The Crimson Veil

I. The Shop and the Painting

The scent of aged paper, dust, and waxed wood clung to the air of Hollow & Sons Antiques. The place had the weight of history—shelves sagged with forgotten heirlooms, rusted music boxes played broken melodies, and tarnished silverware gleamed dully beneath thick glass cases.

Nathan Harper trailed his fingers over an old leather-bound journal, its cover cracked like parched earth. He wasn’t looking for books today, though. He was here for something unusual—something that would speak to him.

Then he saw it.

The painting sat propped against a stack of tattered maps in the dimmest corner of the shop. It was large, nearly four feet tall, its frame an elaborate swirl of gold, now dulled with time. But it was the canvas that held him frozen in place.

A crimson veil cascaded down the surface, a vibrant slash of red against an almost black background. It was painted with such depth that the fabric seemed to ripple, its edges curling like smoke. The figure beneath the veil was only hinted at—faint, shadowed hands pressing outward as if struggling to escape.

A chill licked the back of Nathan’s neck.

“Ah.” A voice behind him, dry as old paper. “That one.”

Nathan turned to see the shopkeeper, an old man with a gaunt face and thick spectacles perched on his nose. He held a damp cloth, polishing an ornate clock with precise, mechanical movements.

“This painting…” Nathan hesitated. “What’s the story?”

The man set the cloth down. He regarded Nathan for a long moment, as if measuring whether it was worth speaking at all.

“No one keeps it for long.”

Nathan smirked. “Why? Haunted?”

A pause. Then, a slow nod.

“That’s what they say.”

Nathan crouched, inspecting the brushstrokes. The paint was thick, layered—there was something beneath the red, as though the artist had painted over an earlier work.

“What’s underneath?”

The old man let out a breath, barely more than a whisper.

“Something that should have stayed hidden.”

Nathan straightened. “Who painted it?”

“No one knows. It appeared at auction decades ago, unmarked. Every collector who’s owned it has returned it—or vanished.”

A long silence stretched between them. Nathan could almost hear the dust settling in the room.

“How much?” he asked.

The shopkeeper hesitated, then named a price that was far lower than Nathan expected.

It almost felt like the man wanted it gone.

II. Unveiling

Nathan carried the painting through the cold November air, the wind sharp against his cheeks. Its weight felt oddly heavier than he expected, like he carried more than just wood and canvas.

Back at his apartment, he set it against the wall of his studio—a small room crammed with art supplies, canvases, and a single lamp casting long shadows across the space.

He studied it again.

The red paint was striking, almost wet-looking, as if it had been applied recently. He could swear the folds had shifted slightly since he last looked. The figure beneath remained obscured, hands frozen in their desperate reach.

A nagging thought tugged at him.

What was underneath?

Nathan had restored paintings before. He knew the methods: solvents, careful scraping, and the slow reveal of forgotten layers.

The warning from the shopkeeper echoed in his mind, but it felt ridiculous. A curse? No. It was just paint, just art.

And yet…

His fingers tingled as he grabbed a clean cloth and dipped it in a mild solvent. He dabbed at the edge of the crimson veil. The paint thinned and then began to dissolve.

Beneath it, something shifted.

Nathan froze.

It was just an illusion—the way the brushstrokes moved with the light. It had to be.

He continued. More of the red faded, revealing a face beneath the veil.

A face was staring back at him.

Not a painted face.

A real one.

III. The Face in the Canvas

Nathan’s breath hitched. The eyes on the canvas were wide, hollow, and moving. His fingers numbed, the cloth dropping from his grip.

His own reflection flickered in the studio window.

His face had changed.

Nathan staggered back, slamming into a shelf. The reflection—his face in the window—was not his own. The skin was sunken, the mouth twisted in silent horror.

The painting pulsed.

The red veil bled away, revealing the figure beneath—a gaunt man with deep, sunken eyes, his mouth slightly open as if he were taking a breath that had never been finished.

Nathan scrambled back. His pulse thundered in his ears.

And then—

The figure spoke.

Not aloud. Not in a voice.

It spoke in the absence of sound, in the tightening of the air, in the sudden metallic taste in Nathan’s mouth.

"You see me."

Nathan choked on his breath. He turned to run.

The door wouldn’t open.

The lights flickered.

The paint on the canvas moved—not dried oil, but shifting, slithering pigment.

"You see me."

Nathan clawed at the doorknob. The air pressed against him, thick, suffocating. The figure on the canvas leaned closer. The red veil, now almost gone, curled at the edges like something burning.

"Now I see you."

Nathan gasped.

The figure in the painting was him.

IV. The Trade

A cold realization settled over Nathan, heavier than fear.

The painting—it wasn’t haunted. It wasn’t a cursed object in the traditional sense.

It was a prison.

Someone had been trapped inside it. And now, as Nathan stared, that someone was him.

His hands trembled. He looked at his own reflection again—his real reflection, still in the painting.

The other Nathan, the one in the real world, turned toward him, head tilting in eerie curiosity.

Nathan—the trapped one—screamed, but there was no sound. His throat didn’t work. His lungs didn’t exist.

And the new Nathan smiled.

He picked up a clean brush, dipped it in crimson paint, and began covering the canvas again.

The red paint spread over the surface, over Nathan’s desperate face, sealing him away beneath the veil.

Layer after layer.

Until there was nothing left but red.

The last thing Nathan saw before the world disappeared was his own hands, pressing outward, reaching—

And then, darkness.

V. A New Owner

The antique shop was dimly lit, the scent of old wood and forgotten time curling in the air.

A new painting had arrived that morning, propped in the same corner where the old one had once been.

A crimson veil cascaded down the surface, its edges soft, fabric-like, rippling as though stirred by a phantom breeze.

Beneath it, faint, shadowed hands pressed outward.

And in the corner of the canvas, a fresh inscription had appeared.

"The Crimson Veil—Those Who Uncover It Unveils Themself."

A young woman entered the shop, pausing near the painting. She tilted her head, intrigued.

She felt a sudden pull, an inexplicable urge to touch it.

Behind the counter, the shopkeeper—once known as Nathan Harper—watched her with a knowing smile.

And waited.