Do Not Feed the Portrait

How it begins

The woman in the photograph had no face.

Celia found it beside the new portrait, half beneath the velvet rope. A cheerful holiday snapshot. Two people outside a museum. One smiling man. One smooth oval where a woman should have been.

She assumed printing error.

Then the oval moved.

Not much.

Enough.

Celia put the photograph on her cleaning trolley and looked at the portrait.

Lady in Green. Artist unknown. Generously donated by the Bellweather Foundation.

The woman in the painting wore a dark dress and a necklace of small red stones. Her mouth had been closed yesterday.

Celia knew because she cleaned the glass every evening and because people with expensive clothes usually watched cleaners as though their mouths were permanently closed.

Tonight, the painted lips were slightly apart.

Something white showed between them.

Photographic paper.

Celia backed away.

Her trolley struck the wall.

The sound brought Adam from the conservation room, still wearing his magnifying lenses on his forehead.

"Please be careful."

"With which part?"

He saw the photograph.

Then the portrait.

He removed the lenses.

"Where did you get that?"

"Your generous donor's new acquisition appears to be eating visitors."

"Don't say that."

"Would you prefer consuming engagement?"

Adam did not laugh.

That frightened her more.

From the corridor came the click of the automatic security doors. Closing time. The museum settling itself into a place where only objects were expected to remain awake.

Celia looked again at the painted woman.

The necklace had changed.

One red stone now contained a tiny face.

A face from the photograph.

"How many people came today?" she asked.

Adam stared at the necklace.

There were forty-three stones.

He reached for his phone.

Celia caught his wrist.

"Who are you calling?"

"The director."

"Does the director know?"

His silence answered.

Behind them, the portrait made the soft, unmistakable sound of someone swallowing.