The Portrait of Doom

I have always loved paintings. Ever since I was a child, I would spend hours admiring the works of art in museums and galleries. I dreamed of becoming a painter myself, but I never had the talent or the courage to pursue it. So I settled for being a collector, buying and selling paintings from various artists and eras.

One day, I came across a painting that caught my eye. It was a portrait of a young woman, dressed in a black gown and holding a red rose. She had pale skin, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. She looked beautiful, but also sad and mysterious. The painting was unsigned, but the seller told me it was from the 19th century, and that it belonged to a noble family who had died in a tragic fire. He said the painting was rumored to be cursed, and that anyone who owned it would meet a horrible fate.

I didn't believe in such superstitions, and I was fascinated by the painting. I bought it for a bargain price, and took it home with me. I hung it in my living room, above the fireplace. I felt a strange connection to the woman in the painting, as if she was trying to tell me something.

That night, I had a nightmare. I dreamed that I was in a dark mansion, surrounded by flames. I heard screams and cries of pain, but I couldn't see anyone. I ran through the corridors, looking for a way out, but every door was locked. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned around. It was the woman from the painting, but she looked different. Her skin was charred, her hair was on fire, and her eyes were bloodshot. She held a bloody knife in her hand, and she smiled wickedly.

She said: "You are mine now. You will never escape me."

She lunged at me, stabbing me in the chest. I woke up with a start, sweating and gasping for air. I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 am.

I got up and went to the living room. The painting was still there, but something was wrong. The woman's expression had changed. She looked angry and menacing, and she seemed to be staring right at me.

I felt a chill down my spine. I grabbed the painting and threw it in the fireplace. It caught fire instantly, and I watched as it burned to ashes.

I thought it was over, but I was wrong.

The next day, I received a phone call from the seller. He sounded terrified.

He said: "You have to return the painting. You have to return it now."

I said: "What are you talking about? The painting is gone. I burned it last night."

He said: "No, no, no. You don't understand. The painting is not gone. It's alive. It's evil. It will come back for you."

I said: "You're crazy. Stop bothering me."

I hung up on him.

That night, I had another nightmare. I dreamed that I was in my living room, and the painting was back on the wall. The woman stepped out of the frame, holding the same bloody knife.

She said: "You can't get rid of me that easily. You are mine now. You will never escape me."

She lunged at me again, stabbing me repeatedly.

I woke up screaming.

I ran to the living room.

The painting was there.

It was real.