In the small, fog-choked town of Harrow’s End, where the streetlights flickered like dying stars, there stood an antiques shop no one dared enter after dusk. Its warped wooden sign read “Curios & Keepsakes,” though the locals called it something else: the Widow’s Trove. They said it was cursed, that the widow who owned it—Eleanor Grayson—hadn’t aged a day since her husband vanished thirty years ago. Most avoided her gaze, her unblinking gray eyes that seemed to peel back your skin and stare into your soul. But I wasn’t most people. I was desperate.
My name’s Clara, and I’d lost my job, my apartment, and my patience for life’s relentless grind. When I saw the “Help Wanted” sign in the shop’s grimy window, I didn’t hesitate. Rent was due, and the rumors were just that—rumors. Eleanor hired me on the spot, her voice a dry rasp, like wind through dead leaves. “Mind the rules,” she said, handing me a single sheet of paper. “Break them, and you’re on your own.” The list was short: lock the doors at midnight, never touch the mirrors after dark, and—underlined twice—do not uncover the painting in the back room when the lights go out.
The shop was a labyrinth of dust and shadows, stuffed with cracked porcelain dolls, tarnished silverware, and clocks that ticked out of sync. My job was simple: dust the shelves, ring up the rare customer, and keep my curiosity in check. For a week, I followed the rules. But the back room gnawed at me. It was locked during the day, a heavy iron key dangling from Eleanor’s belt, and she never spoke of it. At night, though, I’d hear things—soft scratches, like fingernails on canvas, coming from behind that door.
On the eighth night, a storm rolled in, thick and angry, battering the windows with rain. The power flickered once, twice, then died. The shop plunged into darkness, the only sound the howling wind and the drip of a leak somewhere in the ceiling. I fumbled for the flashlight under the counter, my breath fogging in the sudden chill. That’s when I heard it—a scream, low and guttural, rising into a wail that clawed at my ears. It wasn’t the wind. It came from the back room.
I should’ve left. I should’ve grabbed my coat and run into the storm. But the scream wasn’t just sound—it was alive, pulling at something deep inside me, a mix of terror and compulsion I couldn’t shake. I found the key in Eleanor’s desk drawer, cold and heavy, and crept toward the door. The wail grew louder as I turned the lock, a sound no human throat could make, jagged and endless. The door creaked open, revealing a room swallowed in black. My flashlight beam trembled as it swept across cobwebs and broken furniture, landing on a shape in the corner—a painting, draped in a moth-eaten sheet.
The rules echoed in my head: Do not uncover the painting when the lights go out. But the scream was unbearable now, vibrating through my bones. I had to make it stop. My hand shook as I gripped the sheet and pulled.
The painting was massive, its frame warped and blackened as if scorched. It showed a woman, her face twisted in agony, mouth stretched wide in a silent shriek. Her eyes were hollow sockets, leaking streaks of crimson that glistened wetly in the flashlight’s glow. The canvas rippled, like something was pushing from the other side, and then the scream exploded—not from my ears, but inside my skull. I dropped the flashlight, clapping my hands over my head, but it didn’t stop. The woman’s mouth moved, her painted lips splitting wider, and I swear I saw teeth—jagged, real teeth—gnashing behind the paint.
I stumbled back, tripping over a chair, and the flashlight rolled away, its beam spinning wildly. In the flickering light, I saw her climb out. Not all at once, but in pieces—first a skeletal hand, clawing through the canvas, then an arm, dripping with that same crimson ooze. Her head emerged next, lolling on a neck too long, too thin, her empty eyes locking onto mine. The scream became words, garbled and wet: “You… let… me… out.”
I scrambled for the door, but it slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. The room grew colder, the air thick with the stench of rot. She dragged herself fully into the world, her body a grotesque mockery of the painting—limbs bent wrong, skin peeling like old wallpaper. She didn’t walk; she lurched, her scream rising and falling like a siren. I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering, as she reached for me, her fingers brushing my cheek. They were ice-cold, sticky with something I didn’t want to name.
Then the lights snapped back on.
She froze, her hand inches from my throat, and the scream cut off like a severed cord. For a moment, she hung there, a nightmare caught in amber, before collapsing into a pile of ash and paint. The canvas was blank now, the frame empty save for smears of red. I didn’t wait to see if she’d come back. I ran—out of the room, out of the shop, into the storm, and didn’t stop until I was miles away, soaked and shaking.
I never went back to Harrow’s End. I found a new job, a new life, far from that cursed place. But sometimes, when the power flickers or the night grows too quiet, I hear it—a faint wail, distant but growing closer. And last week, when I opened my mailbox, I found a postcard. No stamp, no address, just a sketch of a woman’s face, her mouth open in a scream, and three words scrawled in red: You let me out.