The Moment’s Christmas ghost story | The Painting by Victoria Peterson

Prepare to be thrilled and chilled by our winning ghost story this Christmas. Many congratulations to our winner, Victoria Peterson, thanks to all who entered – it was a very tough choice! – and many thanks again to our judge, Stuart Orme

The clock struck the hour, as was customary and its purpose; a small fire crackled in the grate. Late afternoon was upon me, the time of year predisposing it to sullen gloom. I rose, drew the blind and looked about, taking in piles of papers yet to be examined; steel filing cabinets: immutable monuments to impending hours of monotonous toil…

‘The building lay empty for years, until Sir James bought it to house the business. Of course, no-one would – nobody could – live here after… Ah, here we are!’

Mr Cheams had led me up several flights of creaking, shadowy mahogany, flanked by panelling of the same, to my new office. The job was prestigious and well-remunerated, but tedious; as a new husband and father I had little choice but to take it.

‘You’ll be quite comfortable,’ Cheams continued as he opened the door and stood back to let me pass, lingering on the threshold as I stepped first over to the windowsill, which lay under a thick cloak of dust, then to the desk, languishing beneath the same. I traced a line of dark, emerging teak with my finger. ‘Soon have it spick and span!’ beamed Cheams. ‘We would have cleaned it, but the staff won’t…’

At that he’d simply ducked an awkward semi-bow and disappeared down the stairs, leaving me to apply elbow grease and a dusting cloth to my new workplace before I could tackle the papers Sir James had left me. After an hour of solid concentration I flung myself back in my chair, which groaned alarmingly, and massaged my eyes with the tips of my fingers.

It was then that I saw the painting.

Worked roughly from a limited palette of gloomy oils was a portrait of perhaps the most frightening man I had ever seen. He was not unattractive, but in his demeanour was an impression of such cruelty, such venom, I had to avert my gaze. I turned my back, returning to work, but after a few minutes I could not resist sneaking a further glance. Of course, he was still there, but this time it seemed as though his eyes swivelled to meet mine exactly. I leapt to my feet. The fire had dwindled down almost to nothing and I had quite run out of coal. I snatched up my jacket and bolted for the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

‘Cheams,’ I called out. ‘I’ve no more coal.’

Cheams shuffled, blinking, from his office.

‘Also… that picture in my office.’

‘Picture?’

‘The one of the man: black hair… piercing eyes. He looks, I don’t know, as though… as though he wouldn’t mind beating a dog to death, even a scullery maid if she crossed him. Anyway, it’s simply not to my taste. I’d like it removed.’

Cheams suddenly became very pale. ‘How could you possibly…?’ He leaned a hand, for a moment, on the banisters.

‘Cheams? The picture?’

‘There’s no picture in that room, sir. There never has been.’