☙ THE PORTRAIT THAT WEPT BLOOD ☙

A Sequel to “The Whispering Lace of Widow Briarvale”By An Anonymous Lady

“The eyes follow still, though the hand that painted them is long dead.” — From the notebook of Inspector L. Corbyn, 1890.

❧ Published in The London Penny Gazette, November 7th, 1889

Price One Penny

CHAPTER I

The House Reopened

[Editor’s Note: The following is taken from the recovered journal of Inspector Leonard Corbyn, assigned to the peculiar case of Mrs. Eleanor Briarvale, deceased.]

When I first entered the late Widow Briarvale’s home in Whitechapel, it was as though the air itself resisted intrusion. The curtains hung heavy with soot, the mirrors veiled in dust, and every room possessed a hush unnatural even to the dead.

Upon the mantel stood a portrait of Dr. Henry Briarvale, a fine likeness by the hand of Mr. Whitcombe, now ten years in his grave. The subject’s eyes, however—painted with uncanny realism—appeared wet, as though with unshed tears.

The coroner had declared Mrs. Briarvale’s death a case of apoplexy under distress. Yet I found the body upright in her chair, her expression serene, her skin pale as candle wax, and her throat encircled by lace that no one could remove. The fabric seemed to cling as ivy clings to stone.

The servants had fled the premises days prior, claiming to hear whispers through the sewing box. Superstition, I thought. Until the portrait began to weep.

[Margin note: “See Illustration — The Inspector Discovers the Weeping Portrait.”]

CHAPTER II

The Blood in the Varnish

On the second night of my inspection, I was awakened by a sound like the dragging of cloth across the floorboards. The air was damp, fetid, metallic. I lit my lamp—and there, upon the portrait’s face, glistened two slow rivulets of red.

I approached in disbelief. The pigment itself seemed to swell and ooze as though the canvas had been wounded. The tears trickled down and pooled upon the frame.

When I reached out to touch them, they were warm.

I confess that I recoiled. Even the hardened men of the Yard would have.

At that moment, a soft voice issued from the adjoining parlour—feminine, faint, and mournful.

“Do not wake him…”

I turned, lamp raised. The room was empty. But upon the wall beside the hearth now hung another portrait—a new one.

It was the likeness of a woman in mourning, her features delicate and familiar.

It was Mrs. Briarvale.

Yet the paint was still wet.

CHAPTER III

The Painter in the Mirror

I sent for the parish constable at once, but before he arrived, I was compelled to look again. The widow’s painted eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved. And though I knew the brushstrokes were mere illusion, I could have sworn that her lips trembled.

The fire sputtered. The air thickened with the scent of iron and rosewater.

Then, within the mirror opposite the portraits, I saw him.

Dr. Henry Briarvale—his form half-obscured by shadow—stood behind me, his face calm, his surgeon’s apron spattered with crimson.

He raised a hand as if in benediction, or warning. His mouth did not move, yet his voice filled the room:

“You should not have opened the door.”

The glass shivered violently and cracked down the centre. When I turned, the apparition was gone. But the portraits had changed.

In the doctor’s painting, his expression had softened—almost content. In the widow’s, her head now rested upon his shoulder, though the brush had not been touched.

The blood upon the frame had dried.

CHAPTER IV

The Lace Returns

That night, as I made to leave the house, I found the door sealed fast. No key turned it, no force moved it. The lace curtains at the window fluttered though there was no wind.

Then I heard it—the faint whisper, rising from beneath the floorboards, threading through the walls like a distant lullaby:

“Each stitch was a prayer… each drop a promise…”

The sewing table stood in the corner, the box open. Inside lay a piece of lace, white as bone and freshly sewn. Its pattern coiled upon itself, intricate and pulsing faintly in the lamplight—as though it remembered breath.

Before I could flee, it lifted, slow and deliberate, and wrapped itself about my wrist.

A voice, soft and intimate, whispered near my ear—though I stood alone.

“Inspector… will you sit for a portrait?”

The lace constricted. The lamp fell and shattered.

CHAPTER V

The Final Illustration

[Editor’s Postscript: The house of Widow Briarvale was condemned and later burned to its foundations. No remains were recovered save a portion of scorched canvas, depicting two figures seated together by a hearth.]

The figures—presumed to be Dr. and Mrs. Briarvale—were painted with exquisite realism. Between them sat a third person, scarcely discernible at first glance. Upon closer study, it was revealed to be a man in uniform.

A constable.

The eyes of all three subjects had been scratched away.

When examined under lamplight, faint lines of red seeped anew from the painting’s surface—though none could determine from where.

[Margin note: “See Illustration — The Final Portrait.”]

❧ END OF THE TALE

IIt is said that, on nights when the fog lies thick over Whitechapel, the faint glimmer of a window flame appears where the Briarvale house once stood. And if one listens closely, one may hear the rhythmic tap of a needle—and the quiet weeping of a painted eye.