I never imagined that one day I would feel afraid of the very house I had poured all my savings, effort, and faith into building. A house that was once a symbol of happiness and fulfillment for our small family suddenly became a place that sent chills down my spine — all because of an old painting.

My husband and I had been married for six years. Six years might not be a lifetime, but it was long enough for me to believe I was a lucky woman. My husband — David — was the kind of man anyone would praise without hesitation. He was gentle, calm, and responsible, never once raising his voice at me or our child. He loved his family deeply, cared for both sides of our parents, and never made me feel neglected or wronged.

Even my friends often said, “You really hit the jackpot marrying a man who’s both decent and faithful.”
And I believed that. Completely.

We weren’t rich, but we lived comfortably. After years of saving, we finally managed to buy a small house in the suburbs — nothing luxurious, but warm and cozy, just right for a family of three. On the day we moved in, I was so happy I almost cried. I imagined countless evenings filled with laughter, our child running around under the soft yellow lights of the living room.

While unpacking, we agreed to get rid of old, unnecessary items. Anything broken, outdated, or useless would be donated or thrown away so the house could feel fresh and spacious. I loved open, tidy spaces, so this mattered a lot to me.

But there was one item I couldn’t understand — an old painting.

The painting was so aged that the colors had faded into a dull yellowish blur. The wooden frame was chipped and cracked, and the image itself was barely recognizable. When I picked it up to put it in the discard pile, David suddenly panicked.

“Don’t! Don’t throw that away!”

His voice was so urgent it startled me.

“It’s really old,” I said gently. “Hanging this up will ruin the look of the house.”

But he shook his head firmly, an expression of stubbornness I had rarely seen on his face.
“No. This painting has to stay. It’s very important.”

Important?

I looked at it again. The image was barely visible — just the vague outline of what seemed to be a woman. The frame was damaged, completely out of place in our new home.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Whatever the reason, it doesn’t need to hang in the living room.”

But David insisted.
“I know it’s old. But I want to keep it. Please let me hang it in the living room.”

I felt uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable. But I tried to calm myself. Maybe it was a family keepsake, or something tied to a deceased relative. Everyone has private memories, and I didn’t want to be the kind of wife who controlled everything.

In the end, I gave in.

The old painting was hung right in the center of our living room — the most visible place in the house.

Whenever guests came over, they would stare at it with confusion. Some even laughed and joked,
“Such a nice house — why hang such an ancient-looking painting?”

I could only smile awkwardly. No one knew that I disliked it just as much.

But what bothered me most wasn’t the painting’s appearance — it was the way my husband treated it.

He cleaned it carefully. Whenever we tidied the house, he always wiped the painting first. Sometimes I caught him standing in front of it for a long time, his eyes distant and heavy with thoughts. When I asked him about it, he just smiled and said I was overthinking.

Slowly, an unease I couldn’t name began to grow inside me.

One morning, David left for a business trip that would last several days. Before leaving, he reminded me to keep the house safe and not let our child touch the painting. That casual remark sent a strange chill through me.

Why was he so concerned about that painting?

That night, after putting our child to bed, I sat alone in the living room. The yellow light cast eerie shadows on the old painting, making it look even more unsettling. I stood up and walked closer.

For the first time, I really looked at it.

The glass was cloudy. The wooden frame was cracked. Without thinking, I reached out and gently wiped one corner. Suddenly, the frame shifted slightly.

I froze and touched it again.

Click.

A faint sound echoed.

My heart started pounding. Something wasn’t right.

I carefully lifted the painting off the wall. As soon as I did, part of the back frame loosened — and something thin fell to the floor.

I bent down and picked it up.

It was an old photograph.

The moment I saw it clearly, my entire body went cold, as if someone had poured ice water over me.

In the photo was a young woman with delicate features and gentle eyes. She wore a white dress and stood beside… my husband.

It wasn’t a casual photo. The intimacy between them was undeniable.

My hands trembled. My heart felt like it was being crushed.

I had never seen this woman before.

On the back of the photo, there were a few handwritten words, faded but still legible:

“To David — my love. No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

I could barely breathe.

This was no meaningless keepsake. This wasn’t just anyone. The woman in the photo — the one my husband had hidden for so many years — was someone who mattered deeply.

I collapsed onto the floor, clutching the photo as countless questions flooded my mind.

Who was she?
Why did he keep her picture?
Why did he hang that painting in the most prominent place in our home?
And… did I truly know the man I had lived with for six years?

I remembered the times he stood silently in front of the painting. The distant look in his eyes. The strange caution whenever I got close to it.

Everything came together into a picture far more terrifying than anything I had imagined.

Who was the woman in the photograph?
Was she really dead?
And if she was, why was my husband still living with her memory — right in the house we shared?

I sat there for a long time, until night completely fell. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. Inside our new home, there was only me, the old painting, and a secret I knew — from that moment on — would never let me live in peace again.