Chapter 11: The Final Stroke

The room around Ethan seemed to pulse with an unnatural rhythm as his brush moved over the canvas, painting his own face with a determination that bordered on madness.

His mind was consumed with a singular thought: finish it. Complete the painting in a way that no one could ever fall victim to it again.

His fingers were slick with sweat, but the more he painted, the more the strokes began to feel natural, like he was following an invisible force.

The woman’s presence lingered, but she was silent, watching him from the edges of his mind.

Ethan’s gaze locked on the canvas. His own face stared back at him, contorted in agony, yet there was something in the expression that wasn’t his.

Something dark—something that belonged to the painting. His eyes, once full of life, now mirrored the hollow eyes of the woman, empty and lost.

The painting was consuming him, piece by piece, pulling him deeper into its world, but something within him—perhaps the last remnants of his sanity—refused to give up.

He had to finish it, but he couldn’t allow the painting to complete him entirely.

The brush in his hand felt heavier with every stroke. It was as though the weight of his actions, the weight of his decision, was becoming too much to bear.

He could feel the walls of the painting closing in, the figures around him whispering in his ears, but he ignored them.

...They were just illusions, trapped souls that had once made the same mistake he had.

“No more,” he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse, as he painted the final detail.

With a final, trembling motion, he completed the last stroke of his self-portrait.

The canvas shimmered, and for a moment, there was an unnatural stillness. It was as though time had stopped.

The world around him went quiet. Even the shadows seemed to still, holding their breath.

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And then, it happened.

The woman’s face, once twisted in a grin, began to change. Her smile faltered, her eyes widened, and the darkness around her began to dissipate.

Ethan stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest as the air around him thickened, like the painting was fighting against what he had done.

It screamed at him—no words, just an overwhelming, suffocating pressure that clawed at his mind, pulling him deeper into the abyss.

But Ethan stood his ground. He was no longer the man he once was. He had sacrificed his humanity, his soul, to create this final moment. And now, he would end it.

The woman screeched, a horrible, unearthly sound that shook the very foundations of the painting.

Her body twisted in ways no human form could, her skin cracking and peeling away to reveal something far worse—a void.

A yawning chasm, empty and cold. Her form dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind only the frame of the canvas.

For a moment, everything stood still. The oppressive weight of the painting seemed to lift, the thick atmosphere that had once filled the studio was gone.

Ethan collapsed onto the floor, his body drained, but for the first time in what felt like eternity, he could breathe.

The painting was gone. And yet, the feeling of emptiness remained.

He looked around the room—his studio, now eerily silent. The walls were bare, the floor untouched by the creeping darkness that had once consumed it. The canvas was gone, as though it had never been there.

But something was wrong.

Ethan looked down at his hands. They were no longer solid. His fingers trembled, the skin becoming translucent, fading into nothingness. He tried to scream, but his mouth made no sound.

His body was beginning to disintegrate, his very existence slipping through his fingers like dust.

It was then that he understood the price of his actions. In erasing the painting, he had erased himself.

He had sacrificed his identity, his soul, to destroy the cursed canvas, but in doing so, he had sealed his own fate.

There was no escape. The painting had taken everything, and now it was taking him too.

Ethan fell to his knees, his form flickering like a fading light. He saw the faintest image of Sarah in his mind—her smiling face, her warmth—and for a fleeting moment, he felt peace.

It was over. The painting was gone. No one else would fall victim to its curse.

As his body began to dissolve completely, he whispered the only words that still held meaning: “I’m sorry.”

Then, he was gone.

Chapter 12: The Echo of Art

The world continued, oblivious to the horrors that had unfolded in that small, forgotten studio. The curse of the painting, however, was not so easily destroyed.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The world carried on, unaware of the dark legacy that lingered beneath the surface of their everyday lives. But somewhere, deep in the shadows of an antique shop, a dusty, forgotten frame sat on a shelf.

It was just a painting—nothing more than a strange, unfinished work of art that no one cared to buy.

It was a portrait of a small black man,Surrounded by black shadows, his eyes glowing white. A small sign beneath the frame read: "Artist Unknown."

No one looked too closely at it. It was just another painting.

But if you looked hard enough, just in black guy eyes, you might see a small,glowing tears — drops from his white eyes ,crying and trapped forever within the canvas.

"THE END"

-BEHOLD!!!! A MESSAGE FROM WRITER!!!

-Hey there,

Just wanted to drop a quick note to say thanks for picking up my first novel.

You're officially part of the ride, and I can't tell you how much it means to me. This is just the beginning—there are plenty more stories coming your way soon, so stick around.

Stay cool, keep reading, and get ready for what’s next. I promise you won’t want to miss it.

Catch you soon,

CoolBoy,