Tell Me Your Story 3

Oil Painting

The Oil Painting is a story submitted by a user on this Website named xXPhantomFangWolfXx. The picture below is a painting by Otto Rap called “Deterioration Of Mind Over Matter”.

Oil Painting

Rain pelted heavily against the slick roof of Liz’s favorite red umbrella as she hurried towards the large stone museum ahead. Slipping inside the revolving doors and dropping her black coat and red umbrella in her fluffy, peach-colored bag, she began to hurry towards the east wing. Her shoes tapped against the marble floor as she smiled.

She was going to be one of the first to see the new exhibit. It was said to be an extraordinary display of artwork, all from an unknown artist. A vast series of portraits, all of unknown individuals, but done in such exquisite detail that they could have been photographs. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks. She had a thing for art.

As she rounded the corner and walked into the east wing, she was greeted by an information desk against a yellow wall, on either side of which was a glass set of double-doors.

“Hi there! Would you like a brochure to the exhibit? ” the brunette at the desk chirped, a cup of coffee held tightly in her hand.

“Sure,” Liz replied cheerfully.

“And any donations are appreciated, you know, for the upkeep of the exhibit and the art.” The lady gestured towards a plastic donation box as she slid Liz the brochure.

Liz smiled and thanked her, and, after a moment she dropped a crisp $20 bill in the box. Her parents were rich. Liz was even richer. Money had never been a problem for her.

Walking into the exhibit hall through the glass doors, Liz gazed down at the brochure, it was covered in pictures of the artwork, and the front was blue with large, white letters that read “MASTERPIECES MAGNIFICENT, ARTIST UNKNOWN.”

Gazing up from the brochure after a minute, Liz stopped dead in her tracks, and her mouth hung open. The hype was true, every bit of it. The enormous hall was full of extraordinary oil paintings, hundreds of them, all without titles. They came large and small, portraits, landscapes, abstract art. There were paintings of people, families, faces, individuals and groups. It seemed like they were endless, and every one of them was breathtaking, and perfect in every way.

Every way except one. None of them looked happy. None of them laughed, none of them smiled, none of them showed any joy. The faces were so realistic, but so sad, like they were tired, and lonely. The eyes shone like they were alive, but they had no cheerful luster like that of a real person. They all looked like they were trapped.

All of them but one. It was of an intelligent, calm, confident looking man. His hair was jet black and his eyes were a rich amber, and he stared right at the viewer, like he knew all their secrets. He smiled slightly, unlike the rest, but something about the smile was cold, and sent a chill down Liz’s spine.

But nonetheless she fell in love with that painting. No, this was more than love. This was pure, undiluted obsession.

She woke up early every day so she could go to the museum, and was waiting outside to come in when the doors were unlocked. She would go straight to the exhibit and she would just stare at that painting for hours on end, lost in his eyes, lost in his sly, cold smile until a guard told her it was closing time and she had to get out. Even on the days when the museum was closed, she would just wait outside at the doors, like he was going to come walking out.

In the months that followed, she came every day to see the exhibit, sometimes talking to the nameless man in the painting. He was the only one she talked to anymore.

She ate little, and all her thoughts, all her dreams were soon consumed by him. It was a dark, frightening, unhealthy kind of obsession, and soon her friends left her. She didn’t care, she knew they wouldn’t understand the girl who fell in love with a painting.

Inevitably, the time drew nearer when the exhibit was to be closed up, packed away and moved to somewhere else. And so Liz made a decision. She didn’t care what price she would pay, she was going to buy that painting. She was going to make it hers.

At first they were reluctant to even consider selling, it was art, and it belonged to the museum, but eventually when her offer became big enough, they gave. But under one condition. She was not to remove the painting until the final day.

And soon that day came. It was raining again, and the museum was closed to the public, making it look very gloomy and isolated. The paintings were all packed away but the one. It sat wrapped up on the floorspace under where it normally hung.

Liz hadn’t changed her clothes in days, but she was wearing the same coat, and had the same bag and umbrella as the day she first saw him. She hadn’t even done so much as brushed her hair in a long time, and it hung around her face in a wild, tangled mess.

She looked insane, and in fact, she all but was, she had become so consumed by the painting. The men who were packing the exhibit away offered to help her move it to her car, but she laughed and refused, making it clear that he was all hers.

Just barely able to lift the painting with her emaciated body, she carried it towards the glass doors, smiling like a mad thing as the movers looked on, confused and a little frightened.

Seconds after she stepped though the glass doors though, a scream resounded through the near-empty museum, followed by the hollow noise of dropped wood clattering against hard marble.

The men rushed through the doors, only to find that Liz was gone, and the plastic-covered painting sat alone on the floor. No one knew where she went. The security cameras just faded to static seconds before her disspearance.

She never came back to claim the painting, and after a while she was filed as missing. The museum kept the painting, and returner the money they had taken for the painting was returned to her bank account.

The case soon faded to the backround, no one really cared for Liz any more. She had become hostile and distant over the past few weeks, so not many wanted her back. And no one was observant enough to notice one strange thing. A new painting had appeared in the collection while they were moving it.

It was just as extraordinary as the others, so it didn’t stand out. It was a painting of a loney, scared-looking girl with wild hair. She wore a black coat and was holding a fluffy, peach colored bag.

In the bag was a bright red umbrella.


  • I love stories like this. Trapped in plain sight, no one can hear you scream. Scary stuff.

  • @Superfungirl my birthday is August seventh too.Hey wanna be chat buddies?I have nobody to talk to on here because they have cooler people to talk to on here.Please!?!?!?!? : )

  • Oh! Good! It got in! I read it in the comments of another story, I forgot which one, and it’s GREAT!

  • @Really? Scary? Call me Rose!
    I’m so glad you enjoy them! I actually just posted a new one a little while ago in the comments of Mother and Daughter, if you care. :)

  • xXPhantomFangWolfXx: Your stories are amazing!!! How do you write these amazingly great,super scary stories?
    I have another account but that one is…..Dead. JOKE. 0_0
    I LOVE UR STORIES!!!!!!!!!!!

  • Thank you, Dead Girl XXx! Also, if you care to read it, I have another story posted in the comments of Mother and Daughter. :)

  • Also, death_angel, I have two other stories posted on this site. Liar Liar and Turn Left, if you care to read them and have not already. :)

  • death_angel, thank you for your very kind words. :) It is my dream to become an author. I do not have twitter, but I do have an account on and deviantart, both under the name InvaderShadowWolf, although those are used mainly for fanfiction and fanart. You really have made my day with your comments, and I actually have been considering an account somewhere just to post spooky stories of my own.

  • xXPhantomFangWolfXx the story you posted in the comments section is much more than worthy of Scary For Kids. They DESERVE a writer as amazing and well thought-out as you. I wouldn’t be suprised if they BEGGED you to write more stories!!

  • P.P.S. i meant the oil paintings story xXPhantomFangWolfXx, but I will read the story you posted in the comments section and tell you what I thought!

  • @ xXPhantomFangWolfXx That was an amazing story, not only scary but also very descriptive. I felt although I was standing right there. You thought of everything. Please keep making stories! You’re already sounding like a top author!
    P.S. Do you have twitter? I would love to follow you :D

  • And for people who don’t understand. I think I get it. Upon the victims first glance. He or she would fall in love with the painting because it was possessed. It would then possess it’s victim to make them have pure obsession over the painting making the victim insane. The victim would then buy the painting. And once the victim has purchased the painting and is alone. The painting would turn the person who purchased the painting into a painting. But the victims spirit would still be alive inside the painting. Sort of like professor E Gadd’s ghost portrait’s on luigis mansion. I hope this helps.

  • @deadlyolivia13
    Oh, I’m so sorry. I wish I could make you feel better. I once had a bestie move away. *hugs*
    Happy early birthday!

  • That story was AMAZING!! it had a great twist at the end. And HAPPY BIRTHDAY @venom!! I hope its AWESOME!!:))

  • @xXphantomfangwolfXx i told u it was good enough to be on scary for kids!maybe im a fortune teller……or i know a good story when i see one

  • I’m going to repost another story I wrote. “For the Best”:

    Ever since I was very small, my father always did whatever he though was best for our family. He never asked anyone else, oh no, heaven forbid he ask anyone else’s opinion.
    When I was three years old, I had a stuffed rabbit named Beans. I loved that rabbit more than anything else in the world. We’ve never been a very rich family, so I didn’t have many toys, but as long I had Beans, I didn’t care.
    And then my baby brother was born.
    And if you have a younger sibling, you’ve probably learned that as soon as the little guy is there, boom, you’re old and mature enough to handle anything your parents can throw at you. You’re automatically ready. And so I was suddenly the big sister.
    Since he was so young, and needed to be entertained, my father decided he needed a toy. But he couldn’t have any of the old, plastic rubbish that was lying around the house, he might choke. And so my father took Beans.

    “It’s for the best,” he told me, as he handed MY special rabbit into my brother’s greedy little hands for him to destroy.

    When I was seven, I had a wooden wagon. I had made it myself when we had some extra wood that wouldn’t be useful for anything else. It was just a toy, it was too small to be really useful in carrying anything, but I loved it. It was just so much fun. I gave my little brother rides in it. He still had Beans, but he was nice about it, took good care of the bunny, and even let me play with it sometimes.
    But it was still undoubtedly his.
    Anyway, back to the wagon. We weren’t very rich, and the heating in our house had given out. We couldn’t afford to fix it. That Winter it was so cold. So very cold. It had snowed so much, and all the trees were frozen and wet, and useless as firewood. But firewood we needed. And so away went my beloved cart.

    “It’s for the best,” my father said, as he hacked my wagon to splinters for firewood.

    When I was ten, my dog, Bertha, had puppies. She’d been my dog since I was born, and so it was so sad for me when she died having those puppies. I begged my father to let me keep one of the tiny things for my own, they were so small and wouldn’t eat much, what harm could they do? But it was useless. We still had Rufus, my father’s dog, to help with the farm, and he was still young and strong. We didn’t need any whiny pups.

    “It’s for the best,” my father sighed, selling each and every one of those puppies to strangers.

    When I was thirteen, I heard about a trip to Hawaii that was being offered to our local community, it was pretty selective, only a certain age group could go. But I fit right in with that age group. I wanted to go so bad, you wouldn’t even understand. I’d never been farther than about a hundred or so miles from my own house, and I desperately wanted to see the other parts of the world.
    I begged my father to go on that trip. It was surprisingly cheap. We could afford it. But only one of us could go, and my brother wanted to go too. And he always got his way.

    “It’s for the best,” my father stated proudly, watching the huge, silver plane that had my brother in it disappear from sight.

    He was getting away from this cold, tiny, uneventful little town in the middle of nowhere, and he was going somewhere warm, beautiful, new and so exciting, and I was stuck here in this hell. I had to stay just because I was the big sister, and I could “handle the dissapointments of life.”
    And so now, seventeen miserable years later, I’m thirty. My mother is dead and my brother is a successful buisnessman in New York because he got whatever he wanted his whole life.
    My father is now a sickly, eighty year old man in a wheelchair, and I’m still stuck in this goddamn town, taking care of him, because he still thinks he knows what he’s doing.
    Still thinks he’s in charge.
    Last night, I got home, and you know what he’d done? He’d sold my car. The new car I’d only had a month, that I had worked myself to the bone to afford. He sold it because he wanted a new wheelchair, one that didn’t squeak, and didn’t want to sell any of his stupid antiques.

    “It’s for the best, Talia,” he said to me, not even looking up from the large wad of bills he was counting.

    The wad of bills MY car had gotten him. Those bills were years of MY hard work, and MY saving every extra penny I had. He was counting them with such pleasure. He’s so stingy with money, and when he handles it, it’s disgusting. You can see the lust and desire in his eyes when he looks at it, and he just loves the feel of it in his hands.
    I was so angry. I ran up to my room screaming. I’d had enough of this. He’d done this to me my whole life. I broke furniture. I punched the walls ’till my hands bled. I threw whatever I could get my hands on, including my red converse sneakers, which I had wrenched off my feet in rage. I was tearing apart the contents of my closet when something made me stop. I came across something I’d forgotten about entirely.
    It was an old cardboard shoebox. I can’t remember how long ago it was I hid it back here, but just looking at it was enough for me to remember what was inside. And to remember that I was the only one who knew it was back here.
    Opening the box, I removed the loaded handgun that I had stored back there years ago.
    My car was the last straw. I didn’t need any further reason, or any more quiet suggestions. No more hiding this in the back of my mind. The gun provided the opportunity I had been silently and obediently waiting for for so long.
    Pulling my shoes back on, I hid the gun in the pocket of my dark gray hoodie, and shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I stormed back downstairs.
    Stalking into the living room, I was stopped by my father. The wad of bills was nowhere to be seen. He must have hidden it like the tightwad he is.

    “So you’re done having your little fit? You’re paying for all that damage you know. And you need to make dinner. Make the potatoes tonight. And be quick, you hear? I’m hungry,” he coughed.

    I wasn’t listening. I lunged forward, planting my foot against the heardboard of his wheelchair, just missing his face, and pushing until I knocked the chair on its back.

    “Talia, what are you doing?!?” he wheezed, startled.

    I pulled the loaded gun out of my pocket and aimed it at his face. A look of terror and sudden understanding crept into his eyes. I smiled coldly, filled with a twisted feeling of joy that he would know why this was happening, even if it was only for moments.

    “Don’t worry, father. It’s for the best,” I said as I pulled the trigger.

    And so that is the reason for the sirens outside at this ungodly early hour. A passerby must have seen me walking with the body in the wheelchair. I intended to bury both.
    I had covered him in a blanket so it would appear that I was just going for a stroll with my father. But maybe they saw the blood on my clothes. I should have changed. Or maybe they were suspicious, and followed me, silently watching me bury him.
    But it doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, they caught me. Maybe some small part of me wants to be caught. I have nothing to live for. I might as well be locked up.
    I write this down, so maybe if someone finds it, they’ll know my reasons. But it doesn’t matter, like I said. Nothing matters to me anymore.
    I hear echoing requests from policemen with megaphones to come outside with my hands up, they have me surrounded. I plan to obey them. There’s no point in running. I have no one to turn to, and nowhere to go.
    I write these final sentences as I walk towards the front door of this darkened house, and I can’t help chuckling. I’m going to jail. It’s funny because I never thought it would end for me like this.
    But, I suppose that in the end, it’s all for the best.

  • Hooray! SFK posted! I can’t believe it’s mine! I have three stories up now, WHOOP! :D

  • heres a story that i made up 1 morning after waking up

    there was a boy named john who loved horror movies,one night he watched this one where the killer hid in a closet,after the movie john was so scared the locked his closet every night and checked it before going to bed

    his dad thought it was stupid and unlocked the closit every morning,eventually his dad yelled at him to stop and no killer would kill him

    john kept locking it anyway and one night his dad went out john watched a horror movie till about 2am and than went to bed he was woken by a strange noise he looked at the wall and saw the words HAVE YOU CHECKED THE CLOSET

    when johns dad came back in the morning he walked into his sons room to find the dead body of john and closet writtin on the wall

  • It was off the hook! I loved it only don’t get one thing what was so good in that painting thant made her go gaga?? anywayz very nice story

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