Emmy hated going to his grandparent’s house. They were nice people, but it was the painting that pushed him over the edge.

A small portrait of a little girl, whose eyes held suffering that was hard to ignore. She wore a pretty green dress, and her arms were wrapped tightly around a plush bear.

It was hung in a room at the back of the house, left completely preserved from the eddies and flow of time. The portrait had been painted long ago, by a man who loved his daughter with a fervour unlike most. His wife had died during childbirth, and the little girl was the only family he had left. She died of smallpox, and her father followed a year after.

When Emmy first stayed at his grandparent’s house, he found the painting and watched it silently for most of his visit. His grandmother tried to coax him away with biscuits and promises to go to the local pool, but he would not be budged. Every time he visited after that, he heard quiet whispers, pawing at the edges off his consciousness.

‘Find me, save me, help me…’

He tried, but failed. He gave up and tried to ignore the whispers, but they grew stronger after every visit. One day, after staying in the guest bedroom after his grandma’s 67th birthday party, he whispered, ‘what do you want?’

And the voice responded.

And it told him, ‘I want to be found. Please, find me.’

Emmy whispered, ‘But where are you?’

And the voice said, ‘You know where. You know what to do. I have told you. You must do it. You must find me. Please. Please bring me peace.’

And the little boy knew what he must do.

He crept out of bed, past his parents and grandparents still up and chatting, into the small room in the back. He walked up to the girl with the sad eyes, and moved the portrait off the wall. And there he saw a terrible sight, a testament to the father’s insanity.

A small skeleton waited in the dark, sitting in the same pose, wearing the same dress, holding the same bear as in the portrait. The dress and the bear were nigh unrecognisable from mould and rot.

Emmy sank down. He started to scream. He curled up into a little ball and didn’t stop screaming until he was safely in his own bed.

Emmy was always a little quieter after that day. He had seen something, and it affected him for life. And if you asked him nicely, maybe he’d tell you about the whispers that never stopped. Even after she was laid to rest, even after he went to sleep, he couldn’t escape them. But that would mean that he wasn’t meant to find the little girl. Emmy was not brave enough to chance what other horrors his grandparent’s house held. And so the whispers haunted him for the rest of his days, begging him, pleading with him, to do something so simple, so important, and bring the spirit peace.