Eggshells

Margaret Whitlock was known as the best artist in the sleepy town of Greystone. Her specialty was Easter egg sculptures—delicate, intricate creations painted with painstaking detail. Each egg was a marvel, depicting pastoral scenes, mythical creatures, and swirling patterns so fine they seemed almost alive. Every Easter, people from all over flocked to her gallery to admire and buy her work.

But Margaret herself was a mystery. She rarely attended gallery showings or spoke with buyers. Her neighbors whispered about her temper, her reclusive nature, and the strange sounds that came from her studio late at night. None of them knew the truth: Margaret poured her deepest emotions into her art, each brushstroke imbued with her frustrations, her pain, her suppressed rage. And something—some dark force—had taken notice.

That year, Margaret's Easter collection was her most ambitious yet. She locked herself in her studio for weeks, barely eating or sleeping. When she emerged, she unveiled twenty eggs, each more beautiful than the last. But there was something unsettling about them. The scenes painted on the shells were darker than usual—stormy skies, shadowy forests, strange, malformed creatures lurking in the background. Yet buyers clamored for them, oblivious to the unease that lingered in the air.

On the eve of Easter, Margaret sat alone in her studio, surrounded by her creations. A storm raged outside, thunder shaking the windows as rain lashed against the panes. Exhausted, she drifted to sleep at her workbench, a paintbrush still in her hand.

At midnight, the first egg cracked.

A faint sound woke Margaret—a delicate tap-tap-tap, like a fingernail on glass. She blinked, disoriented, and glanced around the room. The eggs sat on their pedestals, gleaming under the dim light. Then she saw it: a thin crack snaking across the surface of one egg.

She rose to her feet, heart pounding. “No,” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

The crack widened, spreading like a spiderweb. With a sharp pop, the shell shattered, and something slithered out. It was small, no larger than a cat, but its twisted form was horrifying. A lopsided body, limbs ending in jagged claws, and eyes that glowed with an unnatural red light. It turned its head toward Margaret, and its mouth split into a jagged grin.

The other eggs began to crack.

Margaret backed away, her breath coming in panicked gasps as one by one, her creations emerged. Each was more grotesque than the last, their forms reflecting the darkness she had poured into her art. They were her anger, her sorrow, her bitterness made flesh.

The creatures surrounded her, their glowing eyes fixed on her trembling form. “What... what do you want?” she stammered.

The largest of them stepped forward, its malformed face inches from hers. “We want you,” it hissed, its voice a guttural echo of her own. “You gave us life, and now you will give us freedom.”

Before she could react, they pounced.

________________________________________

The next morning, Greystone woke to a chilling sight. Margaret’s gallery was destroyed, the windows shattered, and her studio reduced to splinters. Her body was never found, but the townsfolk discovered her eggs—perfectly intact, their surfaces gleaming in the sunlight.

One by one, the eggs were taken by curious collectors, who marveled at their beauty and ignored the faint sense of unease that clung to them.

That night, the eggs began to crack again.

Thank you, everyone, for reading through or listening to my stories in your free time. I do appreciate the support!