The path Charles traversed daily, past the weary antiquarian’s dwelling, was as predictable as the sunrise. One dreary afternoon, an ancient oil canvas ensnared his gaze. A woman of bygone centuries, her beauty a timeless enigma. Her eyes, seductive yet disturbing, beckoned him. Compelled, he procured the portrait, hanging it as his new living room centerpiece.

At first, the woman’s allure captivated him. The illusion of her gaze tracking his every move was but a parlor trick that intrigued him. But as the moon waxed and waned, a sense of dread crept into his heart. Her eyes, once mesmerizing, began to gnaw at his sanity, their gaze piercing through the veil of comfort.

One night, whispers from the abyss roused Charles from his restless slumber. The house, shrouded in an oppressive darkness, was broken only by the spectral glow of the lunar light. The susurrus drew him towards the living room. His heart pounded the drumbeat of impending doom.

The portrait was void. The woman had vanished.

Then, the whispers slithered from behind, cold as the grave. He turned, each movement a requiem for his dwindling courage. The woman from the canvas stood before him. Her once enchanting eyes were now hollow orbs, and her lips curled into a malevolent grin.

Reaching out, her hand was a grotesque fusion of flesh and art. As her icy touch connected with his chest, Charles felt his reality distort. His form began to warp, blending into the oil and canvas of the painting.

The final image Charles beheld before his existence was flattened into a cruel artistic facsimile was the woman, retreating back into the portrait, her hollow eyes and wicked smile a testament to her victory. The whispers were silenced, replaced by the chilling echoes of her laughter.

The following dawn, rays of sunlight bathed the room, casting a foreboding spotlight on the painting. Alongside the woman, there was a man, forever frozen in a tableau of terror. His eyes followed every observer, a grim reminder of his eternal torment.