Creepy Pasta

Faces

Faces



I have a friend who is a great artist. Some have said he's the next Michelangelo! But recently, he's been under some stress with finding buyers of his works, which could range from landscapes to portraits to just about anything. His initial success gave way to an immense amount of fortune, which dwindled quickly with the mansion and cars.

I decided to visit my friend and see if he needed any immediate help. I was willing to offer my services and even stand in for a portrait. Whatever I could do to help him I would. I drove up to the gate and buzzed in.

"Hey Buford, it's me, Alex!" I said.

Static from the other end. I buzzed in a couple more times and after getting no response I began to back up when the gate suddenly opened. That's Odd, I thought. I ignored it and drove up to his door.

I stepped out of the car and saw that his front door was broken down. The debris were on the outside, however, which meant someone had burst through the doors from the inside. Paint and art utensils were scattered through the debris. A faint moaning came from the bush next to the door. I saw someone laying in the grass.

I quickly ran over to see Buford's butler, Albert, laying with a sharpened paint brush sticking out of his chest.

"Tried... to break... out... Don't go... inside..." Albert said as he grasped my clothes. He let go slowly as he breathed his last.

I turned toward the door. It wasn't dark outside, but inside it looked pitch black. I had to help Buford, so mustering courage, I went inside.

It was hell in his house. Furniture was broken and scattered about everywhere. Windows were broken, doors were smashed, and lights were crushed. What the hell happened here?

I saw a candle on the floor. I had my lighter for my cigarettes with me, so i picked the candle up and lit it. Dim light revealed the destruction of god knows what. Paint cans, brushes, easels, and other utensils were everywhere. Paint had been splashed onto everything. If I didn't know better, Buford had a serious meltdown... but murder Albert? I began searching for him, calling his name in the long hallways, listening to it and my footsteps echo away.

In many of the hallways were faces. Some were elegantly painted, while others were simple, generic smiles. Each face had it's own expression, but the eyes were always the same, giant, realistic eyes that he had painted on all portraits. But these were different, they were red and veiny. The pupils were largely dilated, as if they were black holes themselves. It was creepy, so I ignored them and kept walking, but it felt like they were staring at me.

As I got closer to his bedroom the faces began to fade from the random expressions to a select few: anger, sorrow, and despair. And they were all simple in design; just a few paint strokes each, but still with the realistic eyes.

I heard something behind me and turned to look, but upon whirling around I saw nothing. I assumed it was the echo and carried on, only to find one of the faces gone from the wall. Maybe there wasn't anything there in the first place, so I kept going. Another sound behind me and I looked back again. Still nothing and another empty space on the wall.

I was beginning to get scared when I made it to Buford's room. A final face was on his door. Simple paint strokes still, but the expression was odd. It was a smile, but not normal. The smile reached all around the face and the eyes were simple dots. I slowly opened the door.

Something jumped to the crack and I fell back.

"Buford?"

The door was torn from the hinges but some terrifying monster. It had many legs and arms that looked like tendrils sprouting from a single head. The head looked like one of the paintings on the wall, simple paint strokes, but the realistic eyes. I scrambled back to hit something behind me

I turned to see Buford, hanging from what appeared to be a noose that had been painted there. The faces were all around his body and I. All with a smile on their face. Tendrils wrapped around me and I began to scream in pain as sharp objects were thrust inside me. The faces smiled wider and the pupils soon grew until the whole eye was black.

I couldn't move, I couldn't run, I was finished.

They crushed me into a bloody pulp and painted me on the wall. I was painted with a terrified expression. The police came to investigate, but they never made it out. No one did; but they all became works of art.