After that day, strange things kept happening. When Christoph sketched a bird during lunch, its wings fluttered before fading back into graphite lines. When he painted flowers, the room filled with their scent. His notebooks began to hum softly when no one was around. And at night, he heard faint whispers voices calling his name from the direction of his paintings.
He tried to ignore it, but curiosity pulled him back every time. The art room felt alive now, like the air itself was breathing color. Then, one evening, everything changed.He was working on a forest scene, deep green and full of light, when a drop of black paint slipped from his brush and splattered across the canvas. The color spread unnaturally fast, crawling through the painting like veins of shadow. "Come on…" he grumbled, reaching for a rag. But then the blackness pulsed. Two glowing red eyes opened inside the dark smear. Christoph's blood ran cold. He stumbled backward as the paint rose from the canvas, forming a tall, shifting shape like a shadow peeling itself off the wall.
The air grew icy. "Who are you?" Christoph whispered. The thing tilted its head. Its voice was made of whispers layered together. "Creator," it hissed. "You gave me form."
Christoph backed away, tripping over a stool. "Stay stay away from me!". "You painted me from your pain," the shadow said, slithering closer. "Your loneliness feeds me." It reached for him and the world went black.