The Eyes That Follow

The painting arrived on a gray, rain-drenched afternoon, wrapped in brown paper and twine, with no return address. Liz Holtz had not ordered any artwork, nor had she expressed interest in acquiring one. Yet, there it was, leaning against the front door of her quiet New England cottage.

She hesitated before bringing it inside, staring at the damp paper clinging to the contours of the canvas. A faint unease prickled her spine, but curiosity won out. She pulled the package inside and sliced through the twine. The paper fell away, revealing an oil painting in an antique gold frame.

It was a portrait of a woman.

The subject was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with wavy chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a deep green dress, the fabric rich and heavy, reminiscent of 19th-century fashion. But it was her face that captured Liz's attention — large, expressive hazel eyes with an intensity that seemed almost alive. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she were about to speak.

And yet, there was something deeply unsettling about her.

The background was dark, almost black, making the woman seem to emerge from the shadows. Though the painting was skillfully done, something about the brushstrokes made her features appear ever so slightly blurred, as if she were shifting in place when not being observed.

Liz stepped back, heart pounding. There was no signature, no indication of the artist.

Who had sent it?

That night, unable to sleep, she found herself drawn back to the painting. She had propped it against the fireplace, meaning to put it away in the morning, but now, in the flickering firelight, the woman’s expression seemed... different.

Had she been smiling before?

Liz shook off the thought. She was being ridiculous. It was just a painting. An uninvited gift from some unknown source, yes, but still just paint and canvas. She resolved to research it in the morning.

And yet, as she lay in bed, listening to the rain patter against the windows, she could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

The next day, Liz took the painting to a local antique dealer, Lee Dahlberg, a man whose knowledge of art and history was nearly encyclopedic. His shop, Dahlberg's Curiosities, was a cluttered space filled with forgotten relics and whispering antiques.

As soon as Lee laid eyes on the painting, his expression darkened.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.

"It was delivered to my house yesterday. No sender, no note. I have no idea where it came from."

Lee studied the painting closely, running his fingers over the frame. “This is old. Mid-1800s, I’d wager. Possibly earlier. But…” He exhaled sharply. “I’ve seen this portrait before.”

Liz's pulse quickened. “You have?”

He nodded. “Or at least, I’ve heard of it. There’s a story — an old one, passed around among collectors. They call it The Portrait of Tereson.”

“Tereson?”

Lee hesitated before speaking. “Tereson Dupuy. She was the daughter of a wealthy Boston merchant, engaged to a man named Mike Lane. By all accounts, they were deeply in love. But days before their wedding, Tereson disappeared. Vanished without a trace.”

A chill ran down Liz's spine. “And the painting?”

“No one knows who painted it, but it surfaced years later in her family’s abandoned estate. Some say it was commissioned by her fiancé after she vanished, a way to preserve her memory. Others claim it appeared out of nowhere.” Lee glanced at Liz. “And then there are the… rumors.”

Liz swallowed. “What kind of rumors?”

“That it’s cursed. That anyone who keeps it too long begins to see Tereson move, to hear whispers at night. Some claim she even appears outside the painting.” Lee's voice grew somber. “Many who’ve owned it have died under mysterious circumstances.”

Liz let out a nervous laugh. “That’s just superstition.”

“Is it?” Lee looked at her carefully. “You said it arrived at your door. No sender, no explanation. That doesn’t strike you as… strange?”

Liz didn’t answer.

Lee sighed. “If I were you, I’d get rid of it.”

Liz nodded absently. “I’ll think about it.”

But she didn’t get rid of it.

Instead, she spent the evening researching Tereson Dupuy. Lee's story was true — Tereson had disappeared in 1847, her body never found. Her fiancé, Mike Lane, had spent years searching for her, but with no leads, he was eventually declared mad and institutionalized. Some believed Tereson had been murdered. Others whispered that she had been taken — by whom or what, no one knew.

That night, Liz dreamed of her.

She stood in a grand ballroom, chandeliers casting golden light over polished floors. People in elegant gowns danced around her, but their faces were blurred, as though the details had been smudged away. And there, across the room, stood Tereson.

Her hazel eyes met Liz's, pleading.

"Help me," Tereson whispered.

Liz woke with a start, heart hammering. The room was dark, save for the dying embers of the fireplace. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

And then she heard it.

A soft whisper.

She froze, listening.

It came from the corner of the room. From the painting.

Slowly, Liz turned her head.

Tereson's expression had changed again.

Her lips were fully parted now, her eyes wide with desperation.

"Help me," the whisper came again.

Liz clutched the blankets, her breath shallow. "Who are you?" she whispered back.

The candle on her nightstand flickered violently. A gust of cold air swept through the room. And then, the whisper returned, barely audible, but unmistakable.

"Find him."

The next day, Liz knew what she had to do.

She dove into old archives, searching for anything related to Mike Lane. His life after Tereson's disappearance was tragic — he was committed to Blackwood Asylum in 1852, where he died under mysterious circumstances. Some reports mentioned him raving about Tereson, insisting she was trapped, that she needed to be freed.

Liz traced the location of the asylum ruins — deep in the woods, forgotten.

That evening, she drove out there, flashlight in hand. The forest was dense, shadows stretching unnaturally in the twilight. The ruins of Blackwood loomed ahead, a crumbling structure overtaken by ivy and time.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and decay. Liz navigated the broken corridors until she found what she was looking for — Mike's old room. The walls were covered in frenzied writings, scratched into the stone.

"She is trapped." "The painting is the key." "Find her before they do."

Liz's pulse pounded. She turned in a slow circle, flashlight casting long shadows.

And then she saw it.

A small alcove in the wall, bricks loose from age. Inside was an old, tattered journal.

It was Mike's.

She flipped through the brittle pages, his frantic scrawls painting a chilling picture — he believed Tereson had been taken by something inhuman, trapped within the painting itself. He had spent years trying to free her, but something had always stopped him.

Something that didn’t want her released.

A sudden noise behind her made Liz whirl around.

In the darkness, a figure stood.

Not Tereson.

Not human.

Its shape was wrong, shifting, barely visible in the dim light.

Liz didn’t wait. She grabbed the journal and ran, the whispering rising behind her, a chorus of voices warning, begging, laughing.

She didn’t stop until she was back home, bolting the door behind her.

The painting was waiting.

Tereson's face was different now — hopeful.

Liz knew what she had to do.

She gathered kindling, doused the painting in lighter fluid, and struck a match.

The flames licked the canvas, consuming Tereson's prison.

A final whisper echoed through the room.

"Thank you."

And then, silence.

The painting was gone.

And so was Tereson.