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A portrait

By my dead father,
I got a very old portrait.
There's nowhere to hang
And it's useless for that.
 
The sad old man
Is showed on depiction.
Well, let it hang
In my small mansion.
 
But when the darkness falls,
The portrait began to glow.
I ran out to hall
'What the hell is that?!'
 
I saw a beckoning hand
And a smile with feint
By old man from the portrait,
Who recently was really sad.
 
'Come to me, my friend, but faster!
You will be my dear spectator.
I'll show my great concert!
 
But if you don't consent,
You'll turn into a picture yourself
And you'll hang in my stead!'
 
I froze from fear.
I didn't expect to hear
The old man's voice from portrait
What talked to me.
 
What does he want? Please, tell me.
I am ok or crazy?
But then the scary voice said somewhere here:
 
'Come to me, my friend, but faster!
You will be my dear spectator.
I'll show my great concert!
 
But if you don't consent,
You'll turn into a picture yourself
And you will hang in my stead!'
 
I stepped into with the fervor,
With pathos like a hero
As it's my simple routine.
 
But suddenly gloved hand
With its cold grab,
Grabbed my neck and he shouted with scary scream.
 
'You came to my theater,
Now you're my spectator.
We are just a roles of this performance.
 
But it's not my trick -
You'll be a new portrait.
And I will live in your house.'