[ WP ] In the spirit of Halloween , write just an old fashioned , tense horror story .

I write this with the knowledge that I may not survive the night. Suffice it to say, my life is at this moment in danger of an early end, and I would rather the world know of the horrors that bask beneath its comforting illusions. 
 
 I am a local art dealer of some repute in Solshurst, a town situated in Kent, England. Recently, business has been somewhat slow, and what with the rather disreputable stories surrounding Solshurst, I have found myself willing to take on merchandise which, to put it delicately, may have been procured by somewhat distasteful means. In every case bar now, I have been able to send off these items before any catastrophe has befallen me. However, through Fate's machinations or, perhaps, my own sheer greed and hubris, disaster has gripped me and forced me to act as messenger to humanity. 
 
 The piece I acquired is a painting. Specifically, it is titled `` The Lamb'', and depicts a boy running through a marsh in the middle of a misty night. It seems fairly unordinary; indeed I found it a fairly dull and uninspired piece at first. However, upon closer examination, one may discern via magnifying glass that the boy's expression is one of pure fear, as if he flees from some ghastly terror. But no such terror may be found within the painting, and no explanation was provided as to why the boy fled. 
 
 Indeed, throughout all of my research I can find no history whatsoever on this piece, not even a name for the artist. Even my supplier did not know anything about it, merely stating that he `` found it in my warehouse'', with the usual guarded tone that he uses for any question I may ask. 
 
 I have also found myself unable to sell the painting, which in itself is not that unusual ( most of Solshurst's population are drunken youths nowadays, and those that have a taste for art are too old to visit often ). What is unusual though is that any customer that has entered my shop and inquired about the painting has never returned. One particular customer had shown interest in the painting and promised to call me later if he still wished to purchase it. When he called at 4 a.m the next day though, he sounded frightened and rushed as he informed me of his decision not to buy it, and a low rumble similar to a growl was audible through the phone. 
 
 Every night since I had it placed in my shop, I have also heard odd noises from downstairs ( I live in a flat above my shop ). There have been clattering sounds, an odd fleshy padding and a growl. On the occasions I have investigated, there have been items obviously knocked over and... and pawprints. Large, muddy pawprints, all about the size of my hand. 
 
 Since that last customer the events have gotten worse. The padding has ascended the stairwell to outside my front door, and following it has been a monstrous barking. A scratching can also be heard on the front door, near the handle, which when investigated the next morning have yielded claw marks burnt into the wood. 
 
 Tonight has gone beyond the pale. Whatever it is causing all of this is outside my bedroom, having burst through the front door judging by the commotion outside. It paces, its fleshy paws padding up and down the hallway. I can hear its hot breath as it pants in anticipation. Earlier, I gazed through the keyhole and saw, amid the unnatural darkness engulfing my flat, two red pinpricks staring back at me. Then it lunged at the door. That was half an hour ago, and since then it has been clawing at the door. 
 
 So now I sit here, writing this for all to see, praying that my door will hold, and that I will not see those red eyes gaze upon my once more, nor hear its monstrous paws padding toward my fearful form, nor feel its hot breath beating down my neck.
