Canvas of Decay

The brushstrokes seemed to writhe beneath her gaze, a chaotic swirl of colors that made Evelyn's stomach churn. She'd purchased the portrait on a whim, drawn to its unsettling beauty—a young woman with alabaster skin and eyes that followed her across the room. Now, as moonlight filtered through her study window, Evelyn could have sworn the painting was... different.

The Victorian townhouse creaked and settled around her, its rooms filled with antiques collected over a lifetime. At sixty-five, Evelyn prided herself on her discerning taste and the small fortune she'd amassed dealing in rare and curious objects. But this painting—this was something else entirely.

She leaned closer, squinting at the canvas. The woman's porcelain complexion had taken on a sickly pallor, fine lines etching themselves around her eyes and mouth. Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. It was impossible, and yet...

A chill ran down her spine as she recalled the peculiar circumstances of her acquisition. The old shop had appeared out of nowhere, wedged between two buildings she'd passed a hundred times before. Inside, dust motes danced in stale air, and the shopkeeper's rheumy eyes had gleamed with an unsettling knowledge as he'd wrapped the painting. "A bargain," he'd wheezed, "for one who appreciates true art."

Over the following weeks, a creeping dread took hold. Each morning, Evelyn rushed to the study, heart pounding as she faced the painting. The changes were subtle at first—a strand of gray hair, a deepening wrinkle. But as days turned to weeks, the transformation became undeniable.

The woman in the portrait aged rapidly, her youthful visage giving way to sagging skin and sunken cheeks. Yet Evelyn found herself captivated, spending hours before the canvas, mesmerized by the macabre spectacle. She canceled appointments, ignored calls from concerned friends. Nothing mattered but the painting and its grotesque metamorphosis.

Strange dreams plagued her nights—visions of herself trapped within the frame, screaming silently as her flesh withered and decayed. She'd wake gasping, sheets drenched in sweat, the echo of the painted woman's laughter ringing in her ears.

It was during one of these vigils that Evelyn noticed something in the mirror across the room—her own reflection, but... wrong. She blinked, certain her eyes were playing tricks. But as she approached the looking glass, a horrified gasp escaped her lips.

Her skin was smooth, the lines around her eyes and mouth erased as if by magic. Silver hair had darkened to rich chestnut, and there was a youthful glow to her cheeks that she hadn't seen in decades. Evelyn stumbled backward, her mind reeling. This was no illusion—she had become young again.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. As the painting aged, she grew younger. It was consuming her years, feeding on her very life force. Panic clawed at her throat as the full implications sank in.

Evelyn's world spiraled into a nightmare of reversed time and stolen youth. She watched, helpless, as her body regressed while the portrait decayed. The woman in the painting withered into a crone, then a desiccated corpse, skin stretched taut over bone.

Desperate, Evelyn tried to destroy the cursed object. She clawed at the canvas, hurled it from the window, even set it ablaze—but it always reappeared, unscathed, mocking her efforts. And with each attempt, she felt herself slipping further, memories of her adult life growing hazy and distant.

In the final, terrifying days, Evelyn's mind fragmented. She was a child again, lost in a house too big and filled with strange, frightening things. She cowered in corners, weeping for parents long dead, unable to comprehend the horror that had befallen her.

The end came swiftly. As the last vestiges of life drained from the painting, Evelyn felt a sickening lurch. Her body contorted, bones cracking and reshaping. In one agonizing moment, she ceased to exist—snuffed out like a candle, rewound past the point of her own birth.

In the empty study, the portrait hung innocently on the wall. The woman smiled, young and beautiful once more, her eyes gleaming with dark promise. And somewhere in the shadows, a soft, newborn cry echoed—the cycle beginning anew, ready to claim its next victim.

The house fell silent, save for the ticking of an antique clock. Days passed, dust settling over Evelyn's abandoned possessions. Then, a key turned in the lock. A young couple entered, marveling at their unexpected inheritance from a reclusive great-aunt they'd never met.

"Oh, darling, look at this painting!" the woman exclaimed, drawn to the portrait's hypnotic allure. "It's exquisite. We simply must hang it in our bedroom."

Her husband nodded, entranced by the canvas. Neither noticed the faint wrinkles appearing at the corners of their eyes, nor the single gray hair that sprouted at the woman's temple. The curse had found new hosts, eager to feast on fresh life and youth. And so the cycle continued, an endless hunger that would never be sated, claiming soul after soul in its twisted bargain of stolen time.