In the darkness of a stormy night, the rain
battered against the windows with relentless fury, while the wind wailed like a
banshee outside. Satya sat in his favorite armchair, clutching a book in his
lap, but his eyes kept drifting to the old painting that hung ominously on the
wall. It was a portrait of a man in It showed a Sannyasi in saffron-colored
garments, holding an umbrella. The man's eyes seemed to shine in the dim light.
This painting was a legacy from his late
grandfather, and from the moment it entered Satya's possession, an eerie unease
had settled in his soul. It was as though the man in the painting was more than
just an image—he was a presence, watching, and waiting.
Suddenly, a thunderous crash shattered the
silence, emanating from the kitchen downstairs. Satya's heart leaped into his
throat as he grasped a fireplace poker for protection. Step by cautious step,
he descended the staircase, each creak of the wood echoing in the tense air.
Reaching the kitchen, Satya found it empty,
except for the sight of the back door swinging open, rain pelting through the
threshold. Fear gripped him—how could the door be open? He was certain he had
locked it securely against the storm.
Steeling himself against the chill of the rain, Satya
stepped outside into the darkened backyard, scanning for any sign of intrusion.
The gusts of wind carried whispers that seemed almost like voices, and the
trees swayed ominously as if concealing secrets within their shadows.
Just as he turned to retreat back inside, a
sensation crawled up his spine—a presence behind him. Whirling around, his eyes
widened in horror. There, at the edge of the woods, stood the figure from the
painting. The man's eyes burned with an otherworldly light, fixed on Satya with
a chilling intensity.
A scream tore from Satya's throat as he sprinted
back into the safety of his house, slamming the door shut and bolting it with
trembling hands. He knew instinctively that locking the doors would not keep
out whatever malevolent force had breached his sanctuary.
As the night pressed on, Satya found himself
drawn inexorably back to the painting. The eyes of the man in the portrait
seemed to follow him, their intensity growing with each passing moment. Cold
sweat trickled down Satya's back as he realized the truth—the painting was a
gateway, a conduit through which something sinister had entered his world.
The doorknob rattled a slow, deliberate sound
that filled the room with dread. With every inch it turned, Satya's fear
deepened, knowing that the barrier between him and the unknown was about to be
breached. In that terrifying moment, he understood that he was not merely
facing a painting or a spectral visitor—he was facing an ancient evil that had
chosen him as its next victim.
And as the door creaked open, revealing nothing
but darkness beyond, Satya's final scream echoed into the night, lost amidst
the howling wind and driving rain—a chilling testament to the horrors that lurk
within the paintings of the past, waiting to ensnare the unwary in their
sinister embrace.
