The Painter tiptoed into the living room, carefully avoiding the mahogany coffee table and yet another china vase. He was as quiet as a church mouse as he moved over the carpeted floor, searching for the painting in the dim light of a handheld flashlight.
The baseball bat swung at him out of nowhere, and missed him by a hairline. He grabbed the bat and forced it off the wielder - the middle-aged owner of the house. The two men struggled, delivering punches while knocking off framed photographs from the mantelpiece. The heavier, bulkier house owner got the better of the Painter and shoved him to the floor. He got him in a choke-hold and the Painter struggled to get free.
The Painter strained his head and looked up. The painting he was looking for was hanging right there on the wall - an original painting of a dinner table from 1659, oil on canvas. The Painter was starting to feel light-headed.
He reached out his hand towards the painting, and immediately, a knife in the painting started to twitch. It flew out of the painting, materialized and came to a stop within his palm, just as he gripped tight the strong, steel cutlery. He jabbed the knife backwards into the house-owner's torso, and immediately felt the grip around his neck loosening. He forced his hand over the owner's mouth and slit his throat.
Fresh, warm blood spilled all over the Painter as the man spluttered violently. Soon, he was dead. The dark pool of blood around him grew quietly. The Painter stood up, wiped the blood off the knife using the nearest table cloth and pressed it back into the painting, where it resumed its former position as a part of it, without showing any signs of ever having been removed.
The Painter was about to take the painting off the wall when he heard noises upstairs. "Walter? Walter, are you all right? You told me to call the police, I - " The woman walked into the living room and found her husband's bloodied corpse. She let out a horrifying scream as she fell to the floor, right beside him.
The Painter watched this from outside, through the window. His object of interest was still hanging there on the wall. He could hear the sirens in the distance now. He will just have to try another night.
The investigators were clueless. There were no witnesses, no fingerprints, no DNA evidence and no murder weapon that they could find. The murder seemed almost... supernatural.
In the midst of the search for the killer, hardly anyone noticed the small specks of blood that had been newly added to the 1659 original painting.
