An aspiring artist’s experience within a haunted gallery

The gallery looms over Vinny, shrouding her in shadow. Ivy runs up its ruddy walls, in the 

veins of the brick, holding it together. Her blue eyes stare up at it, even when a chill runs 

down her spine. 

The wooden doors open to a lobby less welcoming than outside. Harsh fluorescent lights 

shine against grimy walls, her shoes squeak against tile floor. Once again, she is alone here, 

aside from the woman at the front desk who doesn’t look up as Vinny slips by, sketchbook in 

hand. 

Vinny spends days here, studying artistry. Each step takes her deeper into an array of 

statues and pottery, paintings everywhere. Each piece is bold in colour, occupying more than 

a fair share of wall. Vinny admires their sense of importance, their ability to unapologetically 

take up space. 

She loved to imagine what it would be like to be one of these muses, perfectly dainty or 

womanly that she was desired, enough to be immortalized in her youth. Those intrigued her 

the most, the paintings of women, poised and beautiful, young and happy. 

The silence is broken by a lilting sound from the gallery’s basement. For all the times she 

had visited, Vinny had never ventured down there. The sound is impossible to ignore, 

however, and she finds herself following it to the stairway. 

At the bottom of the stairs stands a long, narrow hallway. Dim light comes from a room at 

the end where a huge painting hangs. The sound ebbs and flows from that room. Hesitantly, 

she steps forward, the smell of mildew growing stronger. She maneuvers around frames and 

statues strewn about covered in sheets. 

The room is tiny.A windowless, hidden, forgotten corner of the building. A vent runs 

along the wall, connecting grungy yellow paint to hardwood flooring. The painting hangs 

directly across from her, a small bronze plaque beside it. Titled simply “Lady,” credited to no 

one, no name engraved, no signature. 

It’s a life-size portrait of a beautiful woman wearing a dark, faded Victorian gown. Her 

brown hair pinned up, curls secure at the nape of her neck except for tussles framing her 

youthful face. Her smile is demure, her misty green eyes gaze to the side behind a curtain of 

dark eyelashes. She clutches her bodice with her only visible hand gloved in the most 

brilliant, ruby velvet. 

The painting itself is incredible, each brush stroke barely noticeable. The lighting in the 

room doesn’t do it justice; one single lightbulb hangs above the painting and Vinny, leaving 

much of the room lost to shadow. 

The sound has gotten louder now, warbled. Just old ventilation, but Vinny still shivers. 

She has never seen this piece before, not in any textbook, never upstairs. On a new page she 

begins to sketch her. 

Hours pass and Vinny remains standing there, sketching still. Her neck and thumb cramp. 

The pencil dulls. No matter what she does she cannot seem to capture The Lady’s likeness. 

There’s always a new wrinkle etched, or hair out of place. Was she always so pale? Mature? 

Were her lips always taunt? Vinny swears she sees her blink, sees her chest slightly rise and 

fall. 

The longer she looks at the portrait, the more The Lady changes before her eyes. Her hair 

grayer, cheeks gaunter, corset cinched further, concerning even for the period, her gloved 

hand could encompass it. 

 Vinny pinches herself but there’s no denying The Lady’s new 

appearance, the way she shrinks into herself, becoming inhuman. Her once soft features have 

hardened, her subtle frown deepening into a grimace. Her expression is filled with pain that 

permeates throughout the room. Vinny can feel her suffering. 

Vinny forces her eyes downward, scribbling new features over those already sketched. 

The noise grows louder, like ragged breath now. Shaking, she presses harder against the page 

until the tip of the pencil breaks. 

“Shut up!” she yells, throwing her notebook, but the sound doesn’t stop. The pages don’t 

flutter, no air is coming from the vent. The breathing continues from where the painting 

hangs. 

She stands closer. So close she can smell the paint, years of neglect, a stale smell that 

tinges the nose and leaves a coppery taste in her mouth. Slowly she reaches up and places her 

palm on the canvas. 

Her fingers brush against it, tracing the textures frame to gilded frame. It’s merely just 

paint and canvas, she reminds herself. Yet the heartbeat under her fingertips when they pass 

over The Lady’s chest is very real, the way The Lady flinches at her touch when her hand 

strays to that scarlet glove. It’s as soft as velvet. The Lady’s eyes follow Vinny as she traces 

her outline, moving slightly. They’re bolder, uncanny. The pain in her expression is 

overwhelming, but there is something else now. 

The breathing becomes a murmur. It whispers Vinny’s name. She pulls back her hand and 

stares at The Lady cautiously, who does nothing but stare back. The whispers continuing 

though her mouth never moves. Hesitantly, Vinny reaches out again only to feel liquid. 

Where she touches it, the canvas ripples like water. The ruby glove starts to bleed down the 

dress, onto the golden frame. It drips onto the floor, pooling around Vinny’s feet. The puddle 

grows larger every second, thick and sticky. 

Vinny forces herself to lift her eyes and meet The Lady’s gaze. It burns to her core. The 

Lady has shrivelled into herself, her eyes sunken further back she looks skeletal, but they are 

as penetrating as ever. She turns her head to face Vinny and her lips curl back into a 

desperate, anguished cry. 

The whispers start again, from everywhere and nowhere at once. Vinny’s name is called 

and her stomach sinks, full of urgency, pain, longing. 

Everything in Vinny screams not to move an inch closer, to flee. Instead, her feet move of 

their own accord. Inch by inch she approaches the bleeding painting, staring into the eyes of 

the beast. Her heart pounds against her chest. She hopelessly claws at the wood floor, but 

only gathers splinters. 

When Vinny is a step away from colliding with the frame, The Lady smiles for the first 

time. A wide, grotesque smile, revealing rows upon rows of sharp teeth. The frame begins to 

crack loudly. 

A single, spindly gloved hand reaches forward, shaking the surface of the painting so 

violently the rest of her image blurs. Painstakingly, fingers begin to materialise before Vinny, 

then the hand. Where it rested against The Lady now remains a gaping hole in her side, 

giving way to the grey background of the painting. 

The Lady flexes her fingers one by one, more red splatters to the ground with each pop. 

The frame cracks again, ready to give way any moment. The Lady leans forward. Adrenaline 

kicks in and Vinny finally turns to run. 

The Lady grips Vinny’s shoulder, red droplets soak down her back, a nauseating smell 

filling her senses. Then she is yanked backwards. Screams escape her lungs. The Lady’s 

unpainted hand claps over her mouth, pulling her head through the liquid canvas. 

The small, dimly lit room is empty aside from a large painting and a sketchbook sprawled 

open on the hardwood floor. The portrait depicts a Victorian woman, youthful, sitting in a 

dark green dress. She faces forward, frowning, blue eyes open wide, like a deer locked in 

headlights. A pained, miserable muse. With a single hand in a white velvet glove, she clutches 

her chest. Spidery veins of ruby red seep into the pristine white fabric. The cracks in the 

golden frame fuse together once more. 

The lightbulb above the portrait flickers off as the wooden doors above close for the day, 

once again, the lady forgotten within the depths of the gallery. 

Olga Steblyk / Lead Photo Editor

This article was originally published in print Volume 24, Issue 1 on Thursday, August 29.