The girl in the painting

It was the fall of 2007. I'd just moved from the countryside to the city: I'd inherited a very nice three-room apartment. I loved everything about it, except for one spot in my bedroom—the wall opposite the bed was completely bare. This irritated me, so I decided to stop by the nearest furniture store after work and buy a mirror.

The next day, I went to pick out a mirror and happened to notice a private marketplace off to the side of the store, where people were selling various things: books, furniture parts. I noticed a man standing next to a painting. I really liked this painting—it depicted a beautiful, full-length girl. The frame was very similar to one I'd once seen in a museum. As far as I remember, that painting was at least 100 years old, so this one is about the same, I thought.  Of course, I decided I wouldn't have enough money for this painting: it was an antique, a huge canvas, a handmade frame... But the painting literally captivated me, and I still asked how much it cost. I was surprised that the owner only valued it at five thousand rubles. At the time, I thought he simply didn't understand art, but later, of course, I understood the reason for such a low price.

I came home, hung the painting across from my bed, spent the entire evening watching TV, and went to bed. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by strange sounds: I thought I heard someone talking in my room. After lying there half-asleep for a couple of minutes, I noticed something moving in the darkness across from the bed. I was scared. Jumping to the window, I jerked open the curtains, and moonlight illuminated the room. Turning around, I saw something terrifying: the girl depicted in the painting was grinning the most terrifying grin I'd ever seen on a human face.  She no longer looked beautiful: instead of snow-white skin, there was half-rotted flesh, and the nails on her fingers were broken and torn off. I stood there stunned for a few seconds, then finally came to my senses and ran out of the room.

I was only able to calm down when dawn broke. After waiting until the sun illuminated my room, I decided to go back in. The image in the painting had transformed back into a blonde girl. After assessing the situation, I concluded that if I threw the painting away, someone might pick it up and keep it for themselves. So I decided to burn it. I carried the painting out into the backyard, being careful not to touch the image, doused it with gasoline, and set it on fire. Then I stood and watched it burn until only ash remained.

Four years later, having almost forgotten about this incident, I was watching another crime news report on NTV. A reporter was talking about the mysterious violent strangulation death of a man in his apartment.  All the windows and locks were locked from the inside, and there were no signs of robbery or forced entry—apparently the TV crew found this intriguing, as the incident was featured on a program. When they showed the footage from the apartment, I started shaking: hanging on the wall next to the dead man's bed was the painting I'd burned—or perhaps an exact replica—and it depicted the same blonde girl...