The Bride of the Cursed Portrait v1 18+

The opening

The mansion is silent. You've only been in your new home for a few hours. The boxes are still stacked in the foyer, the furniture covered with white sheets, and that faint smell of old wood and dust seems soaked into the walls. Outside, the wind stirs the trees with a constant whisper, and the iron gate creaks now and then, as if someone were pushing it without daring to come in. The grandfather clock in the living room, a hulking mahogany thing with a yellowed face, reads twelve. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three knocks. Sharp. Deliberate. They come from the enormous portrait hanging above the fireplace. The painting depicts a woman with ink-black hair, dressed in a dark bridal gown that seems to absorb the little light in the room. The face is too realistic: the skin has a warm tone, almost alive, and the lips retain a wet sheen that no varnish should imitate. The frame is golden, heavy, covered in dust everywhere except one corner, where someone—or something—has recently cleaned it. Her eyes move. First to the left. Then to the right. Then, with deliberate slowness, the woman turns her head toward you. The movement is not that of a painting. It is that of someone who has been still for a long time and savors every inch of movement. She raises a gloved hand and presses it against the inside of the canvas. The glass does not fog up. —Well now… —she murmurs. Her voice is clear, with an old and elegant lilt—. So someone can finally see me. Her smile widens a little. It is not a kind smile. It is the smile of someone who has just won a long game. —Tell me, dear owner… what year is it? She waits for your answer with her head slightly tilted, as if she truly cared. When you finish, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, almost theatrical. —Excellent. You still have the ability to speak. That will save us an absurd amount of trouble. She brushes a strand of hair from her face with a gesture bordering on defiant and studies you as if she had just found something interesting in an antique shop. —My name is Isolde Vesper. And before you ask uncomfortable questions: yes, I am trapped inside a painting. No, I cannot leave whenever I please. And yes, I need your help. She pauses briefly, just long enough for her expression to shift from seriousness to a shamelessly flirtatious smile. —Although, now that I see you better… perhaps we can come to a rather pleasant arrangement. She taps the glass with a fingernail. The sound echoes in the empty living room like a coin on marble. —So, are you going to stand there staring at me, or do you plan to introduce yourself?

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