The final Portrait

London’s fog curled like pale fingers against the windowpanes of Edmund Harcourt’s studio, muffling the restless city beyond. Inside, the air was thick with turpentine and candle smoke, the scent clinging to the heavy drapes and the half-finished canvases that leaned, forgotten, against the walls.

Harcourt stood before his easel, brush in hand, studying the portrait with a growing sense of unease.

The letter had arrived a fortnight prior, written in a sharp, almost surgical hand:

Mr. Harcourt,

Your skill is known to me. I require a portrait of Lord Everly, to be completed with the utmost discretion. The matter is of great personal importance. Enclosed, you will find a sum sufficient to secure your commitment. Another shall follow upon completion.

Do not seek to return correspondence. You will receive no reply.

There had been no signature, only an address scrawled beneath the closing line. The paper was thick, curiously smooth to the touch as if it had been polished. The enclosed sum had been excessive—far more than Harcourt had been offered in years. That alone should have raised his suspicions. But he had accepted. Of course, he had.

Lord Everly had arrived at the studio the following evening, pale and poised, with an expression that was both vacant and appraising. His face was narrow, his cheekbones too sharp, and his skin stretched over them like ageing parchment. A man carved from ivory and dusk. But it was his eyes that unsettled Harcourt the most—deep-set, unblinking, dark as ink spilt upon a page. He had the gaze of a man who had looked into something terrible and let it hollow him out.

Everly spoke little. He took his seat without comment, hands resting lightly on the chair’s carved arms, the fingers long and oddly stiff, as though rigor had set in. He barely moved as Harcourt worked, his presence as silent and absolute as a figure in a mausoleum.

Now, as Harcourt studied the half-finished portrait, a cold weight settled in his chest. Something was wrong.

The eyes.

They were not the eyes he had intended to paint.

He had painted his subject as he had seen him—his detached stillness, the hollowness of his stare—but the canvas had twisted it. The Everly in the painting was not passive. He was watching. The expression had shifted in some imperceptible way, just enough to make Harcourt feel as though the painted man was aware. Amused, even.

Harcourt swallowed. His throat was dry.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would fix it.

He turned from the easel and moved toward the dying fire, but just as he reached for the poker, something flickered in the edge of his vision. A shift in the candlelight. A deepening of a shadow. A whisper of the fabric against the canvas.

He whirled around.

The studio was silent.

And yet, he could not shake the feeling that the painted eyes were still upon him.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

Harcourt lay in the narrow bed tucked into the corner of his studio, the blankets bunched around his restless limbs. The fire had long since died, leaving only the occasional pop of cooling embers. The darkness pressed in, thick and absolute. Yet even with his eyes closed, he felt it—the pull of the painting.

He tried to tell himself it was absurd. A trick of the mind. But the sensation would not leave him, an unbearable itch just beyond reach.

At last, with a low curse, he threw back the covers and reached for the oil lamp. The match hissed against the wick, casting flickering light across the room.

And there it was.

The portrait stood where he had left it, the unfinished strokes waiting for morning’s corrections. But something was different.

The expression.

It had changed.

Only slightly, only just enough for doubt to creep in—but Harcourt was certain of it. The painted Everly was no longer watching. No longer simply observing. There was something else now. A slight tightening at the corners of the mouth. A ghost of amusement.

A smirk.

Harcourt’s breath caught in his throat.

He forced himself forward, feet bare against the cold wooden floor. His hand trembled as he raised the lamp, bringing its glow closer. He studied every brushstroke, every shadow, searching for the mistake. Had he painted this expression himself? Had his own hand betrayed him?

It was ridiculous. Impossible.

And yet…

Harcourt exhaled, setting the lamp down with deliberate care. He was exhausted, that was all. A trick of the light, of the mind. Tomorrow, he would adjust the mouth, and correct the illusion.

He turned away.

Behind him, a soft sound.

A whisper. A shift of fabric, the faintest rasp of something dry moving against the canvas.

Harcourt froze.

His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the silence that followed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned back.

The portrait had not moved. Of course, it hadn’t. And yet, the certainty in his chest—that crawling, unbearable feeling—remained.

His fingers clenched at his sides. With a sudden burst of resolve, he seized a cloth from the table, draping it over the easel in a single, decisive motion.

There.

He would fix it in the morning.

With deliberate steps, he crossed the studio and extinguished the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room once more. He lay back down, shutting his eyes against the silence.

But this time, as sleep pulled him under, it was not the painting’s eyes that haunted him.

It was the smirk.

The morning light was a dull, grey smear against the studio window, filtering weakly through the London fog.

Harcourt awoke unrested, his body stiff with unease. For a long moment, he remained still, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down on him like a damp shroud.

It was just a trick of exhaustion, he told himself. A tired mind conjuring illusions.

With an exhale that felt more like an exorcism, he rose.

The cloth still lay draped over the easel, concealing the thing that had unsettled him so deeply the night before. He hesitated before stepping forward, his fingers lingering at the fabric’s edge. A childish reluctance, but he ignored the shame of it.

With a sharp motion, he tore the cloth away.

The portrait stared back at him.

For a breath, nothing seemed amiss. The smirk was gone. The amusement, the knowing look—all of it had vanished. The painting was exactly as it should have been.

Harcourt released a quiet laugh, though it carried no humour. See? He had been mistaken. Nothing unnatural, nothing beyond reason.

Still, a tightness remained in his chest. Best to be sure. Best to correct what little unease lingered.

He set to work.

His brush moved with practised ease, adjusting the shadows, softening the gaze, and ensuring that the image reflected only what he had intended to paint. It was methodical and mechanical. Control restored.

Yet with each stroke, something gnawed at the edges of his mind. A sensation like déjà vu—like retracing old steps.

The lines of Everly’s face felt… familiar. Not just in the way that an artist knows his subject, but in a deeper, more insidious way. As if Harcourt had painted this face before.

His hand faltered.

That was absurd.

And yet, the thought lodged itself into his brain like a splinter.

Had he painted this face before?

His pulse quickened. His breath came shallow. He took a step back, studying the portrait anew.

The jawline. The curve of the cheek. The slope of the nose.

He knew this face.

Not from Lord Everly’s sittings. Not from last night. From before.

A sudden nausea twisted in his stomach. His hand tightened around the brush.

No. No, it wasn’t possible.

This was Everly. It had to be Everly.

But as he stared, something seemed to shift. The colours darkened, the shadows deepened—not by his hand, but of their own accord. The face was no longer Everly’s. It was changing.

Becoming something else.

Becoming someone else.

A jolt of cold ran through him, and before he could stop himself, he lunged forward, his thumb smearing a streak of paint across the canvas in a desperate attempt to erase what he had seen.

The room was silent except for his own ragged breathing.

He took another step back, his vision swimming. The portrait was ruined, the mouth blurred, the expression wiped clean. But beneath the smear, beneath the half-destroyed features, the eyes remained.

And they were looking through him.

He sat hunched in the dim glow of the oil lamp, staring at the ruined portrait. His fingers twitched, still stained with smears of pigment. The studio smelled of linseed oil and something else—something sour, like decay seeping from beneath the floorboards. The air felt wrong. Heavy. Stagnant. Something was pressing in. Just then, the door creaked. Lord Everly entered, moving as he always did—silently, fluidly, as if his body barely disturbed the air around him. Harcourt flinched. He had not been expecting him. Had he summoned Everly for another sitting? The memory eluded him, slipping through his grasp like wet silk. He tried to steady his breath. "I can't finish it," he muttered. His voice sounded distant, like an echo from another room. "I've ruined it." His eyes flickered back to the canvas—expecting to see the smeared ruin of his work. But the portrait was untouched. Pristine. The smirk was gone. The eyes were empty once more. A cold knot formed in his stomach. No. No, he had destroyed it. Hadn’t he? He had smeared the mouth, blurred the features—he had seen himself do it. But here it was, perfect and whole as if it had never been touched. His pulse thundered in his ears. Paint. Finish it. Just finish it. Shaking, he forced himself onto the stool, gripping the brush as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality. He dragged the bristles across the canvas, adjusting the light, and deepening the shadows. Control. He needed to regain control. But as he worked, the image on the canvas twisted. The more he looked, the more the image resolved, forming anew through the streaks of oil and shadow. Not Everly. Not anymore. A slow, terrible realization began to creep over him. He had painted this face before. Not once. Many times. But not on canvas. His breath came shallow and unsteady. His mind clawed at the edges of memory, trying to grasp something just out of reach—something wrapped in fog and blood and time. His fingers went slack. In a sudden, violent motion, he seized Everly by the collar, his voice breaking. “What’s going on?” His fingers dug into the fabric. His whole body trembled. “What are you doing to me?” Everly tilted his head. His expression was not one of anger or surprise, but something worse—something knowing. “I have been dead for years, Edmund,” he said. His voice was quiet. Steady. “You painted me once before.” Harcourt’s body went rigid. A vision tore through him, violent and sudden. A darkened study. The scent of whiskey and damp wood. The glint of a blade catching firelight. And Lord Everly—no, not Everly anymore—staring back at him with wide, horrified eyes. Blood. So much blood. Harcourt staggered back, gasping for breath. His hands trembled. He looked down— A straight razor. His hands covered in blood closed around it. Cold metal. Smooth and weighty. With a choked cry, the razor clattered to the floor. His breath came in gasps, the room spinning around him. He had painted this face before. Because he had killed this man before. The commission. The letter. The sittings. They had never existed. There had been no Everly, no mysterious patron. There had only been Harcourt. The portrait was not of Everly at all. It was a self-portrait. His own reflection stared back at him from the canvas, twisted in oil and shadow, lips curling into that same knowing smirk. He turned wildly, breath ragged, searching for the real Everly—but there was no one. Only empty air. Then his gaze fell upon the walls. Not just one portrait. Dozens. Scattered pages. Charcoal sketches. Ruined paintings, slashed and torn—but all of them, all of them bore the same face. His own. Again and again, caught in different stages of realization, horror, and madness. The truth collapsed upon him like a burial shroud. The razor. The sketches. The body that had long since rotted beneath the studio floor. And the painting—watching, waiting, unchanged. The portrait had not deceived him. It had only revealed what had been there all along. A breath of laughter—low, dark, humourless—escaped his lips and then— Maniacal laughter. Wild. Unrestrained. A horrible, shaking sound filled the air, echoing through the studio like a symphony of unravelling sanity.

Then—

A breath of cold air against the nape of his neck.

Harcourt’s laughter died in his throat as cold fingers pressed against his shoulder, and something smooth and heavy was placed into his palm—the same razor, waiting for him. His breath shuddered. A voice, low and steady, whispered into his ear: "Do it." His gaze flickered to the portrait, to the eyes that had watched, waited, known. The blade flashed. A sharp, searing heat. His body crumpled before the easel, blood spreading like spilt ink across the wooden floor. The razor slipped from Harcourt’s trembling fingers, but death did not come—only the agony of waiting, suspended in his own failing body. A cold hand pressed against his chest, holding him there, refusing him release. Not yet, a voice whispered, and his fingers twitched against his will, curling around a brush slick with blood. His body, broken and drained, was made to move, forced to paint, each stroke dragging him closer to oblivion as his own reflection sharpened on the canvas. His skin withered, his breath shallowed, his form hollowing until, at last, nothing remained of Edmund Harcourt—except the portrait, still drying on the easel. A figure stepped forward, studying it, pleased. A pale hand wiped a speck of red from the corner, and with a final, satisfied glance, Lord Everly smiled. The candle was snuffed, the studio swallowed by darkness, and the portrait remained—waiting, watching.