Right now, I'm just a regular college freshman. But this is the story of the absolute worst thing that ever happened to me, back on a summer night in my high school art room during my sophomore year.

The reason I've decided to tell this story now is that I recently got a terrified text from a younger member of the art club back at my old school: "Senior, did something happen in the art room when you were here?"

"That thing" is still there in that room. And the horror is still being passed down among the students today.

It happened during the summer of my sophomore year in high school, when I stayed late by myself in the art room past 10:00 PM because I couldn't finish an assignment.

In the dead silence of the empty room, I felt a strange vibration—tap, tap, tap—coming from the back of the canvas I was working on.

Immediately after, a dark red liquid—blood—started seeping out from the center of the white canvas, ripping open violently from the inside with a loud tearing sound. Spilling onto the floor was a massive heap of peeled human fingernails and hair.

Panicked, I bolted out of the art room and ran across the grounds in the dark, but from behind came a "soundless tread"—an unnatural approach with zero footfalls, accompanied only by the rustling of clothes.

Looking back, I saw a grotesque figure bent like a spider with its arms and legs bent backward at the joints. With a pitch-black face and long, narrow white eyes, it crawled silently toward me at full speed, devouring fingernails and blood as it charged.

I ducked into a nearby night-watchman's room and locked the door, but alongside the brutal slamming sound of it bashing its head against the iron door, a flat, emotionless voice echoed directly inside my mind—sounding just like my best friend: "[Name], let's paint together! Come on out." Trapped in a taboo where acknowledging my own name meant certain doom, I bit down hard on my fingers and endured the entire night.

When morning came, I was saved, but later I learned that behind the wooden frame of that torn canvas, a message had been carved in dark red paint: "You, who stared at this canvas first, are my next paint (child)."

I somehow managed to graduate and become a college freshman, but that canvas still remains in that art room to this day, though its form may have changed.

According to my junior, even now, if you walk past the art room late at night, a "soundless presence" with no footsteps will approach the door from inside, or you'll hear the violent ripping sound of a canvas being torn apart in a room where no one should be.