It's short & sweet; it was an entry in a local short story contest. Nope, it doesn't look like I won... but hey - it got me back in the chair for a little creative exercise. For me, that makes it worth it.
The question isn’t IF there will be a ghost sighting. The question
is WHICH ghost will be seen tonight. That’s
how it is working third shift security in a natural history museum.
There are plenty of other creepy encounters. Most of them do
not involve specter sightings. Take the taxidermists work-space. Taxidermy is
itself unsettling; in a research setting it is particularly so.
Dr. Williams befriends flesh-eating bugs, Dermestid Beetles,
to clean up the bones. He expounds on their harmlessness; regularly plunging
his hand into the squirming aquarium. It’s anticlimactic. The hand gets ignored.
The beetles prefer dead things and there are a lot of those in the museum. So
every tour begins in this pest penthouse.
“Unit 21 to dispatch; exiting to roof.” No response. She’s
busy. The alarm system tracks everything anyway.
The exit door to the roof scrapes the gravel roof top. It
feels cold, and the door to the dermestid domicile is discovered open - again. This
place would fall apart without security.
A crack in the glass has appeared and the beetles behave
uncharacteristically. They spiral toward investigating finger tips, then rear
away in a confused dance near the sharp zig-zag. Dr. Williams will need to be
notified.
Each step staccatos the street, crossing over to the new
greenhouse. Generally a pleasant place, there have been frightening moments in
the palms. When the tornado hit downtown the horticulturalist couldn’t be found
amidst the flying pots and breaking window-panes. Turned out she was in the basement
storage getting fertilizer.
“Unit 21 to dispatch, off the roof.” The only reply is the
click of the roof lock. The radios haven’t worked right since the tornado. There’s no time to fix it now; the exhibit
floors have to be opened.
The door slams hard; echoing through the dim hollow
stairwell. The distinct smell of clove
cigarettes wafts over the emergence onto third floor. Every staff member knows this smell; few will
talk about it. Dr. Anita Crawfoot is in. The director died nearly 40 years ago.
She pops up with
warnings about exhibits in trouble. Last week Dr. Crawfoot, presented herself
inside an ice-age exhibit, holding an umbrella - eyes skyward. She drew attention
to the rupturing pipe immediately over a real mammoth hide. It took forever to
get help with the radios malfunctioning.
Once the rescue began, comments abounded on the scent of
those cigarettes, but if anyone else saw her, they didn’t say. She remained,
overseeing the work. Then she cocked her head and smiled invitingly.
The exhibits are fascinating. Someday there will be time to
read, even study, all of them. Moving from light switches to sound-systems,
elevators to escalators; the curious must be satisfied with brief glimpses. There
is too much to do before the front doors open.
On the list, is notifying Dr. Williams of the potential
insect implication. There is just enough time to return to the roof.
The penthouse door is unlocked, and Dr. Williams holds the
case. He turns around and gasps, “Angie?!?”
The case crashes to the floor. Before I can apologize the
beetles race toward me. They spiral around my feet confused; just like they did
on the glass. Suddenly it all makes sense, the beetle’s odd behavior, the
useless radio. Dr. Crawfoot’s implied invitation.
He can barely utter what is suddenly known, “….but you’re
d-d-dead… th-the tornado took you off-f-f the roof…”
Hmmm… guess there is time to study all those exhibits after
all.
Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.
Torque Writer (TM) This work is protected by US Copyright law, and may not be reproduced (wholly or partially) without the written consent and signature of the author, Rebecca L. Olson.
