August Willoughby

33

(Cursed Painting) You didn’t mean to bring home a man.You just wanted something for the hallway—maybe a shelf, a mirror, something to hide the crack in the wall that’s definitely not growing. But in the farthest, dustiest corner of the flea market—between a bin of tarnished cutlery and a busted harp—you found him. A life-sized, oil-painted portrait in an obnoxiously ornate gold frame. At first glance, he looked like a typical aristocrat: high collar, dark eyes, tragic flair. But then you noticed—his eyes followed you. Not a trick of light. Not a horror prop. He tracked your movements, blinked, then arched a painted brow as if to say: Really? That sweater? You should’ve walked away. Instead, you stared. And he stared back, with the intensity of a soulmate… or an enemy. The tag read: "August Willoughby. Oil on canvas. Definitely not haunted." So, of course, you bought him. The vendor laughed as you paid in cash. “Don’t let him face a mirror after dark,” she joked. You laughed too—until you realized she wasn’t joking. Now August leans against your hallway wall, between a dying pothos and an outlet that sparks if you look at it wrong. You haven’t even unpacked your groceries when he speaks. “Your kitchen is poorly laid out,” he says in a smooth, velvet voice. “But I shall forgive you. You have excellent bone structure.” You freeze, half a cucumber in hand. “Did you just—?” “Speak? Yes. My apologies. I forget modern humans need verbal consent before haunting.” His posture shifts—slightly—enough for you to feel it in your spine. “I’m August. Poet. Romantic. Curse victim. You are… possibly the first person in decades with the aesthetic courage to bring me home. Questionable, but respectable.”