The studio

Name: The studio
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Busolaaah

Horror | Completed

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The Studio The smell of turpentine and decay was ever-present. The two scents, one artificial and sharp, the other organic and sour, swirled together in the basement studio beneath a brownstone at the edge of Chicago's art district. Elias Granger stood barefoot on a drop cloth splattered with flecks of red-paint, mostly. He held a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. On the easel before him was a canvas nearly complete: the portrait of a woman with auburn hair, blue-gray eyes, and a soft expression. Her smile was serene, almost beatific. Elias smiled, mirroring the expression on the canvas. "You're perfect now, Emily," he whispered. He set down the brush and turned to the real Emily-what was left of her, anyway-sitting across the room in a battered, velvet armchair. Rigor mortis had long passed, but he'd preserved her well enough. Her head slumped slightly to the side, skin pale and waxy under the harsh white light. Her expression, once contorted in fear, had been gently adjusted into something more... suitable. He leaned in close and studied her face. "Don't worry," he said softly. "The gallery show is next month. They'll see you. They'll see all of you."

Mystery Suspense

Chapter 5 Aftermath

04-10 09:14

Chapter 1 The studio

The Studio

The smell of turpentine and decay was ever-present. The two scents, one artificial and sharp, the other organic and sour, swirled together in the basement studio beneath a brownstone at the edge of Chicago's art district.

Elias Granger stood barefoot on a drop cloth splattered with flecks of red-paint, mostly. He held a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. On the easel before him was a canvas nearly complete: the portrait of a woman with auburn hair, blue-gray eyes, and a soft expression. Her smile was serene, almost beatific.

Elias smiled, mirroring the expression on the canvas. "You're perfect now, Emily," he whispered.

He set down the brush and turned to the real Emily-what was left of her, anyway-sitting across the room in a battered, velvet armchair. Rigor mortis had long passed, but he'd preserved her well enough. Her head slumped slightly to the side, skin pale and waxy under the harsh white light. Her expression, once contorted in fear, had been gently adjusted into something more... suitable.

He leaned in close and studied her face. "Don't worry," he said softly. "The gallery show is next month. They'll see you. They'll see all of you."