First draft (8)

At the intervals of light, his steps slow and cautious, the visage
in the painting swept up before him and its mouth moved to a
cavernous gape before the horrid sound arrived of such insane
yammering yowl that stretched so, that in his fright, he had
the stitch of sense to recognize as a form of communication.
Lowering his shaking self to the stair, he set his hands out
before him in a placid but searching gesture. The spectral
face remained but the malefic babbling ceased. In a blank of
time he came to realize the storm had calmed, and he sat in
the full dark utterly alone.