Junkriel

make it 70% eddie 😁

Junkriel

Buy airplane ticket to go back in our country

Junkriel

Weekly Raffle i still didnt won but always taking my chance id: junkriel

Junkriel

The Night of the Living Painting The old woman who had owned the house before me was an artist, a watercolorist of some local renown. When I bought the place, her vast collection of paintings came with it. I displayed them throughout the house, filling the empty walls with vibrant, if somewhat unsettling, pastoral scenes. There was one painting, though, that always made me uneasy. It hung in the master bedroom and depicted a cottage surrounded by a dense, misty forest. The colors were muted, almost grayscale, and the trees seemed to twist and writhe with a life of their own. The door of the cottage was always slightly ajar, a small, dark invitation. The old woman’s family had told me she was working on it when she died. They said she had been obsessed with getting the perspective of the cottage just right, the angle of the open door, but had finally given up in frustration, claiming the door would never stay closed. I attributed her comments to an artist's particular brand of madness. Still, I often found myself staring at the open door, feeling a strange pull toward the scene. One stormy night, a power outage plunged the house into complete darkness. I fumbled for my phone's flashlight, its narrow beam cutting through the inky blackness. I made my way to the bedroom and froze. The painting was no longer a painting. The cottage was there, the trees were there, but the door was wide open, and a faint, pale light glowed from within. And from the darkness of the forest, a whisper slithered out, like wet leaves rustling against a windowpane: "It's cold out here. Come inside.". I ran, my heart a terrified drum in my chest. The next day, after the electricity had been restored, I found the painting back to its normal, static self. The cottage door was closed. I told myself it was the darkness, the storm, a trick of the mind. I took the painting down and stored it in the attic, out of sight. For a while, I felt a sense of relief. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to notice things. The lights would flicker, and the air would grow cold for a moment. A soft scratching sound would echo from within the walls, just beyond my earshot. The faint smell of damp earth and something sweet and cloying, like rotting fruit, would waft through the house. Then, one night, I woke to the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway. The scent of damp earth was overpowering. I crept out of bed and peered out the door, my heart pounding. There, in the dim light of the moon filtering through the window, I saw her: the artist. She was old and frail, but her eyes, sunken and dark, glowed with an unnerving light. She was dragging something behind her, and when she turned her head, she smiled a wet, slow smile. "The door is open now," she rasped. "He's hungry, and he's waiting.". I locked the door, but the soft, scraping sound came from the hallway outside. I stood frozen, listening. After a long time, the footsteps faded away, replaced by the faint sound of a door closing. The next morning, I found the painting back in my room. The door of the cottage was closed again. But now, through the window of the cottage, a small, pale face stared out. It was my face. stake id: Junkriel

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No.7 Junkriel

8 Junkriel