Abigail Flint

I'm sorry, I tried to write something that wasn't creepy but no such luck. The creative flow does what it wants!

The portrait of the girl was ancient. The paint was cracked, spider webs of thin lines snaking across its surface. The image itself still looked beautiful, despite the dulled paint.

A girl.

Her light brown hair flowed over her shoulders and her dress was a delicate lacey blue. She was sitting in a wooden char, hands folded in her lap.

I looked over at Mary. “Is this her?” I asked.

“Yes, Abigail Flint. Died in 1896 after a terrible fire consumed her mansion-“ Mary stopped talking abruptly. “Did the portrait just move…?” she asked, voice shaking slightly. The walls creaked around us, like the old house was closing in.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, but the hand that was previously placed in the girls lap was now splayed in front of her, like it was pressing against a glass wall.

A glass wall separating her from us.

I shiver raced down my back. I turned to Mary. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mary didn’t reply. She was staring at the painting, eyes wide. I looked back at the old portrait of Abigail Flint. She was standing now, both hands pressed against that invisible wall.

Closer.

“Mary. Let’s go,” I tugged at her arm. I felt shaky, disturbed. The half second I looked away from the portrait to Mary was enough.

The girl was even closer this time, her porcelain face filling up the frame. Her mouth was wide open in a silent scream and porcelain hands hammered against her prison.

The message was clear.

Let me out.