The Portrait in the West Wing
Chapter 1 · 2 min read · Celia Graves
The letter arrived wrapped in brown paper and tied with a strand of black ribbon. It offered Wren Hale three times her usual fee to restore a collection of paintings at Thorn Manor. The contract contained one peculiar condition: she must never enter the west wing after midnight.
Wren was accustomed to eccentric collectors. She had once removed cigarette smoke from a Renaissance angel while its owner insisted the painting could only be handled on Sundays. She signed the contract without giving the condition much thought.
The manor stood on a hill above a village that appeared to have forgotten how to smile. Rain filled the wheel ruts, and the house rose from the mist with narrow windows and steep roofs like folded black wings.
The butler met her with a lantern and a warning. “The family prefers that portraits remain covered until restoration begins.” He did not offer to carry her suitcase. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed four times.
The first portrait hung in a room smelling of turpentine and old roses. A woman in a green dress sat beneath a painted orchard, one pale hand resting on a closed book. Her face had been scratched away with deliberate, vicious strokes.
Wren photographed the canvas, prepared a test patch and worked until the lamps needed lighting. By dusk she had uncovered the curve of a cheek and the corner of one watchful eye.
When she returned from dinner, the portrait had changed. The woman’s hand was open. On her palm lay a small silver key that Wren was certain had not been there before.
She checked the photographs. The key was absent from every image. As she studied the painting, an almost invisible line of writing appeared along the lower frame: DO NOT LET HIM OPEN THE DOOR.
Outside, somewhere deep in the west wing, a door slammed shut.