Prompt # 276: Create a story or poem inspired by a line in a David Lehman poem: "Death was last seen in the auction room, looking worried."

I'm going with story, Here goes..

"Do I hear 3000?"
"3000!"
"3000! Going once..."
"3500!"
The auction room was buzzing with voices as the auctioneer blurted out numbers rapidly. An imposing painting sat at the front of the room, the spotlights accentuating its golden frame and deep colors. Nobody knew the identity of the seller, or even the paintings true value. Despite these facts, the value of the bids was increasing quickly, until...
"SOLD! to Mr. Bennett!"
Later on, there was a party in the great house where the auction had taken place. Mr. Bennett, a portly man of 40 stood sipping from a wine glass, surrounded by inquisitors.
"Where is it from?" Mused one man.
"I wonder if it is an original. Perhaps it was stolen from the artist!" exclaimed a rather squirrely man. Mr. Bennett was enjoying the attention.
"I assure you Gentlemen, it is worth every penny that I payed for it. It was painted by an undiscovered artist no doubt. Just look at the artistry! Admire the depth of color! It is entirely unique."

The other men gathered around the painting tentatively, as if looking at a strange new animal being exhibited at a zoo. The painting was undoubtedly unique, though as they stared longer, many of them became uneasy for some inexplicable reason. Something about the swirling shades of black, green, and purple created an otherworldly effect. It depicted a house surrounded by dark hills. The house was dilapidated, with gray walls dark shingles. The sky was a dark greenish hue, and it was pierced by tall dark trees. None of the men could understand why someone would paint such a dark painting. It certainly would not look good over anybody's mantle.

Death watched from a dim corner of the room as the men examined the painting. He knew it would be calling to them. The detail of the brush strokes, the craftsmanship of the golden frame...at least one man would not be able to resist touching the painting. This was what he hoped. He willed them to move closer, knowing they would soon feel the chill of his presence. A candle to his left went out, but none of them seemed to notice.

Death felt himself growing weaker, as his influence over the room began to fade. The party was ending. The men found themselves staring at the painting absentmindedly, and they began to wonder why they had thought it was so amazing a few minutes ago.

"Well, we best get going. Take care Bennett." The party began to depart, including Mr. Bennett, who had his servants move his precious purchase into a coach. Then, he too departed.

It was several weeks later, and Mr. Bennett sat at his tea table, enjoying a newspaper and a tobacco pipe. A familiar eerie painting hung over him imposingly, and the maid shuddered at it every time she passed by. She swore to Mr. Bennett that the room could not seem to warm up since he had hung the painting there, and no fire would stay lit.

"This house is drafty!" he mummbled, brushing her off one morning as she hovered over his tea table. Unable to convince him of anything, she gladly hurried from the room.

Mr. Bennett did feel a bit chilled, so he decided he would take a walk out in the yard. As he rose from his chair, he noticed the gold of the painting's frame glittering in the sun rays. It was so lovely. Mr. Bennett reached a gloved hand up to touch the frame. It was cold, and he could feel the details of the craftsmanship. He removed his glove in order to examine it better.

As he placed his hand on the frame, he noticed it was strangely warm. Peculiar, he thought. It had been quite cold before. He ran his hand over the frame, thinking the sun must have warmed it up. It was even more pleasant to touch now. He brushed his fingers allong the grooves in the paint, imagining the dark hedges to be rough and prickly. He noticed the paint was warm too. He wondered if this spot was too sunny for the painting. He did not want to damage it after all...but why did he feel so cold? He shivered more than ever, but he could not take his hands from the painting. What is wrong with me, he thought to himself. I can't...move...

The maid dropped her tray of bread as she caught sight of the master's painting, and the empty room. Her voice shook as she whispered, "Mr. Bennett?" He did not answer. She forced herself to look back at the painting, knowing she must be going mad. Mr. Bennett now filled the canvas, looking down at her with hollow eyes. He was holding an unlit pipe, and an empty wine glass. His pipe on the table was still smoking, his wine glass half full. By some unseen force, it tipped over onto the table, staining the cloth crimson, and the maid ran screaming from the house.

The tales of Heather and Bob (creative names, I know)

Prompt #11 from this wesbite: http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/


Word set 1 story:

A girl named Heather with a pink ribbon in her hair walked purposefully into her school cafeteria, and took her usual seat in the corner. There was a tall window to her left side, and she glanced out of it suspiciously. Christopher was still playing on the swing; that meant she had plenty of time.
Her eyes darted manically back and forth, scanning for other children who might foil her plan. Feeling satisfied that nobody was watching, she pulled out her lunchbox. It was pink, with grotesquely bright colored ponies on it. She had gouged their beady eyes out with a screwdriver, and drawn fangs protruding from their lips. This was why nobody sat near her at lunch.
A few girls were observing her, however, and they snickered at her strange behavior. They watched as she pulled a box of paper clips out of her lunchbox.
“I bet she eats them!” a chubby girl named Julie exclaimed. The other girls just giggled with disdain. Heather continued to remove strange objects from her lunch box: yarn, play dough, and what looked like small doll clothes. The three sneaky girls at the table moved closer to her table.
Heather began to attach paper clips together, creating the shape of a person. She made a lumpy looking sphere with the play dough, and drew a grinning face in it. She finished it off with the doll clothes. It resembled a little boy. She glanced out the window at Christopher, who was still swinging away happily. With an evil sneer, she dunked the doll’s head into a bowl of chili. Seconds later, she heard a yell. Outside, Christopher had flown off of his swing, and landed face first in a puddle of mud. The principal rushed over to help him, and Heather grinned.

Set 3:

Bob the janitor of the office building mechanically swept the aisle between the rows of cubicles. It was getting late, and the last employees were finishing up their work for the night. The shuffling of papers and clicking of keyboard keys could be heard throughout the office.
Bob dreamed of becoming a famous author. He planned to publish a narrative one day about janitorial life, and all of its grimy adventures. He couldn’t afford anything to type on though, so his ideas remained just a dream. As he swept up some pencil shavings and hairs, he heard the last employee close the exit door. Maybe…
There was an old typewriter in one of the cubicles. He didn’t know why, since most of the employees used computers nowadays, but he saw it as an opportunity to write to his heart’s content, without the risk of having his documents discovered on a computer. He threw his broom aside and sat down at the typewriter, his heart beginning to race.
His fingers flew across the keys frantically, as memories of his most clogged toilets and rancid smelling trash cans poured onto the pages. He typed late into the night, until his eyes drooped with fatigue. He took the last paper from the typewriter, and set it on the hefty pile he had amassed. Bursting with pride, he tucked the papers under his old coat and went home for the night, unaware that he had left behind a pager of his narrative.
The next day, the clerk who used the typewriter entered his cubicle and opened up a filing cabinet. He took out a puncher and some carbon paper, and prepared to begin his work. Suddenly, he spotted a stray paper he hadn’t noticed. It had been typed on his very own typewriter. Anxiety began to overcome him, as he scanned the keys with searching eyes. There! On one the keys, there was a greasy fingerprint. He began to shake and sweat, rage filling his entire being. He hated fingerprints. Whoever had done this would pay. Looking over the paper, he saw that it belonged to Bob the janitor. He took his puncher in his hand, and set off towards the broom closet, his thoughts on nothing but vengeance.