CREEPYPASTA

The Painting

The next day was uneventful. I avoided the painting for the most part, spending time in living room downstairs watching TV. I mentioned about the dark figure to my parents that day, and of course they didn't believe me.

'You were just dreaming, Harry, that's all.' They told me. This was the last day I ever spent with my brother.

That night I had awoken at a similar time again, around 2:00am. I can't remember exactly what time. With dread and fear churning in my stomach, I reluctantly glanced at the painting. It was completely black. I remember physically shaking in terror, believing that if I made the slightest noise I would trigger something. Slowly I pulled myself out from under the bed sheets. I crept over to the bedroom door and then ran over to the bathroom, the floorboards creaking as I went. I locked myself inside. I figured I'd stay here until morning, then ask my father to put the painting back in the attic the next day. There was obviously something wrong with it, I just didn't know what.

What happened next will stay with me for as long as I live. After several minutes of waiting in the bathroom I heard the floorboards creak in the hall outside. At first I thought my brother had woken up, disturbed by my footsteps running down the hall. The creaking was approaching the bathroom, and stopped just outside the door.

'Jamie?' I whispered. No response.

I knew someone was standing right on the other side of the door. I just couldn't figure out what they were trying to do. Did they need to use the bathroom?

'Mum?' I said. To this I heard a scratching sound on the other side of the door, as if someone was dragging their fingers across it. I backed away, terrified. After a moment whoever it was walked away, their footsteps creaking their way towards my room.

The next day I awoke in the bathtub to the sound of banging. It was my father, he was thumping the outside of the door with his fist.

'Harry? Jamie? Are you in there?' He snapped.

I answered it slowly, stiff from lying in such an uncomfortable position. Apparently this morning when my parents had awoken they had found our room empty. My Mum went downstairs to find us and my Dad looked around upstairs.

'Is your brother in there you?' He had asked when I opened the door. I shook my head but he didn't believe me, and pushed past, searching the room. It was only after another half hour of searching that my parents began to panic. The police were called around. Everyone was convinced someone had broken into the house and taken him in the night. The police believed I had locked myself in the bathroom to hide from the kidnapper, out of fear. They questioned me relentlessly about whether I had seen his face, I couldn't answer.

There was something else. On the outside of the bathroom door there were three deep gouges, diagonal from top left to bottom right. The police believe they were caused by a knife, repeatedly dragged across the surface. They claimed that the kidnapper had been trying to get me as well, but had thankfully given in. Our house was closed off for several days and we were provided with a hotel, while the police searched for fingerprints or any signs of breaking and entering. As I said at the start, they found nothing.

When we finally returned to our home my parents were a teary mess. They moped around slowly, answering my questions with one word answers. I knew anything I said about the painting at this point was useless. No one ever seems to listen to children in times of need. They continued to act like this for half a year. It was a horrible time.

Returning to my bedroom after everything that had happened was horrible. I remember crying when I saw my brother's empty bed. His toys that were still scattered across the floor, toys he may never be able to play with again.

Before I turned to leave the room I glanced at the painting one final time... and noticed something peculiar. There was no dark figure, but there was something strange in one of the house windows. Curiously I approached and looked closer.

It was a face. A little boy. And from what I could tell he looked the spitting image of my brother. His face was contorted into one of terror, and he had tears streaming down his face. His hands were both pressed up against the glass.

Several months later the police gave up on the search. His funeral was held on April the 12th, to this date the saddest day of my life. After that all we could do was get on with our lives. I showed my parents the painting but they shouted at me and stashed it back in the attic. They thought the boy had been in the painting all along, that I was simply imagining the resemblance.

I'm thirty eight years old now, and have a place of my own. When I eventually left my old home I made sure to take the painting with me. For I am the only one who truly knows what happened to my brother.

The dark shape I saw all those years ago was some kind of entity, something evil that intended to trap us both in the painting for an eternity. It succeeded with my brother, but I had locked myself in the bathroom, so had been saved.

I keep the painting in the attic now, in case one day I might be able to free him. I can't lose hope, like my parents did. After researching I found out that the words on the back of the painting, 'Gadael ei ben ei hun,' – had been a warning. It translates to English as 'LEAVE ALONE.' Sometimes, in the dead of night, I'll hear a thumping sound coming from up there, footsteps roaming around in the attic. I'll always shout my brother's name, in hope he may have finally been let out. I never get a response.