Tracy doesn’t hate people on purpose. She’s not like that. It’s her paintings. They hate people. I remember her very first one. She was still a kid. She painted a scantily clad woman sitting cross-legged in a field of tall grass, a cluster of threatening clouds looming overhead.

It was quite remarkable; the woman’s auburn hair blowing wistfully in the breeze, as she gazes across the minty meadow stretching over the languid landscape. However, upon closer inspection, something about it was deeply disturbing. For starters, the clouds were moving. It took a while to notice. They’d sift along gingerly, like unholy apparitions, high above the woman in the wayward dress.

My sister was proud of it. So were my parents, who quickly pointed out my obvious lack of artistic merit. Hell, I could barely scribble a stick person, let alone a full-sized painting with blended colors, depth and ingenuity. No one knew how she did it.

Tracy hung the painting in her room, above her bed. At first, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Until after dark, when the painting started whispering to me, haunted howls like furious winds on a stormy night. Those dreadful clouds teased me, saying how stupid I was, as my mind drifted into the land of slumber. No one in the house heard the painting but me. This was bad.

After weeks of this, I’d had enough. The painting was ruining my sleep. The fact that no one believed me made it worse.

I plotted my revenge.

One day after school, I crept into her bedroom with a jar full of spiders. My plan was to put them inside her pillow. That would teach her. Tracy hated spiders. Still does. Except, as I removed her pillow casing, ready to release the creepy crawlers, the painting started rattling. Then something flew out of it: a shadowy vampire with crooked horns on its head, and long spindly fingers. It had no facial features. Just shape.

I dropped the spiders and scrammed.

My sister was furious. Those pesky spiders crawled into every crevasse of her room; her closet, her dresser, even her computer. One spider—a big one with long, hairy legs and beady eyes—managed to sneak into her gym bag and lay eggs. Scared her stupid when, the following week at her ballet recital, out sprung a cluster of spiders.

The painting was unimpressed. Any time I got near it, it would grit and growl. Sometimes I’d get shocked or stabbing pains would pierce my chest. This went on and on. So did its relentless teasing. The damned thing kept taunting me, especially at night while I lay in bed, trembling. Slowly, my life fell apart, my grades were slipping, and my friends and family thought I was going nuts.

I tried destroying it. In panic-fueled rage, I ripped the painting off the wall, beat it to death with a hammer, tossed its colorful carcass into the garbage.

“That outta do it,” I said with a smirk.

It didn’t.

Damned thing came back. Swear to goddamned God. When I checked, there it was, back on my sister’s wall, sneering at me. I almost died right then and there. I steered clear of my sister’s room after that. Still, the painting’s taunting persisted. It was ruthless. When I told my parents, they scolded me for being jealous of my kid sister’s talents. When I confided in my friends, they laughed and ridiculed. I was all alone.

Things got worse.

That summer my baseball team was in first place, looking to win the championship. It was the night before the Big Game. I was pitching. The damned painting wouldn’t let me be. As I was falling asleep, I felt something laying on me, pressing against my chest. When I heard my name, my eyes snapped open. The shadow figure inside the painting was hovering over me, whispering nasty phrases into my ear, telling me how much I sucked; that my team would lose and everyone would blame me. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened. Swear the goddam God I’m telling the truth.

Needless to say, I didn’t speak to my sister for the remainder of the summer. High school was starting in the fall, I was hoping to leave this behind me. To my chagrin, she began painting again. My parents were pleased. They bought her the finest paints money could buy. My sister was thrilled. She painted fast and furious. When she finished her new painting, I nearly died.

It was another landscape. Only instead of a field, it was a silver-laced city, clad with tall buildings towering over tiny ant-like beings below, a spec of light seeping through the shimmering skyscrapers. It was good. I’ll admit that. The way the busted neon sign hung sideways in the distance, limp and lifeless, while busybodies paraded along the surly city streets going God-knows-where.

She hung it in the living room, next to the TV, for all to see. My parents were proud. They invited all their friends to come gaze at its marvelousness. Everyone loved it. She was the toast of the town. My resentment grew like fungus. I hated the damned thing. Something about it gave me the creeps. And for good reason.

I ignored it out of spite. And fear. Until one night after a hectic day at school, I sat down to watch a movie. I forget which one. My parents were out with my sister. She had a ballet recital, which I refused to go.

“Hey Zak,” the painting said, surprising the hell out of me. “You suck.”

I snapped my attention away from the TV. The painting was trembling like an angry mother, making low, gurgling noises. A light flickered inside one of the tall buildings. A face appeared in the window. It was the ugliest face I’d ever seen. Its eyes were big black holes, its teeth pearly white, sharp as swords. It had horns on its head, like the devil. Then it leapt out of the painting, scaring me stupid. The shadowy figure flew across the room, fast as a fox, then dissolved into nothing.

I screamed. Then I beelined it to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

“Just my imagination,” I told myself over and over, curled up under my bed sheets, quivering. I was sixteen; too old to believe in the boogeyman, but young enough to be scared half-to-death.

The following week was spent contemplating my next move, which wasn’t easy. I had no one to confide in. People already thought I was crazy. I didn’t want to prove it. I tried searching online, but soon gave up. Too many rabbit holes. I was at a crossroad. Things were escalating. The two paintings were combining forces, gaining strength. Sometimes while sleeping, I’d hear them chattering back and forth, gabbing on about how much I sucked, and how ugly and stupid I was. Their voices were deep and guttural, like evil game show hosts.

Sleep was non-existent. The damned paintings wouldn’t shut up. On and on, they rambled through the night, plotting ways to ruin my life. No one else seemed to notice. I was coming unglued. I couldn’t take much more of this.

Time for revenge.

One night, while my parents had taken my sister to the mall, I tip-toed across the living room, clutching my father’s X-Acto knife. My knuckles were white, my blood boiling like hot soup. I could hear my heart beating underneath my tee-shirt; thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. I knew this would land me in a whole heap of trouble. But I didn’t care. This was it. Now or never. I’d deal with the consequences later.

With gritted teeth, I plunged the knife. The painting shrieked, crying like a dying dog. I stabbed the wretched thing again and again, tearing it to shreds. The painting pushed back, knocking me off my feet. As I fell, the knife flew from my fingers, cutting me badly, staining the carpet a deep crimson red. I fled to the washroom, trying not to get blood everywhere.

After cleaning my wounds, I returned to the living room with shaky hands and wobbly feet. I had to clean the bloodstained carpet, or my mother would kill me. Panic attacked. Tears trickled down my cheeks like a freshly-flowing stream.

“You can do this,” I told myself, sobbing.

What happened next still haunts me.

To my horror, the painting was hanging on the wall, unscathed. The light inside the tallest building flickering, the devilish face inside it seething.

Then it spoke.

“Nice try, Zak!”

I screamed, ran to my bedroom, wept. From then on, I started counting down the days until I could move out and live on my own. This became my life’s mission. To everyone’s surprise including my own, my grades slowly improved. They had to, otherwise I’d never go to college, thus being stuck at home forevermore.

Unfortunately, whatever was haunting those paintings was now controlling my sister. She became erratic. She had no friends to speak of, her dancing days long gone. She stopped eating, and whenever someone spoke to her, she’d call them horrific names. Mind you, she’d just turned thirteen, so my parents thought it was a phase.

It wasn’t.

All she did was paint. Her third painting was unlike the other two. It was a montage of calico colors sweeping across a stormy sky. Clouds sneered as they rolled along the smoggy skyline, atop a frigid flurry of radical shapes. It was striking. I’d never seen anything like it. My parents were enamored. Friends and relatives gathered to gaze at it, praising its splendor. She hung it in her bedroom, above her desk, away from prying eyes. This suited me fine. I hated the thing. I knew right away it would cause havoc. Which it did. As usual, everyone thought I was jealous, and continued lecturing me for being selfish.

Little did they know.

One day after school, her bedroom door creaked open. Whispered words whisked from the creatures living in her paintings. At first, I thought it was coming from outside; maybe the kids next door playing in the yard. Then it spoke my name, beckoning me. Against my better judgement, I poked my head inside, just for a peek. The room was coffin-dark. It smelled like a corpse.

The room started shaking. The floor trembled. My sister was hovering horizontally above her bed, frothing. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, arms folded on her abdomen. She was in a trance, talking in tongues. I took a tentative step towards her, unable to stop myself. I noticed the paintings rocking back and forth on the wall. A creature flew out of them, forcing me backwards. Without hesitating, I flicked on the light.

Tracy fell with a thud. Her slitted, bloodshot eyes peered at me, full of venom.

The creature spoke. “Go away creep.”

“Go away, creep,” my sister repeated, clearly entranced.

I did. Needless to say, I’ve never spoken to her again, except on birthdays or holidays, and even then, only a sentence or two.

My sister continued to paint, while maintaining a life of solitude. Guidance counselors, teachers and doctors alike were perplexed. No one knew what to do. She was a freak. But damn could she paint. By the time she finished high school, the entire house was cluttered with them. Each one exhibiting odd behavior. My parents could no longer deny it. Fortunately for me, I was long gone. College to the rescue.

One day while visiting—she’d be about seventeen—my sister was waiting for me, dressed head-to-toe in black. Her ashen face like an autumn moon. She was holding a painting.

“Here,” she said, arms stretched out.

She handed me the painting. Shakily, I took the painting, vowing to burn it the moment I got home. The painting snapped like a crocodile, threatening to tear my left arm off. I wanted to hate the thing. I really did. Problem was, part of me liked it. She’d painted me as a young boy, pitching on a mound of green, hand in weathered glove, eyes cold as steel. My hair was blowing in the breeze; a bloodthirsty crowd roared its approval, waving signs and foamy fingers. The smell of Crackerjacks and freshly-grilled frankfurters was pungent.

I said thank you, and carefully placed it in the back of my car. The painting protested. It complained the entire ride. I swear I heard the announcer call me a chicken-shit coward. Once home, I lit in on fire, tossed it into the dumpster out back. The stupid painting didn’t stand a chance.

It came back.

The following morning, the first day on my new job, no less, it was hanging on my wall, next to the flat screen TV. Except now, the crowd was quarreling and causing a ruckus. As I got closer, someone in the crowd started waving. A shadow emerged.

“I’m baaaack!”

I spilled coffee all over my crotch. After cursing and cleaning up, I scurried out the door, buying breakfast on the way to work. On my lunch break, I called my landlord, informing him that I was moving. I hired a moving company, found a cheap place on the east side, and never set foot inside that apartment again.

…

This story should end here. But it doesn’t. It gets worse. And believe me, I’ve left most of it out. You’ve read the Cole's Notes, if you will. I could expand this story by a hundred pages, easy. Like the time her painting made my mother spill a glass of red wine across her beige blouse, right before her board meeting. To my dismay, my mother blamed me! The nerve of these people. She hadn’t heard the painting snort, rejoicing in her misfortune. But I did.

Or the time my father was in his work room, using the circular saw. Tracy’s latest painting was overlooking him. The saw fired up on its own, cutting off his thumb and forefinger. Doctors were able to reattach them, but still.

Or how my sister started reading our minds. That was awful. She knew stuff that was impossible to know. Like how I had a crush on my grade twelve teacher, Miss Peabody. Or that my mother was cheating on Dad, with his best friend Carl. Or how my father had peculiar porn fetishes, abhorrent even in this day and age.

Tracy cheated on all her tests. Her teachers suspected this, but couldn’t figure out how she did it. She was an A+ student who never studied a day in her life.

Sadly, she’s remained a recluse. No one likes her. Including me, but I am her brother, and part of me still loves her.

The problem is this: my sister is famous. Or at least, her paintings are. They’ve sold all over the world. She’s made a fortune. You probably have one of her paintings hanging in your home, or at your work office. Hell, every dental office in America has one, and they’re haunted.

Tracy is a pseudonym. I can’t say who she really is. I’m terrified she’ll find out. She’ll send over another painting. I shudder at the thought. I’m worried about you, the Reader. You probably haven’t put two and two together: that since purchasing one of her paintings, your life has fallen apart. But I’ll bet it has.

Burn it. Pray it doesn’t return. You’re cursed. You just don’t know it. But you will. Her paintings are possessed. Every damned one of them.

No wonder everyone is so agitated these days.