Noah first painted the valley in his sleep.
He didn't remember picking up the brush, didn't remember mixing the colors. He only knew that when he woke up, there was a fresh canvas on the easel, and his hands were smeared with green and gold.
The painting was beautiful.
Rolling hills bathed in golden light. A single, twisted oak standing at the top of a slope. A narrow dirt road winding through the grass.
He had never seen this place before.
But it felt familiar.
It happened again the next night.
A new painting. A different scene.
This time, it was a lake, dark and endless, surrounded by skeletal trees. The moon hung low, casting silver across the water.
Noah stared at it for a long time.
Something about it made his skin prickle.
The paintings kept coming.
A red barn on a hill. A field of sunflowers, each one bending in the same direction. A narrow alley filled with deep shadows.
They poured out of him, night after night. He wasn't sure why, wasn't sure how.
Then, one day, he saw it.
The valley.
He was driving home from an art exhibit, taking the long way through the countryside, when he spotted the hills through his windshield.
His stomach dropped.
It was the same.
The same golden light. The same twisted oak. The same dirt road curling through the grass.
Noah pulled over, heart pounding.
This was impossible.
He had never been here before. Never even heard of this place.
But there it was.
Exactly like his painting.
He started looking for them.
The lake? It was real.
The red barn? It stood exactly where he had painted it.
One by one, every scene from his paintings appeared in the real world.
Noah didn't know what to think.
It had to be some weird trick of the mind. Maybe he had seen them before and forgotten. Maybe—
Then he painted the alley.
And everything changed.
The alley was different from the others.
It was dark. Cold. The walls were damp brick, covered in peeling posters. A single streetlamp buzzed at the entrance, casting a sickly yellow glow.
Noah hadn't wanted to paint it.
But his hands had moved on their own.
By morning, it was finished.
And something about it made his stomach churn.
He told himself he wouldn't look for this one.
But a week later, he found it anyway.
It was in the city.
A shortcut behind an old theater.
He knew it the moment he saw it.
Same crumbling brick. Same flickering streetlamp.
Noah's mouth went dry.
He took a step forward, then another.
The air felt thick.
Heavy.
Something watched him from the dark.
A shadow shifted at the end of the alley.
Noah stopped breathing.
He couldn't see its face.
But it could see him.
A slow, scraping sound echoed through the alley—like something dragging itself closer.
Noah turned and ran.
That night, he burned the painting.
But it didn't matter.
Because the next morning, it was back.
Still wet.
Still waiting.
And in the reflection of the painted streetlamp—
Something was standing there.
Watching.
Smiling.
Waiting for him to come back.