#squeamish warning

[penaeus-monodon]

Hacking cough from #moldpoisoning so bad that I'm spitting up bits of throat. What else is new

[sirbobboiv]

The painting is what started everything. I’m sure of it. That cunt in the frame is what scarred me for life. I knew that the house on the east hill was trouble, everybody claimed the place was haunted, but Asshat Pat just had to bring me up there.

If you’re reading this, get the fuck out of this house. Do anything you can to get out before She wakes up. Once the lady in the painting changes, it’s all over.

So, Pat drives me up there, half hysterical, and pretty much shoved me into the building. At this point, I’m absolutely fuming. After I take a step, the door shuts behind me, like some lame horror film. I rap on the door a few times, but I don’t get an answer. God, who locks doors from the outside?

I take a look around the place, it looks surprisingly clean, which is a pleasant surprise, but something in the back of my mind tells me that that’s not good. The entire place is lit up with some Elizabethan chandeliers, at least the place has some taste. At the center of what I assume is the central hall is Queen Bitch herself.

Her hair is loosely held behind her head, her face emotionless, and her hands laced together. Thankfully, the painting doesn’t look like it’s meeting my gaze. No matter what she looks like, the portrait gives me a serious chill up my spine.

I start walking around, La-dee-da, and then remember, I can just nope the fuck out of here. The door doesn’t budge, but I’m sure that I can break a window, I’ve done it before. I pick up a stool and launch that bitch at the window, ‘cause fuck stools. It bounces off. The windows are tempered. Yay. Looks like I’m going to be here for a while. It’s already getting dark, so I might as well get some sleep. Maybe somebody will notice I’m missing and put in the effort to come get me.

Anyway, stools are heavy and I need sleep.

Day 2:

My skin is crawling. This stupid house makes my skin crawl. And let me tell you, I don’t like it. I do the Harlem shake real quick and that cures my problem. Now, it’s time to explore.

I go up the stairs, which just had to be creaky, and can’t help but look at the painting again. It’s the same lady, same hair, same smile, and her hand was placed over the other like yesterday. At the top of the stairs, my hand brushes against a spider. Being the brave person I am, I screamed and smashed the thing. God, I hate spiders. In the upstairs section, I find an old bedroom, a bathroom, and a wonderfully dark room that I can’t see shit in. I’ll just close that door....

Going up the stairs really works up a piss, so I head on into the bathroom and get my lady business dealt with. The bathroom is poorly lit, so my reflection looks a little off. That’s okay though, I still know I look fabulous.

The bedroom holds a whole lotta dust. The bed is gross, everything is covered in bed bugs, I’d rather sleep on the floor. Now is when I hear a few voices outside. Somebody came to find me! I can’t make out what they are saying, but I definitely hear a man and a woman talking. I sprint downstairs and slam my fists on the door a few times and yell. The voices stop, maybe they heard me. I yell a little more, because honestly, it feels good after being trapped in such a quiet house for a whole day. I hear a single, loud bang in response and I am, once again, left to my thoughts and stools.

Day 3:

I had a dream last night. I was trapped in a coffin, 6 feet under the ground. I could not move, scream, but only breathe, see, and feel. A single spider crawled towards me, dropped onto my face. I try desperately to swat it away from me, to no avail. It slowly crawls towards my ear, and burrows itself into my head. It hurts. The pain is excruciating, as it burrows deeper into my brain. Before long, maggots erupt from my pores, and hundreds of baby spiders crawl out of my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. They eat away at my body, slowly, savoring the flesh.

I wake up in a cold sweat, my eyes immediately transfixed on the lady in the painting. I realize now that I am not alone. She is in here. Watching. Waiting. Slowly driving me insane. As I study her, I realize something is off. Her hands still are placed over each other, her eyes glitter hungrily, her teeth bared in a grotesque smile. Fear ripples through my body and burns in my chest. She was never just a painting.

I get up and move to the side, her eyes stay transfixed on the position of my waking. I leave the room, and reenter. Now, her eyes meet my gaze. I run to the other side of the room, her eyes stay in place. I hide behind a pillar and emerge again. Her eyes meet my gaze. I can’t stand being in her sight anymore.

I climb the stairs and enter the bathroom. I stare at my reflection for a time. It blinks. My reflection blinks. My reflection isn’t me, it is the lady in the painting. She smiles at me, her disgusting teeth now coated red. She cackles and maggots spill from her mouth. She isn’t human.

She continues to laugh as she scratches her skin raw, drawing blood. She does not stop. She keeps scratching until the white of bone is shown. Now, she begins to rip to flesh from her bone, devouring veins and tendons as they appear. I can’t take my eyes away. Before long, she seems to tire from her arms, and her hands migrate to her face, peeling the scalp like an orange peel. An ear-piercing scream escapes from the revolting mix of flesh and blood that is her. She locks eyes with me one last time and the mirror shatters. The sound of her scream bounces around in my mind, trapped, eating away at my sanity. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images to escape me. It begins to die down, and I open my eyes. She is there, her jaw unhinged. The next thing I know, I black out.

Day 4:

I wake to find myself in the same place I blacked out. The pain in my head is immense, but I forge on. I stand and immediately lurch forward and vomit the remains of the acid inside. The fluid is tinged with black, and clumps of goo spill along with it. Internal bleeding. I’m not going to make it through this.

I stumble out of the bathroom, a static-like noise never leaving me. I trip down the stairs and fall to the second landing. Static. I once again regain my balance and get to the ground floor. Static. I shamble along into the center of the main room, and shift my eyes towards the painting. Not... static. Whispers. My consciousness explodes into hundreds of whispers, all around me, inside me, incoherent, and uncountable. I fall to my knees and clutch my ears, the voices respond my chorusing even louder than before. They ferociously attack my mind, tearing down every barrier I’ve mustered. Eventually, they tear down the last barricade and they all die down. Except one. It says to me, as clearly as if the voice was beside me. No, above me, “She’s behind you.” The painting, it’s empty. I turn around to find a hollow carcass laying on the ground. It trembles, and the knock swivels around to reveal the lady in the painting. Still covered in blood, her underlying flesh exposed, her jaw transfixed in that horrible smile I saw just the day before. Her teeth are once again coated in blood, but maggots aren’t in there anymore. The blood is mine. She has buried her face into my neck, gnawing on everything she can find. I fall to the ground, my chest exposed, and she pounces on me. She kisses me sickeningly, and regurgitates my own flesh and blood into my mouth. She lunches my throat, forcing me to swallow. She cries with glee and finishes my already rotting body.