As I crossed the threshold of the old Victorian mansion, I couldn't help but feel like i was being followed.
In the archway leading to the family room, there were frames filled with the same painting, but peculiarly, the dark wooden frames cradled a blank canvas.
I walked closer to inspect them further, and noticed that they filled with a painting of my face. It was like looking into a mirror, but it was a living pastel.
I turned away and noticed a trail of red footprints following me, and at my feet, a pool of viscous pigment. I was being painted, or rather, turned into a painting.