Scarlet red oil paint.

The best stories start with “It was a dare,” but already, this bad idea doesn't look like it's going to make a fun story in the future.

We've been dared to spend a night in the abandoned McCain Mansion.

A residence from which the town drew its dark side. A place where little children dared each other to run to the front door and touch the brass lion door knocker.

“This is so stupid,” I huffed as we marched up the hill with our backpacks stuffed with blankets.

“Oh, come on! Don't be such a killjoy. THIS is going to be an adventure,” Kyle said as he painted the sky with his invisible rainbow.

“Making memories,” Stacy chimed in with excitement.

“Yeah, involuntary memories,” I added.

“We are the art class, and we will not shy away from anything spooky. IN FACT, spooky should shy away from us!” Alice finished with a hair flip.

I sighed and cringed.

We were the Art Class, Table Two, and since there were too many students for just one table, our art class had been divided into two.

Same species, different genus.

The refined, sophisticated, and snobbish Table One had dared us “wannabe goth weirdos” to spend a night in the McCain Mansion.

The McCain Mansion was shrouded in mystery because of the story of the family that had left it behind to loom over the whole town like a bad memory.

In the late '80s, the family members moved out, but some rumoured that perhaps something else had happened.

It all ended and began when Adelaide McCain died under unknown circumstances, and the town drowned the house in speculation.

“Okay, so, interview time.” Kyle clapped his hands together. “There are many stories about what happened here. Theories?”

“Adelaide drowned her whole family in the well and then committed suicide. Well, that's at least what my sister said,” Stacy replied.

“One family member might have murdered the others, killing one after another to keep the secret, until they came to the end of the line with Adelaide McCain.” Alice played with her hair thoughtfully as the mansion's trees stretched out their clawed branches towards us.

“Lee, what do you think happened?”

It was almost too painful to look into Stacy's bright eyes. She was so positive it hurt. This whole mansion goose chase was childish, to say the least.

“Uhm, they all ran away from the tax collectors? Then the old lady died of a heart attack?”

“Oh, my soul. You are so frikken boring! Where's your sense of wonder?” Kyle said, rolling his eyes.

“Your sense of spookiness,” Kyle and Alice echoed, laughing at Stacy.

I just shook my head. This was technically going to be one big babysitting gig. They were the children, and I was the sitter.

As we climbed the steps to the front door, we halted in front of the double doors and paused.

Everyone exchanged a glance. Excited, nervous, mischievous, and annoyed.

Kyle reached out his hand to turn the forbidden door knocker.

“Wait!”

Alice grabbed his hand. “First, we have to take a photo!”

We all huddled together in front of the paint-chipped green door for the picture.

Smiling and posing, we marked the start of our “adventure” as the photo was taken.

As the door creaked open, the chorus of “Ooooh” and “Ahhh” actually sparked our interest.

Stepping into a world stopped in time made one wonder what had really happened.

The furniture must have been looted over the years by the desperate and the brave, but the small gaps where a side table or cabinet might once have stood were hardly noticeable in the colossal mansion.

Drifting through the foyer, everyone fell quiet, studying the strange surroundings.

Mahogany baroque spirals wrapped around the staircase, and a trashed chandelier hung from the ceiling.

The silence broke when we saw the paintings.

A bowl of fruit had captivated us all, demanding our attention with its bold brushstrokes.

“Shit, look at these brushstrokes!” Kyle leaned in.

“The shading is fantastic,” Alice commented.

“Amazing.”

In a daze, we threw our bags down in the living room and wandered through the art gallery that people had once called home.

“Not to sound like an asshole, but why do you think people never stole these of all things?” I asked, moving from painting to painting and pausing to study each one.

“Well... that's actually a REALLY good question, AND I have an amazing story. So, when my brother was in his senior year, his drug dealer stole a painting from here. But he said he brought it back because the painting talked to him at night,” Kyle said, his hands outstretched.

“No way.”

“Yes, way, Stacy.”

“Wait a minute.” Alice squinted at the bottom-left corner of a painting depicting a hunting terrier chasing a bird. “This is all marked A. McCain.”

“Adelaide McCain painted these?”

We all went back to check the names on the paintings, and sure enough, most of them had been marked A. McCain.

The commentary and compliments came to an end, and we brought in firewood from the estate's dilapidated trees.

The fire hungrily devoured the wood, and, of course, all of us had sketchpads in hand.

Kyle and Alice sketched the fireplace. It was a true masterpiece of craftsmanship, with curves and curls carved into the marble to form Roman pillars. Above the fireplace hung a romantic portrait of a woman smiling in a white dress, her strawberry-blonde curls framing her face.

Stacy was drawing an armchair, the designer that she was.

I was captivated by the staircase.

Jokes were made. Stories were exchanged. And finally, ghost stories were told.

“On the last night of autumn, just before the last leaf falls and winter begins, she will knock on your door and ask, ‘Are you ready?’”

The reactions had always been better than the stories up until this point.

“Okay, shhh! Now I'm going to tell you what REALLY happened here in McCain Mansion...”

The girls scooted closer, but I stayed leaned back, waiting to be entertained.

“It has been said by firsthand witnesses that the family never left the mansion. Every single family member stayed here but has been trapped inside these walls. It's rumoured that they're all waiting for their next victims. In the end, Adelaide wasn't the last, but the only one unaffected by the curse...”

“What curse?”

“They never said?” Kyle shrugged his shoulders, and that was the end of that.

After hours, the fire had dwindled to its last glowing coals. The wind howled around the corners of the house, but later, it changed into moans and cries.

Suddenly, the howling and screeching of the wind moved inside the house.

The coals burned peacefully. The others slept peacefully. But the wind was inside the house.

Humming.

Singing.

Keeping my eyes closed or focused on the coals, I dismissed it. But then the familiar scent of turpentine and oil paint made me open my eyes.

Kyle lay close to Alice, and Alice guarded Stacy. The ever-innocent trio of a love triangle slept on peacefully.

Someone was painting. I could smell it.

My curiosity was stronger than my fear, and my legs pushed me out of my sleeping roll.

The smell wasn't coming from this room but from around the corner.

Slowly, my feet carried me out of the living room and into the foyer. They followed the staircase upwards, and there, in front of a girl painting by a window in the dim moonlight, they stopped.

My whole body froze when I saw the girl, poised with a paintbrush in hand.

She was painting a woman with features similar to her own. Auburn-brown hair and light eyes, blue or green, perhaps. Big, wide-set eyes above an elegant, upturned nose.

My feet had brought me here, but now they were frozen in fear, and my eyes remained fixed on her.

She dipped her brush into the paint and turned her head in my direction.

“Do you want to be painted next?”

I swallowed, unable to answer, and turned on my heel, making my way down the stairs.

It's a dream, I repeated in my head over and over as I climbed back into my sleeping roll beside the warm fire.

It all felt so real, but it couldn't be.

For a moment, I considered the possibility that it was real, then closed my eyes.

But the smell of blood made them fly open again.

Above the fireplace, red liquid dripped from the painting and spilled over the frame onto the mantelpiece.

The coals sizzled as the blood dripped onto them, and smoke twirled into the air.

“Wake up,” I muttered.

It was too soft, so I reached over to Alice.

“Guys, wake up.”

“Oh, my soul! What?”

Everyone roused from their sleep for a moment, but Stacy was the first to respond.

“What is going on?” she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

Then her eyes adjusted, and they widened as she saw the blood dripping from the painting above the fireplace.

I could see her lips forming curse words, but nothing came out.

I grabbed Stacy, and she kicked Alice and Kyle while attempting to drag them out of their sleep.

There was protesting and confusion.

“Do you want me to paint your portrait?”

We all turned towards the girl at the top of the stairs.

She waited patiently for an answer as we stared in shock and horror.

“Fuck no,” I said firmly, grabbing Alice's wrist and making for the door.

We had to run in the girl's direction before we could reach the front door.

In a blur, we were all at the entrance, scrambling to get outside.

But I turned to look at the stairs.

The young Adelaide smiled at us, all the bleeding paintings behind her along the staircase.

I was pulled outside in the commotion, and the unforgiving night air quickly woke us all up.

Alice started to hyperventilate, and Kyle held her close. Stacy stumbled away and threw up in a bush while I stood trembling, staring at the door.

The McCain family had never left the mansion.

She had painted them into it.

And we had almost been next.