The Portrait

Featured in The Horror/Scary Newsletter - 9/3/09



Brenda Eden smiled at the excited barking of their two dachshunds as she turned her key in the front door lock. 

“Hey, fellows,” she said as she opened the door, laid her purse on the hall table, and then leaned down to pet each one and accept their wet, eager licking on her hand.  She turned her head to avoid the leaps to get to her face.  With the two dogs frisking around her, she slowly began to climb the stairs.  Between the demanding clients and disgruntled managers, it had been a rough day. It'll be good to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable.

As she topped the stairs and turned toward the bedroom, she noticed a picture lying on the floor.  “What happened here?”  She walked over, picked up the portrait of her father-in-law, turned it over and inspected the hanger on the back.  Seeing no apparent problem, she reached up and tested the bracket on the wall.  No problem there either.  Replacing the picture on its hook, she turned toward the dogs that were watching her expectantly.

“You guys been bouncing off the walls up here?”

They responded by wagging their tails.  With a shrug she moved on into the bedroom and the delayed changing of her clothes.

Brenda thought no more about the incident until about two weeks later when she was sitting on the couch reading the latest issue of Home & Garden. The dogs lay, asleep, beside her.  Suddenly a loud crash sounded from the upstairs. 

She rushed up the stairs with the dogs in hot pursuit.  The same portrait lay on the floor.  The image looked up at her with the same glitter in the eyes and the same leering smile that she had always disliked about the subject in person.  She again checked the bracket on the wall, and then picked up the picture.  Turning it over, she inspected the hanger.  She turned it again and frowned at the image.  “I’ve had enough of this crap!”

Removing the bracket, she took the framed portrait downstairs, into the garage and firmly placed it in the very bottom of a box of items she had stored there.  “That should fix that!”

She said nothing to her husband, Jim, and he never noticed that the portrait no longer hung on the wall of the hallway.  The incident drifted into a distant memory.

Brenda and Jim’s life continued along in the comfortable routine established by the long married.  They had quiet weeknight dinners at home sometimes followed by a movie or a game on TV with the occasional business reception or dinner at a restaurant.  On Saturdays they would catch up on the housework and Brenda weeded the flowerbeds while Jim did the other yard work; Sundays they would take a jaunt to some local event.

One Saturday afternoon as Brenda worked in the front flowerbed;  Jim came storming out of the garage.

“Look at that lawn!” he said, waving toward the yet-to-be-mown patch in the center.  “And I’m totally out of gas for the lawn mower.  Why didn’t you take the gas can when you went to the station?”

Brenda looked up at him, a confused expression on her face.  “How was I supposed to know you were getting low?”

“You could have checked!  Now I’m going to have to go and get gas before I can finish this mess!”

He threw the can in the back of his pickup, jumped behind the wheel, slammed the door and roared out of the driveway.  Brenda stared after him.

“What got into him?” she muttered as she returned to her weeding.

About fifteen minutes later, Jim returned, jumped out of the truck and picked up the gas can from the bed.

“Guess who I just ran into,” he said jovially.  “You remember Bob Raeburn?  He lived across the street in our old neighborhood.  He said they just moved into a house a couple of blocks over.  Small world, isn’t it?”

Brenda looked at him in disbelief.  Could his bad mood have completely vanished so quickly?

Jim’s ‘bad mood’ didn’t resurface and the couple continued their normal routine.


A few months later Brenda began to worry as rumors of a downsizing began to circulate at work.  Every day they became more and more prevalent in the conversations among her coworkers. 

She mentioned her concerns to Jim.  “It really worries me,” she said.  “With the price of everything going up like it has been, I don’t know what we’d do if I lost my job.”

“Don’t worry so,” he said soothingly, patting her arm.  “Management knows who the good workers are.  They’re just cutting out the deadwood.  You’ll be all right.”

Brenda tried to allow herself to be reassured by his words as day by day she saw one after another of her coworkers being let go.  Still, she felt it necessary to spend more lunch breaks at her desk and carry increasing amounts of work home in the evenings.

Perhaps her efforts would stave off what was beginning to seem like the inevitable, perhaps not. 

Then, one day, her manager called her into his office.  She entered slowly, closing the door behind her.

“Sit down, Brenda,” he said, leaning back in his chair and regarding her solemnly.  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve been directed to cut our workforce by another 20 percent.  You see, they’re relocating our function to the Denver office, and within a matter of weeks this department will no longer exist.”

Brenda's eyes widened.  This is it!  "Are you telling me that I'm being let go?"

“I’m afraid so.  I tried to find a spot for you in another area,” he slowly shrugged his shoulders.  “But there just isn’t anything available.  It seems everyone’s cutting back.”

Brenda nodded.  “I see.  When am I to leave?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the end of the day.”

In a daze, Brenda rose and left the manager’s office.  She returned to her own space and began clearing out her desk and straightening her files.  About an hour before her normal quitting time, she had finished everything that needed to be done and sat, hands folded in her lap, looking around.  It'll be strange not to be coming into this place everyday.  What am I to do now?  Stuffing her personal papers into her briefcase, she left the office and headed to the parking lot.

The usual frenzied barking greeted Brenda as she inserted her key into the door lock.  Discouraging the joyous leaps that encircled her, she made her way up the stairs and went directly to her computer. 

She had just finished updating her resume and posting it on every employment Website she could find when she heard Jim’s car pull into the driveway.  She was just coming down the stairs when he came through the garage door into the kitchen.

“Well, it happened,” she said.

“What happened?” he snapped.

Startled, she gazed into his face.  His eyes!  What's wrong with his eyes?  "I...I...I got hit today."

"What?  You mean you got laid off?"

She nodded.  “Mr. Hartman said that they’re moving our whole department to Denver.  It’ll be just a matter of time before everyone’s gone.”

“So, what’re you goin’ to do about it?”

She stared at his eyes.  They were dark and dull.  Vacant. Not at all the twinkling blue orbs of the man I married.  “I just finished posting my resume on every Website I could find, but the prospects don’t look too good.  There doesn’t seem to be much available in this area.  I don’t know what more I can do at the moment.”

“Damn it!”  He grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it across the room.  “Just what I need!  Well, I’ll tell you what you’re not going to do!  You’re not going to sit on your lazy ass around the house while I support you!  That you're not going to do!"

He whirled around and slammed out the back door.  Brenda watched him go.

Brenda shook her head and sighed.  Yeah, my paycheck makes us more comfortable, but we can cut back if I don't find something right away.  We aren't going to starve, for God's sake!  She turned toward the stairway.  “I’ll search every damn job site I can find,” she muttered.  “Hell, I’ll flip burgers at the local fast-food joint if it’ll make him feel any better.”

A while later Brenda was poring over some postings when she felt Jim’s hands on her shoulders.

“You said you got laid-off, right?”  Brenda slowly nodded and he stood silently for a moment.

“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve been thinking.  There have been some rumors around my office, too, about cutting back, downsizing.  The job market in this area seems to be drying up.  Maybe I should put out some feelers about a transfer.”

Brenda looked up at him.  The eyes she knew and loved were back.  She smiled.  “Well, if you think you should.”

“Any preference where you’d like to live?”

She laughed.  “As long as it’s not Alaska.  I’d prefer a bit warmer climate.”

He grinned back at her.  “I don’t think we have too much going on in Alaska.”  He came around and leaned against the desk.  “Seriously, I’ve had a number of offers over the years, maybe I’ll give some of those guys a call and see what turns up.”


After several months of job searching that offered little more than the occasional temporary position, Brenda was overjoyed when Jim came home with good news.

“It came through!  We’ll have to move, but it’s a promotion and a very generous raise.  If you don’t find a job you like right away, it won’t really matter that much.”

“Great!  How long do I have to pack up the house?”

“I’m supposed to report the 15th of next month.  We should probably fly out there this weekend and see if we can find a place to rent temporarily.”

Three weeks later, the forgotten portrait, still buried in the same box to which it had been relegated, was loaded onto a moving van and relocated from one garage to another.

Brenda, who had driven on ahead during Jim’s last week on his old job, decided that her first order of business was to update her on-line resumes with the new address and phone number.  Within a matter of days her first job interview was scheduled.  She and Jim quickly settled into their happy new routine. 

In the months that followed Brenda noticed that Jim’s nasty outbursts, which she had come to call his Dark Periods, began to occur more and more frequently.  She mentally searched for some clue to their cause.  Were they brought about by unusual moments of stress?  Could there be a psychological root of the problem?  Might they be tied into the phases of the moon even?  She could find no consistencies in their timing.  Even a mental illness shouldn't cause his appearance to change.

One evening as they were sitting on the couch watching television, a show came on about a hypnotist.  About halfway through the program, Jim turned toward her.

“My dad used to do that,” he said.

“What?  Hypnotize people?” 

Jim nodded.  “Yeah, I just remembered that.”

“What did he do that for?”

Jim shrugged and smiled.  “For fun, I guess.”

“Fun?  What other weird things did he get into?”

“Nothing much, except herbalism.”

“Herbalism?  Why on earth did he do that?”

“I don’t know.  He was just talking about it one summer.  Something about finding a potion to make people live longer.”

Brenda stared at him, but his attention had returned to the broadcast.  Potions!  What was he doing?  Witchcraft?  Didn't potions and witchcraft go together?  She frowned.

Brenda thought little more about the conversation until a few days later.  She had gone into the garage to search through some of the remaining boxes for some of her kitchen gadgets.  She opened up one box, and then another.  There were the glittering eyes of Jim’s dad.  She frowned at the image.

“I know I put that on the bottom of the box,” she muttered.  She tipped up the box.
I opened the top!  How did it get from the bottom of the box to the top?  A  chill passed through her body and she hurriedly closed the box and reached for the roll of tape.

But her mind would not close so easily.  Was this man practicing witchcraft and, essentially, taking over Jim's body?  His eyes certainly didn't look right whenever he had those outbursts.  Could the man's influence be somehow transmitted through his picture?  She had read somewhere that the Indians refused to allow anyone to take their pictures because they were afraid that their soul would be stolen.  “Maybe those Indians weren’t as stupid as everyone had thought?”

If he is doing something through that portrait, what can I do about it?  I don't know anything about witchcraft.  I guess I could always throw it in the trash and get it out of the house.  She nodded her head firmly, and then paused.  But, if it can change its position within that box, wouldn't it be able to somehow find its way back here?

“What else can I do?” she muttered.  “I want that thing out of the house!”

Fire!  Hadn't they burned witches at the stake?  Hadn't they always destroyed evil by fire!  If that thing isn't evil, I don't know what it is.  That's what I'll do.  I'll burn it!

Late that evening while Jim was doing research on the computer, Brenda crept out of the house and into the backyard.  She pulled the garden hose to a spot away from the house.  I need some kind of protection for myself.

She returned to the hall closet and took out Jim’s motorcycle gear.  In the garage she wriggled into the leather pants, slipped the boots and jacket into place.  Sticking a wad of newspaper into her pocket, she took the picture out of the box, picked up her lighter, the gloves and helmet and returned to the yard where she donned the rest of the gear. 

When the paper had caught, Brenda laid the picture on top, backed away and took up the hose.  Within seconds the glass on the frame literally exploded and the picture and wooden frame began to burn.  Black smoke curled away from it and disappeared into the dark sky.  When no embers remained, she doused the area with the hose and returned to the house.

Early the next morning, Brenda went outside to remove any shards of the shattered glass.  She searched the walkway.  She combed the grass.  Nothing!  The glass seemed to have vaporized.  She shook her head in amazement and wondered again what kind of forces were at work.


Two days later as Brenda and Jim were driving home from having dinner out, Jim’s cell phone rang.  He answered and Brenda could hear her father-in-law’s loud voice coming through the speaker.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that I had a dream the night before last that you had dropped out of my life and I thought maybe something had happened.”

Brenda’s mouth dropped open, and her heart skipped a beat before trying to make up for it.  He was talking about the very evening she had burned the portrait.  Through a fog she heard Jim’s voice.

“No, everything’s okay.  I’m about to hit a dead spot, so I’ll talk to you later.”  He ended the call and laid the phone in the console.  “Old man must be getting senile,” he muttered.

Yeah, right!  Somehow he knew that his connection had been broken.  Wonder how long it will be before we are gifted with a replacement portrait.