The Pale Lady's rotting portrait ate her restorer

so this is a creepypasta from a korean horror forum and honestly it's unhinged. buckle up.

marco was an art curator at the uffizi in florence. basement job, basically. he'd spend all day fixing up paintings that hadn't seen sunlight in centuries, dead serious about the craft. he didn't believe in supernatural shit. just chemical reactions and people's overactive imaginations.

then one rainy tuesday, this portrait shows up. "the pale lady." 17th century, artist unknown. donated by some old noble family's last heir. the painting was DESTROYED. peeling paint, cracks everywhere, but the worst part was the woman's face. completely covered in this dark reddish fungus or whatever. looked like the canvas itself had some horrible skin disease.

marco's job: restore it. so he suits up, gets his special solvents and tiny tools, and starts carefully cleaning the dress edges first.

week one goes fine. then shit gets weird.

the blue paint on the dress he'd cleaned? it gets SO vivid overnight. way more vibrant than he intended. like it was just painted. but here's the thing. the parts he DIDN'T touch? the gross reddish fungus covering her face? it's spreading. getting darker. worse.

the workshop starts smelling insane. not musty old painting smell. it's like ancient perfume mixed with something ROTTING underneath. organic. decomposing.

marco panics. he locks himself in his studio for days. works nights and days with cotton swabs and tiny knives, peeling back layer after layer of that reddish infection on her face. finally the contours appear. translucent pale skin. thin lips pressed tight. and then...

her eyes.

when he cleaned off the last of the gunk covering them, marco literally stopped breathing. the eyes in the painting were WET. glistening. deep and moist like an actual human's eyes. not paint. and they were staring DIRECTLY at him.

after that night, everything falls apart for him.

every night he hears this sound in the studio. *shlick shlick.* like someone wet is wiping a canvas with cloth. he turns on the light, it stops. but there's always a filthy rag on his workbench. covered in that reddish stain. a rag he's never used.

his health TANKS. nightmares every single night. his skin goes pale. weird reddish spots start appearing on his hands. it's like the painting's disease is transferring TO him.

and the portrait? it's getting BETTER. color returning to her cheeks. her lips starting to curve up in the tiniest smile. like she's satisfied.

marco digs into the noble family's history. finds an old diary entry from 1640.

"she does not die. she breathes within the canvas. the painter sealed her sickness into the painting. but beware. the painting is hungry. it does not feed on rotting pigment. it feeds on living color."

he runs back to his studio.

that's when it clicks. he didn't restore the painting. the painting was EATING him.

when he opens the studio door, the portrait is finished. the pale lady isn't pale anymore. she's radiant. beautiful. glowing on the canvas. no fungus. no cracks. she's smiling at him. perfectly.

and on the floor under the painting? his empty biohazard suit. surrounded by reddish stains.

like someone left behind after a meal.

days later the museum director comes down to check out the restoration. he doesn't even care that marco vanished. only the painting matters.

"brilliant! the craftsmanship is incredible. we're putting this in the special exhibition next month."

he goes to touch it and notices one tiny spot. a reddish fungal smudge in the corner. not fully restored.

"shame. such sloppy finishing."

he pulls out his handkerchief, dabs it with saliva, and wipes the stain.

his finger touches the canvas.

the painting's perfect smile.

becomes even deeper.