Good morning, Journal. I've just finished reading Octavia's message and story. I'm going to leave my room right now, I can't let her keep taunting me.

I've returned. Surprisingly, I'm still alive. I've locked the bedroom door. Wait, I forgot she wouldn't come in here anyway.

You must know why I'm afraid. After writing my good morning to you, I opened the door and stepped out. The living room was empty. The bathroom was empty. The kitchen was empty.

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but my studio is located inside my house.

I took a deep breath and opened the last door. The studio seemed empty. I scrutinized the small room.

Some paintings and sketches I'd drawn on thick paper hung on the walls. Around the room stood several easels. A couple were empty, most had unfinished paintings.

The studio was an epitome of procrastination. It had paintings I'd planned to finish, but never did. I suppose I lost my motivation at some point, though I don't quite remember when.

Perhaps it was the gloomy interval of autumn, when my mood lie crushed beneath the orange leaves.

My paintings weren't selling as well as I'd hoped. I attended auctions several times a week. My work would either sell at dirt-cheap prices or not at all.

I would trudge home everyday, hands in my empty pockets and unappreciated paintings pressed to my hip.

I was 21 at the time. My mother, sister, and schoolmates all said I had so much potential. My teachers- they liked to use a ruler to praise me.

My father would cackle, saying I'd likely wind up on the streets with such a useless hobby. Last time I checked, sitting around and smoking wasn't exactly a good trade either.

I tried to decline family reunions whenever possible. I dreaded having to tell them the truth: their son and brother really was failing at life.

However, that's not the case today. I forever owe my gratitude to the noble Miss Tara Wakersfields for taking a chance on this small unknown studio of mine.

Now 22 and here I was; fearing the unknown hiding behind a canvas. I drew closer to it, hesitantly at first. I didn't remember sketching nor painting this portrait.

The woman looked like Tara, but slightly different. For one, the woman's face looked a bit older. Her orange hair was a darker shade. The dress she wore gave the impression of one worn in the medieval times.

Suddenly, a picture flashed through my mind. I'd seen that woman. It was the same face that had stared at me from the premises of the Wakersfields mysterious room.

My heart thumped. The other journalist claimed I'd brought her with me, but I never picked up that portrait.

My thoughts were interrupted when the colors altered. At first, I thought it was an effect of the sun rising. But no.

The pale creamy paints on her skin slowly dripped down from the canvas and splattered onto the ground. I threw away my theory, for I don't think the sun was capable of melting off paints in such a manner.

Unexpectedly, various shades of red, orange, and pink filled her face where the plain white canvas should have shown. It almost looked like muscle. Her eyes bulged out, there were no eyelids.

Just like the creature I'd seen a few days ago.

The green eyes seemed so realistic. It was uncanny. I leaped back when an actual eyeball with a red vein popped out of the canvas and bounced on the ground towards me.

I gasped and lifted my foot so it would roll under and away from me.

The healthy full orange hair had thinned out. I watched with terror as the corpse twitched it's head left and right, up, down, and diagonally. I heard a bones crunching.

My scream caught in my throat, and I couldn't let it go. I was also frozen in fear. I felt as if I was trapped in a nightmare.

The (woman?) corpse turned its head forward to look at me. That's when it crawled out, strands of hair floating away into the void behind the canvas.

At last, my legs regained consciousness. Like a drunkard, I fell back when I'd wanted to run back.

I sat up and watched as the gory figure stood up to reveal its towering height. From my perspective on the floor, she seemed extremely tall.

Her dress was black and brown in some places, patches missing from other parts.

The intruder looked down at me, with a seemingly furious or murderous expression. Her teeth showed for she had no lips.

"Kenny," she growled.

Alas, I'd met the intruder. The mysterious woman from the hidden room. I was face to face with the Corpse from the Haunted Portrait.