Lost is not the word Maurice would use to describe his situation right now. Disgruntled, sure, irritated, very much so, but lost was not a state of being that he was familiar with. He had been dared ten billion times to go out and stand in the woods alone with no illumination whatsoever and not even flinch. This was different. When you're in an old house that has more ghost stories about it than Ishvalan battlefield it tends to be a much more, shall we say, harrowing experience.
Doesn't help that the guy used mannequins for art. Nutty painter. This bitter thought was the closest thing to noise Maurice had heard all night. For as vivid as they are the ghosts stories certainly kept a great deal of thieves from the house-turned-museum/mausoleum. Seriously, who has their ashes spread over their entire house? Weiss Guertena that's who.
Startled. Maurice hadn't been that in years. But when he first started the night shift over the abandoned Guertena house it had not been pleasant. Those mannequins were one thing but some of this stuff was freaky as all hell. Those melting sculptures look like they might swallow him whole. And he swore that the painting of the woman in red was watching him every time he walked by it. But the worst was the other human portrait. Said to be Guertena's last work, the painting was of a little girl with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and the sweetest smile in the world. Thing was the thing looked friggin' alive! It was so real that everyone who saw it swore she could walk right out of the frame and talk to you. The fact that it was Guertena's very last work didn't help either.
Lo and behold, a sound! After having suffered night after night of nothing this was more thrilling than it was frightening. Maurice reached for his baton and fumbled with the clip. His hands couldn't stop shaking. It was the most excitement he'd gotten in a long while. Maybe he'd get a promotion if he caught someone after all these years. Some cushy executive position or the like.
He heard a rattling all night watches were acquainted with in this house, rattling glass and loud thudding. Ah-ha! Someone is trying to steal one of the painting! Too bad they're all nailed to the wall. The rattling increased to its crescendo as he reached the dreaded room. The room where Mary the painting sat like a regal queen. If anyone of these demented art pieces was worth stealing it was hers.
Maurice pointed the flashlight into the room straight at the painting. Maurice felt his heart nearly stop in his chest. A strangled noise made its way out of his mouth. He couldn't believe it, this was impossible! "M-Mary?" What else could he call her? It was the name found on the painting after Guertena's death so naturally was thought to be hers. It was hers and hers alone. The lone possession of the painting was a name and a few vague tales. But now it possessed something infinitely more frightening.
The painting had a body. The body of a 10 year old little girl whose blue eyes glittered with desperation as she pulled on the frame holding her resemblance. A little girl who should not be.
Maurice nearly ran out of the room if it weren't for the hands that had grabbed his shoulders. Mary turned to see what had once rested upon his shoulders was now in the hands of another 'shouldn't be.'