This house was home, but it didn’t look that way. A lot had changed since the last time I was here. I couldn’t even remember how long it had been since I last set foot into this house. It felt like centuries had passed. 

This house was passed down to me after Grandma died. She looked after the place well, and it was huge. It was a better upgrade than the dingy two-bedroom apartment I had on the wrong side of town. At least I got some cash from Grandma’s will in case anything happened, but most of her things were left to my aunt. She made it seem like she was my grandma’s favorite person, and it stung because grandma always told me I was her favorite. Well, until I moved. I hadn’t met grandma since she got sick five years ago, but those who saw her said she looked bad. She was thin, her hair whiter than ever, her skin pale and sagging, her eyes void of life. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t have to see her; death terrified me. She was dying and we all knew it, but we never knew what the root of it was.

After the will was read, the lawyer gave me the keys to the house. The house always felt huge, but now that I was moving in, it was larger than I remembered. The furniture was old; Victorian-looking. My grandmother’s favorite era. Everything here reminded me of her, and I suddenly wished I could see her, regretting the fact I didn’t. I walked up to a painting, which I hadn’t seen before. It was of an old woman, scrawny and white as a ghost. Her limbs were too long for the rest of her, her hair nearly half gone. She wore a simple white dress, which hung loosely on her. She had no life in her eyes, the gray irises nearly the exact shade of her dress. She was horrendous looking but so unfamiliarly familiar. It terrified me. 

I removed the frame, starting towards the attic. The long staircase, behind a heavy wooden door, leading to the attic, featured many similar paintings - almost as if it were a timeline of the woman’s life. An empty space, after the fourth painting from the end of the timeline, was where I assumed this painting had originally been from. I hurriedly hung the painting, needing to leave it as soon as possible. I didn’t worry if it was aligned with the rest, no one would see them. Hopefully not even me. The thought relaxed me, allowing me to regain composure and check the time. My watch read 19:45, meaning it was time for dinner. Shutting the heavy door, I walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge. I was caught off guard because it held all my grandma’s favorite foods. I tried not to dwell on that fact and made myself a simple meal. The discoveries of today had left me exhausted, and I needed to go to bed. 

I walked through my bedroom door, sitting down on the bed. The mattress wasn’t too hard, a little on the softer side, just as grandma preferred. Same with the pillows. The whole decor was something out of grandma’s lookbook - a lot of deep reds and quite a number of golds. Pushing any negative thoughts to the back of my head, I went to turn in for the night. It took me a while, but I finally fell asleep, albeit a little restlessly at around one in the morning. Everything was silent, yet I woke with a jolt. It was still dark out. Panting heavily, I checked the time. Barely thirty minutes had gone by. 

A sudden feeling, which I couldn’t put my finger on, guided me back to the staircase. It might have been some OCD creeping back in, reminding me I left the painting crooked, after rushing to hang it up. With that in mind, I opened the wooden door, but I didn’t go to the painting. Curiosity got the better of me, and I wanted to look at all the paintings, no matter how unnerving they were. The window, which illuminated the room during the day, only let in the pale moonlight. I scanned the room for a light switch, but only found a chain that would turn on a single light bulb. The light was subtle, barely glowing, and flickered every couple of minutes. But I was able to clearly see the artworks, as if, no matter how dark it was, my eyes were meant to see them. 

The paintings were not gigantic, more like the size of a piece of paper. There were around twenty of them; the first ten or eleven are from the woman’s birth to maybe around fifty years old. It looked like each of those paintings was done every five years or so. The ones after that seemed like a painting a year. The last painting looked really recent; the colors more vibrant than the rest. I noticed how the woman only became horrifying in the last five paintings; she was beautiful in the ones before, with only a hint of monstrosity. 

And then I couldn’t breathe. All the oxygen in my lungs was gone. The paintings were all signed by my grandmother. The realization nearly knocked me off my feet; these were self-portraits that she painted. My grandmother was always stunning to me, but had she always had the air of creepiness to her? Everyone said I looked like her, did that mean I had it too? I made my way to the nearest mirror, a big one, probably centuries old. I looked in the mirror and heard a shrilling scream. It took me a few seconds to comprehend that the scream came from me. But it wasn’t me. It was her. The one from the painting I put back. Grandma. I was her. Raising a shaky hand, I examined my fingers. They were too skinny and bony, not like mine. Veins popped on the back of my hand, my nails too long and disgusting to even look at. My hands and arms were almost iridescent, I felt halfway transparent like I was slowly disappearing. I felt weak, like I was going to fall at any moment. My limbs hurt and my back was killing me. My vision went blurry, darkness coming over me. Then, I couldn’t see.

I woke up, the sun shining on my face. I lifted the blanket from my body, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I slept well last night, so I could get used to my new bed. I thought the creepy house might have led to a nightmare, but, just as always, I didn’t have a dream. Getting dressed, I mentally prepared myself for the day. It would consist of more exploring, looking through closets and cupboards. I didn’t want to unexpectedly come across another frightening household item - the painting from the previous afternoon was enough. 

The search today drained me of all my energy, and I had only seen half of the house. There was nothing of concern, so I headed for my room. I went to bed earlier than the night before, hoping for another pleasant night. 

I wasn’t startled awake. It was more like I was woken up gently by someone. A gravelly voice sounded in my ear, asking me to follow them. An iron grip held my arm, shaking it, as my eyes slowly opened. When I came to my senses, I felt a strong breeze go through the room. I looked around and no one was there. Unusually odd as the windows and door were closed, and I could have sworn there was someone with me. I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself. The clock read a quarter past one. Something in me dragged me to the paintings. Only the last five remained, but the fifth to last had slashes; like sharp fingernails had dug and ripped the canvas. A particular sort of glow made the painting to its right quite pronounced. I was drawn to it. Flashbacks to the night before had my mind reeling. I examined the portrait more intently than I had the one before. She looked worse, somehow. Just slightly - you could barely tell. I turned back, still slightly chilled, crossing another mirror. I caught only a glimpse of white hair. Only, my hair was brown. I stepped backward, staring into my reflection in the mirror. I was her again. But not the same her. Her from the glowing painting. This time, my chest felt heavy, my shoulders sinking with the pain. I was barely able to lift my hand. In a quick motion, I dropped to the ground, seeing black.

My head was a little sore this morning, but it could have been from the lack of breakfast. I decided to head into work today, not having anything to do in the house. After going over papers for a few hours, I went to a meeting and informed my boss I was, in fact, able to attend. I walked in and all the heads turned toward me, eyes darting to my arm then back again. Thinking I had spilled ink on myself I looked down. My eyes widened and I gasped loudly. There was a bruise, in the shape of a hand. I couldn’t explain it - not to them, not to myself - so I left without a word back home. The drive took longer than I had planned; I reached home at around five.

What was up with me and one a.m,? It was the third night in a row. I inspected my arm, noticing the bruise was gone. This time, I went straight to the paintings; it was routine. The next one was glowing, and the one before it had slashes as well. I looked closely at the painting for any new features the two previous ones didn’t have, and went to the mirror. I had turned into her again, new monstrous features and everything. I didn’t think twice before I marched up to the mirror and scanned my reflection. I was staring into the face in the painting. Tonight wasn’t any different from the previous nights, except I was more fatigued. My chest hurt and it was hard to breathe. And just like I had before, I fainted.

My mind was foggy as I struggled to open my eyes. I woke up on the floor just before the staircase. The nights of dreamless sleep were gone, and I recalled what happened last night. And the nights since I moved in. I scrambled to my feet, rushing to pack all my things. I needed to get out of there as fast as I could. No one had moved into my old apartment as far as I knew. Picking up my bag, I laced up my shoes and darted through the door. Driving like a madman, I reached the condo in record time. I didn’t speak to the landlord, but I had my key, so I opened the door. Locking it behind me, I sat on the floor. All these images popped up, one after the other, of a reflection. It wasn’t me, but my heart knew it was. The day went by fast, me sitting in one place, thinking the same thing over and over again; what is going on? Who did this to me? I don’t know when, but I fell asleep, my cheek against the cool tiles. 

I already knew it was one in the morning. I didn’t have to confirm. But I wasn’t on the floor. I was back in my bed at the house. My heart beat sped up rapidly, I didn’t understand how I could have gotten here. I trudged to the stairway, anticipating what I would see. I knew two paintings remained, but when I opened the door, there was only one. The last one. The most petrifying one in the collection. And I was her, tonight; I could tell. I didn’t look in a mirror, I couldn't stand to see that ugly and horrifying face. The effects of old age kicked in sooner than they had previously. I was dying. This is what grandma felt like during her last days, I felt it in my heart. That was, until I couldn’t feel my heart anymore. I wasn’t breathing, and there was no pulse. I held up my arms, watching as they slowly became transparent. I was disappearing, but I would be here forever. I was stuck. 

The sun came up, and I heard the front door open. I went there, wanting to know who broke in. No one had trespassed though. I saw myself walk through the door, bags in hand. I was moving in. She had to see the paintings, I’d make sure of it. 

Why did grandma choose this fate for me? Huh, looks like I was her favorite after all.