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On the wall sits a portrait of the deceased Number Four.
He was only thirteen years old; gone much too quick, and carried a cloud of grief much too slow.
The exact circumstances of his death were unknown, everybody had their own theories but none of them seemed to be true…
Their father said that he overdosed on sleep-aids and painkillers, but everyone knew that Number Four smoked weed to help ease the ghosts so him suddenly taking a bunch of pills seemed unlikely. Pogo said that his personal training went wrong and the ghosts killed him, but Four was never able to make ghosts corporeal before.
Their Mom said that Four did not die but just passed on. Nobody found it in their hearts to disagree.
One and Three thought that their brother had finally gone home: to the realm of the dead where he already had a foot in the door, but Four hated the dead so why would he want to reside there willingly?
Two thought that their brother was depressed and decided to end his pain, but he didn’t think it was through drugs so the question was: how?
Five thought that their brother ran away to live a life free of oppression and responsibility, but would their father really say he died then?
Seven thought that their brother got injured on a mission and didn’t tell anybody, eventually dying in his sleep, but Four was always quite the drama-queen so it was improbable for him to remain silent about a wound.
Six didn’t know what to think. One moment his best friend is there, the next he’s not. Reginald wouldn’t let them see the body (if there even was a body) and nobody even knew exactly when he was “pronounced” dead. They just woke up one morning and they sat down for breakfast, waiting for Four to arrive before their father informed them that he wouldn’t be joining them.
Six wanted to cry, but no tears ever came. He wanted to scream, but no noise ever left his mouth. He wanted to punch the wall and curse the heavens for taking such a vibrant individual away from the world, but he just sat there. Like a weight was resting on his chest. Like cotton had filled his ears. Like a vignette effect clouded his vision. Like his heart had broke because that was his brother and he loved him more than Reginald loved being an insensitive asshole. And now he’s gone and no one knows why and all he’s got is this stupid painting, a stupid painting that shows the medium looking all prim and proper with a confident gaze and a serious line for a mouth and it was so stupid stupid stupid because Four would have smiled. Four would have had a mischievous lightness in his forest-green eyes. He would have had disheveled curly locks pointing in every direction. He would have had his tie slightly askew. He would have had black nail polish on his fingers and brown mascara on his lashes.
He wasn’t this fake, stupid boy staring at them in arrogance, watching their every move.
Six hated the painting. He hated it with every fiber of his being. But not just because it depicted the son their father wished he had, it was also due to the fact that it quite literally felt like the painting was watching him.
Six had noticed it about two weeks after the funeral: an itch at the back of the mind, a sense of unsettlement that made his shoulders go taut. Of course, it could have just been the idea that the painting was a reminder that their brother was really gone and Six just didn’t want to accept it; but when he makes eye contact with it as he crosses the room, he can feel the gaze follow his movements.
Everybody thought he was crazy for a while, pitying his handlement of their recently deceased brother. But about two weeks later, Five declared that he was going to time-travel and ran out on breakfast only to pass through the foyer on the way to the front door and turn right back around to sit back in his seat. Nobody dared ask what made him change his mind so quickly for a week before it was eventually brought up in a conversation. Five seemed conflicted and skeptical as he explained that when entering the foyer, he felt someone looking at him and when he glanced at the painting, the portrait was frowning. Of course, everyone was doubtful, even Five himself, but Six believed it.
The painting made him uncomfortable, not that he didn’t like the idea of Four watching over them but the fact that the boy in the portrait, the Four-but-not-really-Four, was doing it wasn’t assuring in the slightest. It was haunting.
Three months after Four’s death, Six had gotten used to the gaze of the painting; he learned to just pass through the foyer as quickly as possible. He stopped bringing up the feeling and Five never brought up the frown again. But now, they are all standing in the foyer, watching as One and Two get up in each other’s faces and spit venom from their mouths, and Six can’t help but keep glancing over his shoulder at the portrait on the wall. He can sense the stare burning a hole into the back of his head until Two throws a fist; the feeling vanishes. And Six, hesitantly, turns around just in time to see it smirk. His eyes widen and blink a couple of times but Four’s face looks exactly the same as it always has so surely it must have been his imagination, right? Perhaps the fight just triggered some memories of Four cheering on Two from the corner with a wide grin on his face, placing bets and clapping enthusiastically; perhaps he was hoping for a glimpse of his brother’s true self and his brain just supplied the mental image over the painting, making it appear warped in features. Perhaps he really was going crazy.
He didn’t know so he left the foyer and went to his room to lay down, swearing he heard the faintest of giggles follow him up the stairs.
On their fourteenth birthday, they were given names. Names… real names, normal names... not just numbers. Five refused to receive one, remembering long ridiculous conversations with Four in the early hours of the morning about what names they would pick when they became adults that had the legal power to do so. The boy was quiet as he sat at the table, the names Ricardo, James, Ethan, Chad, Andromeda the Second, and Grand Leopald the Twelfth resurfacing in his mind and making him remember a much… simpler time. A softer time… A time when they could afford to be imaginative.
Six noticed the change of his demeanor, placing his hand on Five’s shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. Five pursed his lips but did not dismiss the reassuring gesture, choosing to instead space out in the general direction of the foyer. As Grace went around to each one of the Hargreeves in numerical order, she paused briefly at Four’s empty chair. Every one noticed a glint of confusion cross her face before her smile returned and she went straight to Number Six.
This made the group collectively frown, especially Five, at the thought that the one brother most eager for a name wasn’t here to receive it. But just as the fifth opened his mouth in protest, Two hesitantly spoke up. “H-Hey Mom?”
“Yes dear? You already had your turn, now it’s Six’s,” she replied knowingly, although the cheerful tone didn’t leave her voice.
“Y-Yeah, I-I k-know… B-B-But d-d-do y-you think t-t-t-t-that-” he stopped as he groaned in frustration, running a hand through his hair.
“I think he wants you to… to give Four a name too,” Six finished, glancing at the boy for conformation. Two gave a flustered nod.
Grace hummed in thought before nodding her head once in agreement. “Yes, yes I think your brother would love that. Let’s go see him, hm?”
The Hargreeves children exchanged questioning glances with eachother before they all got up from their chairs and filed into the foyer.
They stood awkwardly on the other side of the room as their Mom peered up at the portrait in thought.
“It should be German,” she chirped, clapping her hands together, “and reflect how he lit up the room and brought a smile to anyone’s face.”
The teens shifted uncomfortably, Six finding himself huddle a little closer to their shaking sister’s form.
“Oh I got the perfect name for my precious Bumble Bee!”
The kids jumped at the sudden exclamation, moving towards her as she said, “Klaus: the people’s victory.”
“T-That’s-”
“Perfect-”
“Mom-”
“I think he likes it too,” she commented, looking down at their questioning faces before giving a wink.
“What do you mean, Mom?” One asked, eyeing her curiously.
Six froze, staring at the painting and waiting for something to indicate that what he thought Mom was implying wasn’t true.
“Well he smiled, silly.”
They all exchanged glances again, Six and Five meeting each other's eyes in question.
Five squinted and rose an eyebrow as if he were asking, ‘Did you see it too?’
Six just shook his head before watching the portrait once again. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before he heard One call, “Six, aren’t you coming? It’s your turn.”
The Asian glanced from his alive brother to his dead brother before saying, “Yeah, I’m coming.”
Years later and the Hargreeves seemed to avoid the foyer like the plague. Nobody socialized within the proximity of the portrait, coming to a mutual agreement that it made them all uncomfortable because it didn’t resemble the individualizing aspects of Klaus and DEFINITELY NOT because of the strange supernatural occurrences linked with it.
Four was the only one who could see ghosts; not them. He had the power to interact with the dead; they did not. It was simply impossible for a painting to make faces; their dead brother was not residing within the home, he is not haunting the painting, and he most surely is not taunting them with unexplainable occurrences.
They needed to grow up and move on; Ben knew this but… he missed him. He missed him a lot. And at times like these, he wishes that he was the one who could see ghosts. He wishes that he had the powers that allowed him to interact with his dead brother. He wanted to see Klaus and tell him that he’d never forget him. He wanted to hug his brother and cry out his tears of frustration that nobody knew how he died and they STILL don’t have any clue.
But he can’t do any of that.
He’s not The Seance.
He’s The Horror; the only comfort he gets is from this stupid painting that may or may not be always watching him.
And when Ben commits suicide, overdosing on painkillers as he sits against the wall of the foyer, they can all hear soft weeping echo through the all-too-quiet house. And deep down, they know that it was never about the painting; it was about Klaus: the louder-than-life jokester that had always shone brilliantly despite the ghastly beasts that haunted him. It was about a brother that didn’t want to be forgotten, that wanted to remind his family that he’d always be there for them. The portrait didn’t look like him but he made it him. It was about Number Four, always about Number Four. Klaus and his unwillingness to sit still and look pretty, even in death.