The Little Museum
The Little Museum
The tree lined street, an epitome of suburbia, boasted some of the finest properties in this grand metropolis. It was a case of ‘keep up with the Joneses’ amongst its residents, with their carefully manicured gardens and pristine houses. The bane in their bigoted lives had always been the squat and out of character building in the midst of their opulent neighborhood. Set back from the avenue it stood in solitary pose as though aware of the negativity cast in its direction. A front and back rampant with out of control greenery, the gray stoned structure had seen better days. Two arched windows were positioned either side of a gray/white studded front door, above which a rectangular sign bore the bold lettered inscription ‘Museum of Intrigue’. There were many rumors attached to its history. Visitors came and went and for some the experience had changed them to the point where they erred on the brink of insanity. Opinion was that the exhibits had some form of hold on those who viewed them, although such baloney was discounted by the skeptics. It remained to be seen.
Busily tending her display of prize roses, Betty espied the usual encroachment of wayward vines peeping over her fence. She would normally have cut them back, thus relieving her blooms from their ugly counterparts. This time the vines had succeeded in wrapping themselves around the thorny stems in an attempt to choke the life blood out of them. Her flowers had now lost their color and the petals were dropping off. She dropped her secateurs in a rage of disappointment, incensed that her beauties had suffered in such a cruel manner. Overcome by this state of fury, she found herself pacing the narrow pathway that led to the studded white entrance of the museum of intrigue. The door was slightly ajar and a wave of apprehension temporarily coursed through her. She paused for an uncertain moment, until her anger took the upper hand again and she swung the door open with a vehement force. She found herself in a dimly lit hallway and once her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, a display of busts seated upon wooden stands became visable. A large unmanned desk was positioned in the corner with a call bell on its surface and numerous booklets with logos on the covers. She hammered the bell with disdained force shrieking aggressively for assistance. Only a curious echo greeted her but no-one came. She shrank backwards into the dinginess, her body brushing against one of the busts, almost knocking it off its perch. She turned to reposition it. There was something strangely familiar about it, then recognition. Her outrage was instantly replaced by horror. She was looking at a replica of Bill, a local resident who had strangely disappeared two years ago. Nobody knew where he went. He had just vanished off the face of the earth and hadn’t returned. People thought he gotten tired of this community, seeking a way out and no-one had seemed bothered. Now she knew. Bill had become immortalized as a bust. A feeling of unsteadiness had begun to overwhelm while her legs weakened. A strange dizziness compelled her to sit down on the nearest rickety chair and as she did so, the studded front door creaked to a close, shrouding her in darkness. Somewhere in the building, the sound of footsteps was audible and as they increased in volume the nearer they got. A lurid light in front of her had lit up Bill’s bust in front of her. His life-like eyes peered at her from chiseled gray stone and then very slowly words issued from his thin lips. “Be prepared for immortality.” He informed her, his mouth now curling into a smirk. Overcome by terror, she remained fixed on the chair, submitting herself to a sense of hopelessness, … unless.
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