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.