Nothing was stolen.
My expensive camera was untouched.
My computer was untouched.
Only one thing was missing.
The painting of Eleanor's house.
I called the police.
They found no fingerprints.
No broken lock.
No useful evidence.
Eleanor never mentioned the incident.
But two days later, she came to my house.
“You should stop painting my property.”
“I paint whatever I want.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
She said nothing.
I waited.
Finally she whispered:
“Some things should remain forgotten.”
Then she walked away.
That sentence stayed with me.
So did the window.
I started painting the house again.
Not because I wanted to provoke Eleanor.
Because I was curious.
I photographed the property from different angles.
I studied the old architecture.
I searched public records.
The house had originally been built in 1911.
The Voss family had purchased it decades later.
But there was something strange.
The public records showed four bedrooms.
The architectural plans showed five.
There was an entire section of the second floor that didn't appear on the official documents.
And that missing section was directly behind the window I had painted.
I began sketching the house from memory.
Every time I finished, I noticed something different.
A chimney that didn't exist anymore.
A bricked-up doorway.
A strange metal vent beneath the attic.
And always...
That window.
One evening, I was painting again when I saw Eleanor standing outside.
She was staring at my canvas.
I opened the studio door.
“You can come in.”
She didn't move.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting.”
“You promised.”
“I promised not to display the first one.”
“You promised you would stop.”
“I never promised that.”
She looked at the canvas.
Then she said something that chilled me.
“You don't know what you're looking at.”
“Then tell me.”
She shook her head.
“You're safer not knowing.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“It's a warning.”
Then she walked away.
The next morning, I found three paintings lying in my backyard.
All destroyed.
Someone had slashed them with a knife.
But one painting was different.
It was a rough sketch of the second-floor window.
Across the canvas, someone had written:
STOP LOOKING.
I called the police again.
This time, I also called my brother, Marcus.
Marcus was a lawyer.