| This is also posted on Concentricus.com
------
The Museum
You've never seen this place before.
You've walked this road many times and had never noticed it was there.
But tonight you do.
This dingy, unmarked storefront, with boarded up windows stood between two buildings that you have visited frequently in the months past.
Was it always there?
It had to be, right? It wouldn't just appear, would it?
The air on the street is thick and hot, making it difficult to catch your breath; there is no hint of a breeze in the air, not even at the intersections where the buildings gave way to open space.
A moment ago you had been walking aimlessly in search for relief when you paused at the last corner with the thought of being followed. Were those footsteps that stopped in the darkness, or the echo of your passing on this lonely block?
You turned your thoughts back to the storefront where you see it now has a name. "The Museum."
Was it there when you looked before?
You see that the door is open.
Had it been open the whole time?
You slowly walk through the entrance way into a cool, dark room. You wonder why the homeless have not yet discovered this place. It is strangely quiet, as if the sound of squealing tires, sirens and clicking heals could not penetrate these walls.
You look around and see cardboard boxes covered in dust. The Museum, if that what it was, must have been abandoned a long time ago.
Ahead, there is a flickering light.
You followed it into a large, deceptively long room, stretching as far as the eye could see.
You think to yourself that it might be an illusion. A trick of some kind. You've seen things like these before, in carnivals when you were a child.
What is the scarce of light? It's faint, almost golden, like the color of candles somewhere near the ceiling, behind the pillars just out of sight. Now your eyes being to adjust as you see rows of glass cases against the walls. Some of the cases are low and flat, others on end, as tall as upright coffins. Their panes reflect light and glow, like the walls of a fun house.
You make our shapes and something glitters, as if the cases are filled with jewels. There are little cards below each one. According to the cards, some contain the preserved remains of world class criminals, others the personal effects of their victims.
These can't be real, can they?
They are wax dummies, department store mannequins, dressed up and propped up inside these cases. Nothing more.
That must be it.
But why?
Take a closer look.
You know about Jack the Ripper, Lizzie Borden, Vlad the impaler and Jeffery Dahmer. They were in no doubt, monsters. But these? They appear to be ordinary, like the people you see every day. One might be the man next door, the child downstairs, the woman across the street that never goes out. They could be your neighbors, your friends, or even your family.
You lean closer to the light in the case. At the base of the figure is a photograph and it appears to be...
Shimmering.
Is it?
As you lean closer, almost pressing your face to the glass, the image begins to glow.
This can't be happening can it?
The glowing image begins to become familiar. Perhaps someone you've seen that very day. You hear footsteps outside the door and then a pause. Was it someone out for a walk like you? Or perhaps the owner of The Museum? Maybe you were being followed after all.
Whoever it was jiggled the doorknob. But the door was unlocked and opened when you entered. Had it locked behind you to keep you in? Will you ever leave? Slight panic started to overcome you as your breathing quickens.
The door creeps open and the footsteps make their way through the entrance of The Museum.
You begin to question your sanity as the footsteps stop at what you believe is the entrance to the room where you are standing.
No more footsteps, no more sounds at all. You take a deep breath.
Pain shoots up through your body as darkness devours all that is around you. The last thing you hear is the muffled laugh of the man that lives next door.
|
