The House of Painted Windows The Beauregard house sat on the edge of a swamp in Mississippi. The walls were grey, the wood half-eaten by termites, the roof tiles missing in patches where rain seeped through and left yellow stains on the floor. The Beauregards had once been the most prominent family in this region. By the time Syl was born, there were only him and his sister Cecilia left, guarding a house that was slowly collapsing. Syl had a secret. A secret that had been passed down from his great-grandfather: every Beauregard boy died before twenty-five. Not by accident. Not by murder. They just died. Syl's grandfather Edmund died at forty-two, heart disease. Syl's father died at thirty-eight, same cause. Syl's uncle died at twenty-five, and nobody knew the cause, because his body was found already rotting. Syl was nineteen. His heart had problems. The doctor said he might not live to twenty-five. But Beauregard boys shared something else. Before they died, they all showed extraordinary artistic talent. Edmund was a painter. His works had been exhibited in Paris. His father was a composer, wrote hymns in New Orleans churches. His uncle was a poet, wrote some manuscripts but never published them. Syl was too. He had known since he was small that he was different. He could hear the sound of colors—red walls hummed low in his ears, blue skies rang like wind chimes above his head. He could smell music—Bach's fugues smelled like old books and dust, Chopin's nocturnes smelled like roses and rotting leaves. He started painting in the estate. Using the cheapest paint from town, on canvases from a thrift store. He painted the corridors of the house, the water of the swamp, his sister Cecilia standing on the porch, Old Anne cooking soup in the kitchen. His paintings had a strange beauty—not the pretty kind, but a rotting beauty. Like lotus flowers in a swamp, growing from mud, white petals but black-stained stems. Cecilia knew her brother's secret. She knew Syl's paintings weren't ordinary—they were part of the Beauregard family curse. Every Beauregard boy fought death with art. Edmund with brushes, his father with notes, his uncle with verses, Syl with colors. But the curse wouldn't be lifted by art. Lester Winfield had visited the estate a few times. He wanted to buy the land, because there might be oil under the swamp. Cecilia refused every time. She said, "The Beauregard home is not for sale." But Syl knew his sister couldn't hold on much longer. The repair costs were rising. Cecilia made money selling produce and doing needlework, and it wasn't enough to pay taxes. One night, Syl painted in his studio. He painted a boy sitting at a piano. The piano had no keys. Only white flowers grew from the piano box. The boy's face was blurred, but he could recognize it—it was himself. Or it was his grandfather Edmund. Or it was all Beauregard boys. After painting, Syl felt a sharp pain in his chest. He fell beside the easel, unable to breathe. Old Anne found him. She called the doctor. The doctor said, "His heart is getting weaker. I don't know how long he has." Cecilia sat by Syl's bed, holding his hand. She said, "You won't die. You promised me." Syl wanted to ask "What did I promise you?" but he couldn't remember. He only remembered the painting—the white flowers growing from the piano. The doctor left. Cecilia said, "Tomorrow I'll take your paintings to Jackson. Find someone who can sell them." Syl said, "Don't sell." Cecilia said, "Sell." The next day, Cecilia took Syl's paintings to Jackson. She met three gallery owners, two art collectors, a university professor. Nobody wanted to buy these paintings. They said, "These paintings are too strange." They said, "These paintings make people uncomfortable." They said, "These paintings... look like they came from a dream." Only one old woman stopped to look. She looked for a long time, then said, "Who painted these?" Cecilia said, "My brother." The old woman said, "How old is he?" Cecilia said, "Nineteen." The old woman said, "Is he dying?" Cecilia didn't answer. The old woman said, "I've seen paintings like this. My grandfather painted things like this too. He died at thirty-eight." The old woman didn't buy the paintings. But she gave Cecilia a phone number, saying, "If your brother is willing, he can come to New York. I have a friend in New York, an art critic. He might... notice these paintings." Cecilia brought the number back to the estate. She gave it to Syl. Syl looked at the number for a long time. Then he put it on the windowsill of the studio. He didn't call. Because he knew if he left the estate, he would never come back. Beauregard boys all died on Beauregard land. It was a curse. And it was home. But he started painting a new piece. He spent three months on it. It was the windows of the Beauregard estate—every window painted in a different color, red, blue, green, yellow. Inside the windows were not rooms, but landscapes—swamps, forests, rivers, sky. The night Syl finished that painting, his heart failed severely for the first time. He fell in front of the easel, and the canvas was crushed under his body. Cecilia called the doctor, but the doctor only said one thing: "Prepare for the end." Syl lay in bed for three days. On the third night, he asked Cecilia to bring the window painting to his bedside. He looked at the painting for a long time. Then he said, "Sister, I painted an exit." Cecilia cried. She said, "I'm not letting you go." Syl said, "I know." On the morning of the fourth day, Cecilia found Syl dead. His face had a smile on it. Old Anne found a sketchbook on Syl's bedside. The last page of the sketchbook showed a window. Sunlight was outside the window. Cecilia hung the window painting in the estate's corridor. Sunlight shone through the colored windows, casting colorful spots on the floor. Old Anne said, "These paintings make the house less frightening." Cecilia said, "Yes." The Beauregard estate was later bought by Lester Winfield. Because he found that there was indeed oil under the swamp. But the window painting still hung in the corridor. Everyone who walked into the estate could see that colored window. Some said that at night, that window would glow. © 2026 - Authored by Z R ZHANG ( EL9507135 -- デスプアトカザスピカツ[⾙、のくる] Dд;由需史 Роусетиме ѣђєАџГНЬмЩцебесЬн Passnummer ترجاجسسسف CHN Passport) The aforementioned Author hereby grants to OXFORD INDUSTRIAL HOLDING GROUP (ASIA PACIFIC) CO., LIMITED （BRN74685111） all economic property rights, including but not limited to the rights of: reproduction, distribution, rental, exhibition, performance, communication to the public via information network, adaptation, compilation, commercial operation, authorization for third-party use, and rights enforcement. Such grant is exclusive and irrevocable. The term of such rights shall be 49 years from the date of publication. To contact author, please email to datatorent@yeah.net