Horror Story - Which isn't scary at all

Roberto Pizzar hopped off his horse, tied it to the nearest tree and lightly patted its head as it shivered and neighed at the iron gate of the wooden house. The descending sun was slowly sinking behind the horizon and Pizzar must hastily seek shelter for the night. He ambled his way to the entrance in the piddling rain and softly, but with enough force to resist being drowned out by the rain, knocked on the door. The moment Pizzar’s knuckles made contact with the door, a gust of wind flung the door open and Pizzar leaped back. Without further contemplation, he entered the house.

The moment Pizzar stepped inside the threshold, a sense of loneliness and sorrow swept through him. It was as if the house was abandoned by its owner. Pizzar felt his way forward with the aid of the moonlight that peaked through the diminutive windows. He espied a dusty table, on which lay a brand new candelabrum and a box of matches. It appeared that someone had been expecting Pizzar all along. He lit the candelabrum and cautiously walked around the house, flashing the protective light in every direction. As Pizzar entered the drawing room, something above the fireplace caught his attention. He stood frozen like a statue, with the light shining on the painting. His blue eyes met the lady’s beautiful green eyes. He drew closer, still focused on the canvas. As he closed in onto the painting, a range of nebulous sentiments soared through him. Melancholy. Isolation. Abhorrence. Pizzar stood there, for what seem to be eternity, just scrutinizing the painting. Unexpectedly, the floor creaked behind him and Pizzar was flung back into reality as he swiftly spun around to meet the threat. A mouse.

Pizzar took refuge on one of the chairs in the drawing room, using his jacket to drive the dust and spider webs that had slept untouched for many years. From his bag, he took out a fountain pen and his personal journal which he used to inscribe with care and great details about his journey.

10^th July 1896,

Today, I travelled across the land from Padua University to the Veneto, hoping to sail across to Venice to study the paintings of Titian. But what I found more remarkable was that in the cottage which I borrowed to rest for the night, hang the beautiful masterpiece of a woman. What engrossed my mind were the emotions I experienced. Emotions that were so boundless and extraordinary that no words of could describe them. Alas, I must fall in the hands of sleep now as I have a journey to embark on tomorrow.

Pizzar was woken up by the dull sunlight that crawled through the windows and shone on his face. The air smelt dense, full of dancing dust, as if the silence of the house had being disturbed by some great force. He had to hurry to catch the next boat to Venice or else he would have to endure another day in this peculiar dwelling. A few minutes later, he was packed and ready to leave, but something stopped him when he touched the handle of the door, something cogent, a feeling so strong that made him believed it was his obligation to stay. Submitting to its dominance, he slowly, half reluctantly, let go of the door knob and walked back. Pizzar thought that he might use the day exploring the house to see if there was anything of interest to him, besides the canvas, which Pizzar again caught from the corner of his eyes, something was different but he could not identify the dissimilarities.

After hours of searching through mountains of ancient books, he found something interesting. A small, heavy diary with a golden pattern that snaked from the top to the bottom of the cover and a handmade rope that marked the last written page. Pizzar knew he was forbidden to read people’s entries but the absence of the owner, if he or she was still alive, and his curiosity towards the house, compelled him to open the page where the rope meandered down the page.

9^th July 1765,

Today will probably be my last entry. My youngest daughter, Cosima, has been quite unwell lately since her oldest sister’s marriage and I do not understand the causes of such events. At night, she sleeps soundly, or she seems to, but when the clock strikes twelve, she screams and curses about love, the iniquity of it and the devil plans which she will undertake, which I shall keep in my head as an arcanum. I have searched all around Italy for the best doctors but none of them can define the beginning, or the end, of such terrible cause, while most of them proposed to me to send her to a place for people with strange characteristics. I have exhausted myself deliberating about such ideas but I have also reached a conclusion. I will send Cosima away, but before I do, incase I do not see her as much, I’ll invite my dear friend, Tiepolo, over, to paint a masterpiece of her which will be everlasting through my life and which will affect whoever sees the painting in the near future.

Pizzar looked up from the diary and faced the portrait, “So Cosima, are you the lady in the diary?” He lit the candelabrum, gently approached the painting and looked closely as he thought to himself, “A Tiepolo!” Something minute detail caught his attention, he could not remember the portrait smiling, maybe his eyes had been deceived by the candlelight. As he examined closer, he figured that it was not an ordinary smile, it was a smirk. A smirk that appeared on the face of the devil’s in Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Pizzar placed his figures on the painting, “Yes, the brush strokes were Tiepolo’s.” All of a sudden, he felt the hands of Cosima imperceptively move and he withdrew his own as if bitten by a snake.

Pizzar fumbled his way back to the door, never lifting his eyes off the painting. He violently felt for the door handle which refused to budge. He could still hear the wind howling outside, whistling through the chimney. Pizzar could feel strong emotions emanating from Cosima, feelings that she stored within her which were never expressed, feelings that no one tried to understand, feeling of jealousy, loneliness and love.

Cosima opened her mouth and to his horror, a visceral voice struck him. A coarse voice, but at the same time, a sweet melody rang within it. “I hath been a prisoner of the painting for a hundred years and you have come to rescue me! Come my dear, come with me in the painting for I am lonely and I will give you eternal life!” Pizzar vacillated, fear gripped him, sweat blinded him and his hair stood on its ends. From his eyes, he felt that Cosima was leaving the painting and with the fear, welded himself to the door. Cosima’s outstretched icy cold hands took his and at her touch, his mind screamed to warn him of the danger, but a strange attraction was drawing him towards Cosima. Cosima drew closer, tilted her head, until she was few inches from touching Pizzar’s. Her dead lips touched his red lips. Turmoil, but also pleasure, raged inside him and he could feel his soul ebbing away. With the last surge of strength, he lunged towards the lit candelabrum and threw it. The flames licked the canvas boarder and flames erupted. The paint crinkled and blistered, and in an instant, Cosima was forcibly removed and retracted back into the frame. A high pitch screech filled the house and soon the painting had become a trail of ash.

The morning sun was mounting up the sky as birds chipped happily in their homes. Pizzar opened the door and the sunshine shone on his blue and green eyes, projecting two shadows behind him.