That was the first layer.

The door had no lock, but the hallway stretched longer than the house’s foundations allowed. I counted my steps: twelve to the first door. On the thirteenth, I was back at the entrance. A photograph of Father lay on the floor, his face smeared with what looked like oil paint—but smelled like turpentine and iron.

I returned for the portrait. Not the gaudy, half-finished one of Mother that the tabloids called “The Crying Canvas.” No. The small one. The one she painted of me at seven, before the madness took her palette.

They’re family.

I turned off the console. The room was dark. My hand ached. I looked down.

Here’s a short narrative draft inspired by the psychological tone and layered structure of Layers of Fear and its Inheritance DLC. The Brushstroke She Left Behind

She was smiling.