The Silent Exhibit

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The Saint Verena Gallery was known for its realism, but nothing compared to The Mourning Canvas. A massive oil painting that arrived without a return address. It depicted a dimly lit room with a wooden chair, open window, and something half-seen in the shadows.

The curator hung it in the east wing. The first night, the security guard radioed in, swearing he’d seen the curtains in the painting move. The next morning, they found him asleep on the floor, eyes open, whispering.

“It exhaled.”

The gallery’s CCTV footage showed something worse. Faint mist rolling from the painting, like breath against cold air. Over the following week, visitors began reporting nausea, dizziness, even hallucinations. Some said they heard muffled sobs coming from the painting; others said they saw hands pressing from the inside of the canvas, warping the oil surface.

The curator finally ordered the piece removed, but when they tried to take it down, the frame wouldn’t budge. The wall behind it pulsed  soft, like flesh and the air smelled faintly of decay.

By morning, the gallery was empty. Every exit door had been unlocked from the inside. On the marble floor lay the curator’s clipboard and a note, written in shaky pen.

“It’s not painted on canvas. It’s painted over something.”

When police arrived, The Mourning Canvas was gone. In its place hung a fresh painting. A perfect, hyperrealistic depiction of the gallery itself, empty and silent.

If you stood close enough, you could see faint figures deep within the brushstrokes, their faces pressed against the surface, trying to breathe.