Now, with the lantern far away, the painting cast in only the dimmest of light, she approached it.  She could see it moving, barely, inside the frame.  She could see all of the paintings moving, following her steps, her heeled shoes clacking on the wooden floor.  She touched the canvas and leaned forwards.  Her whispered question was soft, deep, needful.  Because she kept her gaze off the painting she could see it moving, see the figure reaching out towards her, reaching back, and hear a response whispered in the darkness all around her.<br/><strong><br/>"I do...."</strong>the ethereal whisper came.  It came with more than just a voice as she felt as if she were being touched.  Two hands, hands that were neither visible nor stopped by the garments she was wearing, caressed her skin with a feather light and cold touch.  She could feel the hands upon her, caressing her flesh, even where armor and clothing should have blocked their passage.  The feel of the hands were cold, like the temperature of the air outside the house, or the temperature of the ground, of the grave.  She could feel them moving across her flesh, caressing her stomach, her sides, her hips, one moving upwards towards her breasts, the other going lower, down her flat abdomen, seeking lower, towards her sex, as the whisper added,<strong> "I....do.... but.... she doesn't.  It isn't safe to.... stay here...."</strong>