Mandrid Wilde and her boyfriend, Zachary Rhodes, had dissappeared without a trace. The two had been so exicted to move into their new hosue with the prospect of marriage lingering on the horizon. Two nights later, when Mandrid's mother paid her a visit, the house had been empty.

"We'll take the home!" Cheerful April Summers said brightly, grabbing her husband's hand. They were a young couple with three children, aged five, seven and nine.

"Alright," Mr. Howards, their agent, said. "Let's see what we can do."

It was settled that after the case was closed, they could move in to the two-story, three bedroom white home. It didn't take long for the police to give up. A funeral service was held, and two gravestones were sunk into the earth, the ground below them empty.

"Is this really a good idea?" Egbert Summers, April's husband, said. "I mean, think about it. They moved in. Two days later..." He snapped his broad fingers. "Gone!"

"It's fine." April chided him, bending over a box to seal it closed with duct tape. "Stop being so superstitious. I've loved this house since  was just a little girl."

That much was true, Egbert knew, so they followed through.

The first night there, April tucked her weary daughters in. Bending over, she kissed each of their foreheads. Then she moved to her youngest child's room. Her son was already fast asleep. She kissed his soft hair, then fell into a deep sleep in her new master bedroom. 

At percisely twelve midnight, a loud BANG sounded. Morgan, the oldest child, sat up in bed. She drew her robe about her and very carefully made her way downstairs, following the source of the noise...

The next morning, Morgan was not in her bed.

April spent the morning on the phone, sobbing. Eventually night time rolled around. She locked the doors and fell asleep downstairs.

At percisely twelve midnight, a loud BAND sounded. April stood up, followed the source of the noise, and started downstairs.

The next morning, she was gone.

Egbert Summers was a mess all day, he took a sleeping pill, perscribed by the doctor, and fell asleep on the couch. Upstairs, the kids were silent with worry.

Twelve midnight came. And despite the fact that this was a very strong pill indeed, he awoke and followed the BANG sound.

The next morning the young children, only seven and five, found themselves all alone.

That night seven-year-old Julie was next. Little Brandon awoke all alone.

He managed to fend for himself, and that night the sound came.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he followed the sound. It came to a little wall. He reached out and touched the wall, gasping when it swung open. A magnetic force made him walk forward and down the long flight of stairs. Slowly, a light flickered on.

Faces. One thousand faces covered every inch of the walls. They were portraits, paintings of people who had once lived there.

Reader, this is the art house. It takes it's inhabitants, traps them downstairs, and takes their soul, turning them into just another painting on the wall.

Brandon picked out the faces of his family. Each portrait was of their last expression. His mother, horrorstruck, his sisters, wondering, his father, understanding.

And then he was there, his eyes wide open, his jaw dropped. His face of someone who had known the end was coming, but not being able to escape, like at trapped animal.

"They just vanished into thin air," the police officers said two days later, as their belongings were removed from the home. "Just gone."

"Sort of strange, don't cha think?" The other asked, scratching his beard. "Every 'person here seems to just be gone."

"Probably nothing," the first officer replied, picking up a box of family photos. "Just circumstances. Whole famiy's just gone. Bet they moved on, doin' something illegal, and this was a hoax."

"Yeah," number two said. "Maybe they're all in it together."

And so, as they walked out the door and moved up, the art house was left standing empty, the windows vacant.

"Oh!" A woman cried, driving by. "It's empty again. Oh, dear, we must look into that!"

And so the Art House sat, waiting for it's next portrait to come.

But, reader, it didn't have to wait very long...

It never does.