touching the porridge his grandmother had made. Across from him, Alex was devouring his second bowl.
Mrs. Bianca stood near the stove, flipping something in the pan. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward Dave.
"You look troubled, Dave," she said, placing a plate of fried chicken on the table. "Something on your mind?"
Dave hesitated, eyes still on his bowl. But the curiosity that had haunted him all night had grown too heavy to ignore.
"Grandma... I saw a painting. In the attic. An old one."
She paused. Even the hand that reached for the teapot froze mid-air. The warm morning light suddenly felt colder.
Alex stopped chewing, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Where did that painting come from?" Dave asked quietly.
Mrs. Bianca pulled out a chair and sat. Her expression had changed—her gaze now fixed and serious.
"Why are you asking?" she whispered. "Did you… see something?"
Dave gave a slow nod. "The painting… it felt alive. I mean, it looked so real."
She sighed, her eyes drifting to the window as silence settled over them.
Dave and Alex exchanged a look.
"That painting's been in this house a long time," she said at last. "Since I was fifteen."
She was still staring outside, as if peeling back layers of time.
"If you boys really want to know… I'll tell you everything."
Her eyes returned to them—two boys now completely hooked by a truth they didn't yet understand.
***
(Flashback – Fifty Years Ago)
The house was just as quiet then as it was now, but the silence didn't speak of peace—it spoke of loneliness. A kind of stillness that crept between the cracks of old wooden floors and faded walls, settling deep into the bones of the place.
Young Bianca stood at the foot of the attic stairs. She was fifteen, her hair neatly braided, and her eyes still swollen from the weight of losing her parents.
That morning, the fog had rolled in thick. The air smelled of damp wood and dust long undisturbed. One hand traced the wall as she climbed slowly, holding her breath with each creak beneath her feet.
When the attic door groaned open, she froze.
There it was—leaning against the far wall as if it had been waiting for her.
The painting.
It had once been a simple field of wildflowers beneath a bright blue sky. But now… the colors had faded.
The sky turned grey. And in the distance, where there had been only meadow, stood a lone tree—tall, gnarled, and pitch black, clawing at the heavens like something out of a fevered dream.
But it wasn't the tree that made Bianca step back.
It was the wind.
A warm breeze drifted from the canvas—impossible, soft against her skin, strange and inviting. It curled around her face like a whispered secret, like fingers brushing her cheek.
She didn't move.
A sound, soft as breath, echoed in her ears. A distant melody, like a lullaby from a place not of this world.
"Come in..."
Her heart thudded. Her hand rose, trembling, hovering just above the canvas.
And then—the world shifted.
The flowers wilted in an instant. The sky bled red, then black. The wind vanished. And from the trees beyond, a figure emerged.
Tall. Cloaked in shadows. Faceless.
Only two burning eyes shone from within the dark.
Bianca gasped.
She turned and fled down the stairs, feet stumbling over themselves. She didn't dare look back. She didn't stop until the attic door slammed shut behind her, and she locked it with shaking hands.
From that day on, she knew—
The painting was never just a painting.
It was a gate—to a world forgotten, or perhaps meant to be forgotten.
And something inside…
was waiting to be let out.
***
Bianca didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed, the blanket pulled to her chin, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. But her thoughts were elsewhere—trapped upstairs behind the locked attic door.
Every creak of the old house made her flinch. Every whisper of wind outside sent shivers crawling down her spine.
The painting hadn't moved. It hadn't spoken again.
But something inside her had changed.
For days, she avoided the attic. She swept the yard, helped the neighbors, pretended things were normal. But at night, the memory returned. The breeze, the voice… those eyes.
Weeks passed.
Then, one evening, just before sunset, she found herself standing at the attic stairs again—barefoot, heart pounding.
She didn't remember deciding to go up.
The key was already in her hand.
She opened the door slowly.
Dust hung in the air like smoke. Faint light from the window cast long shadows across the floorboards. The painting stood where she'd left it, unmoved, untouched.
And yet…
There was something new.
The tree in the painting had grown taller. Darker. Twisting higher into the painted sky like a spire of smoke.
And beneath it… something else.
Figures.
Small. Scattered. Like people.
Trapped?
Bianca's breath caught.
She stepped closer, drawn by some force she couldn't name. The air around the painting shimmered—like heat rising from pavement, distorting the edges of the canvas. Her fingers tingled.
Then she heard it again.
A whisper—so soft it was almost a feeling.
"Help us..."
She staggered back.
This time, she didn't run.
She stood there, gripping the doorframe, her mind racing. The painting was growing. Changing. Reacting.
To her?
To what?
One thing was certain.
The door she thought she'd locked forever… had already begun to open.
***
Bianca bit her lip, her eyes fixed on the painting, which now seemed to come to life before her. A soft breeze stirred the air, brushing against her skin with a chilling touch that only deepened the unease in her chest.
Every inch of the room felt smaller, as if something unseen was watching her from the shadows.
Suddenly, a loud creak echoed from above. Her heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, her feet took a step back. But as she did, she felt something pulling her toward the attic door.
It was as if some force was calling her, even though she knew she should be moving away.
The air behind her thickened, and with each passing second, it felt as though time itself was growing heavier. Bianca blinked, trying to push away the growing fear.
But when her gaze returned to the painting, she saw something shift—something that had never been there before. Shadows, dark and almost human in shape, seemed to stir beneath the surface.
"Who... is in there?" Bianca whispered to herself, the words barely escaping her lips.
Then, the whisper came again, but this time, it was clearer, more distinct.
"Help us..."
Bianca's breath caught in her throat. Her body froze, unable to move, as the voice seemed to flow through her, trapping her in its pull.
She wanted to run, to close the door, to forget it all. But there was one thing she couldn't deny—something had awakened within her, and she knew she couldn't turn back.
Without thinking, her hand reached for the attic door handle, and with a swift motion, she slammed it shut, the sound of the door echoing in the stillness.
But deep inside, Bianca knew—this was not the end.
The door that should have been locked was now slightly ajar, leaving a gap wide enough for something she couldn't yet understand to slip through.