When my parents died they left me their huge, old house. It had always creeped me out a bit, but never ever happened. Until one dark, dark night.
My parents were obsessed with art, especially paintings. There are tons of them, up and down the long hallway. Some creepy, others odd. I came home to my lovely house after work. It had been a busy day, so I didn't get home until ten o clock. As I crawled into bed, I heard footsteps and a small shriek. I lived alone. I ignored the strange noises, thinking I was tired, and went to sleep.
At around midnight, I got up to get myself a glass of water. Little did I know that the eyes of a portrait were following me. The painting was of a man named Thomas Dean, a killer from the 1800's. He murdered 22 people in their sleep. It always confused me to why dad had his portrait.
I woke up to another scream. They got louder, and louder. I counted. I had heard 22 screams. Then footsteps, closer and closer. I saw the door handle turn. I ducked under my covers. But it was too late. Thomas Dean had slipped my throat and killed me. 23 screams.