_________"THE CURSED CANVAS"________

Chapter 1: The Unlikely Purchase

Ethan Dillard had spent most of his life chasing an elusive ideal—something intangible he couldn’t quite grasp: art that spoke to his soul, an inspiration that could push him beyond his own limits, and a muse who would push him to transcend his talents. He spent years at exhibitions, flipping through art books, visiting galleries, and yet, he felt like something was missing. Art had always felt like a distant echo, like a lover who wouldn’t return his affections. But when he stumbled upon The Curiosity Shop, something about it felt different, like fate had guided his feet down this narrow alley.

The alley was a forgotten relic of the city’s past, narrow and winding, almost suffocating between two towering buildings whose shadows devoured any trace of sunlight. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and decay, mingling oddly with a distant aroma of spices and incense, a far cry from the world Ethan was used to. He had been wandering aimlessly, lost in thought, when his gaze flicked to the flickering neon sign in the distance, half-hidden by the fog of the early evening.

"Open," it blinked, and with that, something inside him stirred, like an unspoken invitation.

The door to the shop creaked loudly as Ethan pushed it open, and a cloud of dust rose from the worn wooden floors. Inside, the dim light that filtered through the grimy windows barely illuminated the labyrinth of shelves, each crammed with oddities that seemed more out of place than the last. Trinkets, books, old photographs, and relics from forgotten times stood as silent witnesses to the passing years. The air carried a sharp, metallic scent mingled with something sweet, intoxicating.

He wandered deeper, drawn by an invisible force, his feet moving of their own accord. Something in the farthest corner of the room caught his attention. Beneath a tattered cloth, an easel stood—large, imposing, and shrouded in secrecy. Without thinking, Ethan crossed the cluttered floor, his fingers lightly brushing against the cloth as he reached for it.

The woman’s eyes greeted him before anything else. He didn’t see her full face, only glimpses of her—the intensity of her gaze cutting through the dust and dim light like a knife. The painting was large, almost towering in size, its frame carved from dark, weathered wood, as though it had witnessed countless years of neglect.

"How much for this one?" Ethan asked, his voice barely more than a breath, his heart beating faster than usual.

The shopkeeper—a frail old man, his face weathered by time but his eyes sharp—paused. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, he studied Ethan with a look that seemed to pierce through him.

"Not for sale," the old man rasped, his voice like paper scraping against wood. "It chooses its own."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, unsure if the man was simply being cryptic or if something darker was at play. "What do you mean, it chooses its own?" he asked, feeling a strange sense of urgency building in his chest.

But before he could press further, the old man turned, shuffling away without another word, as if that was the end of the conversation.

Ethan stood still, the air thick around him. Something about that painting… He couldn’t explain it, but it called to him. Without hesitation, he reached into his wallet and paid the price—the steep price, far more than he had expected. Yet, as he left the shop, the weight of the painting under his arm felt strangely comforting.

And though the street was empty, and the shop had vanished from his memory as quickly as it had appeared, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed him.

Chapter 2: The Brush of curse

Ethan’s studio had always been his sanctuary. A place where chaos could be turned into creation, and where he could lose himself in his art. But when the painting was hung on the far wall, it was as though the room itself had transformed. The light shifted, no longer warm and inviting but cold, almost clinical. The air felt thicker, weighed down with an unexplainable tension.

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He stood before the canvas, studying the woman’s face—the deep shadows around her eyes, the eerie glow of her porcelain skin. Her gaze seemed to pierce through him, following him as he moved. He couldn’t explain it, but every time he looked away, the painting seemed to shift. Impossible, he told himself. It’s just a painting.

But there was a presence to it. The woman was watching him, waiting, her lips barely parted as though she were about to speak—but not in any normal way. It was as if the air itself were vibrating with some hidden power, calling to him.

He stepped forward and picked up his brush. The first stroke felt wrong. It wasn’t the usual controlled, measured motion of a practiced hand. This was urgent. Like the brush was trying to guide him, to shape him. The woman’s features seemed to come alive beneath his touch, her grin widening ever so slightly, her eyes more… aware. He wiped his brow and shook his head, trying to push the thought aside, but the image of her smile stayed with him, growing, spreading across her face like something wrong.

The hours blurred together as Ethan’s mind descended into a haze. The brush moved almost of its own accord, pulling him deeper into the piece. His focus was consumed entirely by the painting.

By the time he stepped back, he hardly recognized the image. The woman’s lips had stretched into a grotesque, sharp-toothed grin, her eyes wide with something dark and predatory. But what shocked him the most was what lay behind her—a distorted version of the studio itself. The shadows had deepened, bleeding outward, consuming the room in blackness. The floor was slick with some inky substance, and the walls twisted unnaturally.

Ethan stared at his own reflection in the glass. This isn’t right, he thought. His reflection wasn’t his own—pale, gaunt, with eyes wide and staring back in horror, like someone caught in a nightmare.

He stumbled backward, breath coming in short gasps. The painting had changed, yes, but he had changed as well. The studio no longer felt like a space he controlled. The very air in the room was now thick with a weight he couldn’t explain.

He needed to stop. He tried to step away from the canvas, but his feet felt glued to the floor. The voice, soft at first, whispered in his ear.

"Finish it."

Chapter 3: The Creeping Darkness

Days passed, but Ethan couldn’t stop. The painting consumed him. Every time he tried to step away, his hand reached back for the brush. It felt almost as though he had no choice in the matter.

The air in his studio was suffocating, and each brushstroke brought him closer to something he wasn’t sure he understood.

The woman’s smile grew wider each day, and the shadows behind her began to stretch and twist in ways that made his skin crawl. They moved like something alive—like they had their own purpose, a purpose that was tied to him. Ethan couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being dragged into the painting, piece by piece.

His friends had stopped calling. His phone rang in the corner of the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer it. What did they know of this? They wouldn’t understand. He had to finish this—he had to finish this.

Then the nightmares began.

They were subtle at first—flashes of movement, shadows at the edge of his vision. But soon, they grew more vivid. He saw the woman’s face in his dreams, twisted, her grin growing until it split her face in two. She spoke to him, her voice soft, like a lover’s whisper. “Come closer,” she coaxed, beckoning him into the darkness.

He woke in cold sweats, his body trembling. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was worse than before—his eyes hollow, his skin pale, his breath shallow.

The whispers in the studio grew louder. They weren’t just in his dreams now. They were real.

"Finish it," the voice urged again. "Complete it, and you will understand."

The truth gnawed at him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t. But as he picked up the brush once again, the feeling in his gut told him there was no turning back.

The painting was calling to him.

Chapter 4: The Disappearance of Time

Ethan barely noticed the days slipping by anymore. He hadn’t left the studio in what felt like weeks, the outside world a distant, irrelevant memory. The sunlight no longer reached him, replaced by the faint, cold glow of the dim lamp beside his easel. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of oil paint and something else—something that clung to the room, something that made his skin crawl.

He would occasionally glance at the clock, but the hours seemed to lose meaning. Time no longer moved in a linear fashion. One moment it was midday, and the next, the sun had disappeared, and darkness filled the room with a suffocating weight. He would sit for hours, staring at the canvas, unable to look away, as if the painting had become a mirror into another world—one that was swallowing his own.

At night, the whispers grew louder, more distinct. It started as a soft murmur, a voice that seemed to be coming from the painting itself. "Finish it. Finish what you’ve started."

Ethan’s hands trembled as he reached for his brush once more. He had to finish it. He wasn’t sure why, but every fiber of his being screamed that this was the only way to make sense of it all. As his brush touched the canvas, he felt a shiver of anticipation—a connection between him and the woman in the painting, as though she were reaching out to him, pulling him in.

But something else was happening now. As he worked, the walls around him seemed to shift. His studio had begun to change. The room, once familiar, had become unfamiliar. The floorboards creaked in unnatural patterns, as if someone—or something—was walking beneath them. The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and writhed, inching closer to him with every stroke.

In his mind, he began to see flashes of people—his family, his friends, faces he hadn’t seen in years, all distorted and contorted, as though they were trapped within the canvas. He could hear their voices calling out to him, desperate and pleading. But when he looked up, they were gone, replaced by the still, silent figure in the painting.

The woman’s smile was wider now, impossibly wide. Her eyes were no longer calm, no longer watching. They were hungry. Her lips trembled with anticipation, and Ethan could feel the weight of her gaze pressing against his chest.

Then, one night, as he worked feverishly to finish the last detail, he looked up—only to find the woman staring back at him, no longer on the canvas.

She was standing in the corner of the room, her eyes wide with an emotion he couldn’t quite place.

He blinked. She was gone.

But the room... the room had changed. The walls were now damp, the air thick with a rancid smell.

The shadows were alive, creeping toward him, closing in. And the whispers... they had turned into words.

"Finish it. Or she will finish you."

-To be continue