CreepCast - I Work For A Private Museum | CreepCast

Episode Date: September 20, 2026

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to creepcast. Today we are doing a very, very requested episode. A very requested story, I should say, called I work at a private museum for the rich and famous. One horrifying expedition made me quit. Which, haven't we done a museum-s story before? Or am I wrong? Wasn't there another museum story we did? The only thing I can remember that was a museum was in Deep Woods when they go to that museum place and that big fight happens. Yeah, then it's, you know, Highway to Hell or whatever. Yeah, yeah. Blair's out.

The beginning chords to Highway to Hell, the speakers. Hell, yeah, I did. Are we getting pumped? Way to hell! That's what I'm thinking. But I, this, I feel like people have been requesting this one for a while. Yeah, they have.

People have mentioned this one a lot. It's a fun story from what I know. And people are like, oh, you guys got to read this. Which again, you can't trust this audio. because sometimes when they mean fun, they mean something completely different. So I don't know if this is a legitimate request or if it's an illegitimate request. I will say the story is pretty highly favored on our slash no sleep. It has the first part has 6.7,000 up votes.

It's a five-part story. And like I said, a bunch of people have recommended it. So I'm going to go into it with high hopes and, you know, a positive can-do attitude. but we'll see how it not a super we'll see how it goes no super old story we're looking at the

like a pandemic post here looks like a 2020 post in it so I mean five parts I mean we're in it for the long haul here all right so we don't once again we don't know what exactly we're walking into

but good Lord we are walking so we'll see if you any bear traps you want to sit off at the top museum for the rich and famous because when I saw this initially, it reminded me of the steakhouse or it reminded me of the fancy Rezaalia Steakhouse. Yeah. It reminded me of that a little bit. I don't know how that translates, but that's what I'm thinking. I think either it's going to be like people in the displays

or it's going to be like monsters or something like old like cryptids basically that have been trapped within them. So I'm guessing people are monsters. That's where my money's at. Yeah. You know, I was even thinking it could be like, I was like, man, could you imagine if it was like skinless bodies? And I was like, I've actually, that's a real thing. I've seen that. I've seen. I've seen. Imagine if this real thing's in this fictional story, that'd be crazy.

Yeah. Well, on paper, the bodies, have you ever seen that exhibit before? Oh, yeah. It's pretty fascinating. But I was like, could you imagine? I'm like, oh, yeah, that's right. I saw that when I was. Oh, yeah.

That's a real thing that I, I'm very aware from. That's right. That's right. Of course, of course. Well, guys, also, if you're listening to this right now, you're not watching our ugly mugs, then maybe give us a nice rating on whatever you're listening, wherever you're listening, whether it's YouTube music or Spotify or Apple Podcasting that one of those fucking places you can watch it or listen to us, a nice story from us. Consider give us a nice rating. It does help out. And if you're looking for any extra content, we did post our interview with Imperial Invective,

really fun. Fan favorite of the channel. Nice little author interview if you want to check that out. Feel free to check it on our Patreon and support the channel. I also forgot to mention the author. The author of this story goes by on Reddit as I see Simpson or Ix Simpson maybe. And they post a ton of stories. This one is their most highly upvoted, but they have some other ones. There was one called breastfeeding is for babies, which Hunter immediately.

My ear is perked up. Are we sure it's not LC Simpson? I think it's I think it's IC from looking it up because someone on YouTube credited them as I see. Okay. So it could be else. But I think it's I see or Ix Simpson. Either way, they also have

R slash sharpshooting, which looks like their own Reddit where they post their own story collection, stuff like that. And they seem to have a pretty decent following. So we will link off to their Reddit in the description if you want to see more from them. If you enjoy the story, and they certainly have more to

read from. Speaking of artist, I wanted to kind of call you out, Hunter, your lack of public comment on the passing of Dolly Parton has been quite telling. What am I supposed to say? You have nothing to say? The only thing that I ever interacted with it. This better be.

Was your wife. I messaged your wife. Because she was like she, because your wife on her Instagram, she was just like, oh my God, who died first? Dolly died.

And then it was Tim Curry. And then she's like, Paul McCartney, stay inside. And I just messaged and said, Paul's due. I mean, Paul McCarty is due. That's the only interaction I've had with any of it. I mean, I don't know, dude.

And it is what it is. I mean, I don't mind when people post about, you know, this thing of like, oh, I remember the first time X, Y, or Z. But if I truly don't have a very strong memory of something, the only time I've really like I've ever, I've ever said anything was recently Screaming Mad George died. Can't remember if I, if I even said anything for that, but that sucked. but then also when Ozzy died. That was like the last time I ever made a post about like someone dying. Well, you know,

Dolly Parton, the queen of Appalachia, I've been taking it pretty hard. I bet. Well, I'm sorry. How are you holding up? You hold up okay? No.

I'm not, I was going through. In her, in her memory, you should get a bunch of plastic surgery and get big fake titties and you should get a bunch of pot. You'd just,

just be in a beach blonger here. I think she would. She would. She would. I'll say this. I'll say this. She's charming. Very, very charming.

Hard not to like. She's been a charming lady And she sent she had the imagination library Where they send books to kids in Appalachia And when my daughter was born The Imagination Library sent her a book And it had a message in it That was like

When I was a kid, my daddy You know, was the smartest man I ever met But he never knew how to read And a bunch of people looked down on him In this part of the world for that And I want you to be proud of where you're from And I want your mom and dad To read stories to you

and to teach you about where you grew up and blah, blah, blah. And I was taking it pretty hard. And then I read that. And it just destroyed me. Gosh. Did you start bawling? Yeah, I was pretty beside myself there for a while. She's a, you know,

Dolly. You know what? If only any, not everyone can leave that good of a legacy. That good of, that makes that many people happy. And I, I've seen a couple posts about the,

about the book company and stuff. and that is really cool sending out books that you can read to your kids and stuff. I think that's really, really, really nice. Yeah, like the way the books would work, it would start with like, it starts with like, you know, your typical shapes, colors and stuff.

But as the kid gets older, it's like stories about like Appalachian legends and people and stuff. And it like gets them into where they're from. And like Dolly built Dollywood and all that stuff in Severe County. And it's like it's supplied so many jobs. She poured so much of her money

into the infrastructure and schools in the region. And after the Gatley, Statenberg fires and Hurricane Helene, she made the largest donations to get people in Tennessee rehomed and fed and things like that. So it's always been like, like anything, anytime something bad happens at Tennessee, she's kind of been like a guardian angel figure trying to help out the locals. Is there a way for her to become a saint? Yeah. Yeah, it's, it's sad. It's like it's like the mountains are a little more, a little more smoky today. Do, is there a way for her to become a saint, like an actual patron saint? According to Catholic,

theology to my understanding, to become a saint, you have to do acts of kindness. You have to lead a religious group, which you could argue she did. But she also has to perform a miracle that's witnessed, which she might have. I wasn't there for it. Opening a theme park around yourself in the Appalachia that actually stays open called fucking Dollywood. That's a miracle. I don't know how else you can say that's a, you know.

Also, getting, also getting the place to go. getting the people of the mountains and the deep trees to read is a feat within itself. People actually being there. That's a miracle too. I know you. I knew you would put your stink on. It was also and Tim Curry.

Yeah. Another one. Yeah. And then Optimus Prime. Optimus Prime died too. He died like two hours ago. Optimus Prime. The voice, the voice of Optimus Prime.

I'm pretty sure Peter Cullen also did the predator sound the voice. He's like a famous voice guy. Yeah, he did a E or two from Wendy the Pooh. So the most coveted role. Yeah, they're just killing every childhood icon. It's good though. You know what?

We have to move on. We have to embrace and we have to grow. And I think that these, these legends, they'll stay in our hearts forever, one thing, Isaiah. Sure. Whatever.

In my heart, not yours. Or if it's the public conscious, maybe I'd give it two or three more days. and then then everything will kind of just go back to the way it was as everything. I'll tell you what, though, at least we know, well, maybe you. I think that you'll probably have a bit. When I die, there is not going to, the world will be a happier, better place. I will be devastated when you die, Hunter.

I know. You'll say, well, I have to find a new host and it's just a whole ordeal. Who are you going to replace me with on the, are you going to call it quits? So I'm going to call it quits, realistically. But if I had to make a joke for the sake of this comedy, podcast about who I would replace you with. I'd probably replace you with, man, Hulk Hogan died. I was going to say him. You would, you would replace me with Hulk Hogan? That just seems like a really funny swap, you know? Just like replace you with a wrestler who has no interest in horror stories

or anything like that. The tone of the podcast would certainly change just a little bit. there you go. Well, I mean, you know, well, there it is. Wow. We talked about it. There's not a lot of death in this. This is going to be the scariest, most depressing part of the entire story. So we'll see. Anyway. Well, hopefully, hey, Isaiah, hopefully you're able to rest easy tonight, buddy. I hope it's not taking too hard. I've got my strong emotions out. I'm good. Are you going to her, to her funeral? If there's a public ceremony that can be attended, I probably would, honestly. Are they going to blow up Dollyland now? No, I'm not going to do that. I would never do that to Dolly. No, no, not you. I'm just wondering, are they going to seize operations at Dolly?

Oh, well, I mean, they opened it back up and there was like a big tribute there and a bunch of people came and stuff like that. There you go. Well, she's more selfless than I. Because if I had Hunter World, let me tell you, as soon as I'm dead, I'd be placing the center of it. and I blow myself up. That's my service. Bring everyone who cares about you and then they die too. I take all the money that my wife and children are

to think they're going to get. I'd spend it all on roses and explosive. And I'd put all in the center of the park and I'd blow it up. And I'd say, that's it. And I'd say, Say, lavi. Is that goodbye?

What does say lavi mean? Say lobby. Oh, that's perfect. That's life. Say lavi. Such is life. Is that what you play to?

You play Frank Sinatra's. That's life. because the bombs go out. That's a lot. Well, I don't have any more money, so it's a cover version that I can't afford. Okay. Yeah. We spent too much on the C4.

The C4 and the roses were very pricey. All right, you want to, let's read the story. Let's read it. I work at a private museum for the rich and famous. One horrifying exhibition made me quit, part one. The museum opened without public warning. Once during the week and only at 6 o'clock in the evening. No earlier, no like.

Any bratty excuse, such as a sluggish private jet, simply did not cut it. Only those outside the gate at 6 o'clock were permitted inside. No one knew where this giant playground for wealthy men was, not even God. And in this place, there was no God. My gods were the rich and famous, and they were merciless. Cruel. God damn. There was no security here nor staff besides me on opening day.

It was a grand lawless building that only made for the top 1% of the top 1%. 1%. Our reason for lack of employees was the same reason Michael Jackson shut down a supermarket for a day visit in the 2000s. Uninhibited fun without judgmental eyes. Did Michael Jackson actually do that? Yeah, there was a story where he rented out of a supermarket so he could pretend, so he could pretend like be a normal person and shop around, but the entire thing was filled with actors and stuff. Do you think that's, uh, do you think that's like incredibly pompous or do you think that's a sign of a very troubled man? I think from a very troubled man. I think a man who probably probably,

uh, who probably had no ounce of normality once in his life, you know, motherfucker was on stage performing and famous from like the age of like, what, five or whatever. Yeah. Yeah.

So I probably, I mean, you know what's the worst part is I would just kept that like a thing of, oh, man, I wish I could. Because once you go to a grocery store, you start doing it right, you're like,

I didn't, I wasn't missing out on fucking anything. Yeah, yeah, he goes through there and he's like, man, thank God. I'll tell you what, though.

Yeah, he leaves. All right, cool. Never let me do that. again. Got that out of my system. Yeah. I'll tell you what, though. Dolly, Dolly would walk through the grocery store proud. Mm-hmm. She was. Swarmed by people. Didn't matter. Still get the, still get the, still get the, uh, get the frosty place.

She'd say hi to everyone. She'd pick up all the kids. Say hi. She was, she was a gym. I miss her so much. I was listening to Tennessee home this morning just devastated. Isaiah, would you like to sing a Dolly Parton song to get it out of your sister? No. No, no, no. No. I did the same thing I did every opening day. Adjusted my marooned waistcoat, comb my hair, shine my shoes. At 5.59, I came tapping down the marble staircase with the spring of my step. Not from excitement, rather a jumpiness that came from instilled fear. The museum was about to become their toy shop yet again and me their plaything. This time, I could only pray that they waited

until midnight before asking to see our paranormal relic displays. I could only pray they didn't let her out. The foyer was huge. Towering golden pillars wedged between ivory-flavored marble flooring and a mosaic glass ceiling that let starlight beam through. With one hand, I braced the door that stood three men high, my other hand turning to check my watch. It was six o'clock.

Four pompous men and two posh women smugly marched in. They were dressed in fur coats, alligator skin, diamond jewelry from head to toe. It was quite frankly, comical. Not to me, though, of course. I had seen it all many times before. However, there was one man at the back who didn't care to show his wealth. He was dressed in his finest outfit to visit a convenience store,

blue scuff jeans and a green t-shirt. I pondered what he did for a living, and I simply didn't know. What I did know is that within minutes, to look on his face said he wanted me to be. dead for support. I announced the tour will start immediately. There's a coat rack to your left. If you need to leave any belongings, I must press you all follow me for the tour. However, it's completely optional. It was as if I read off a script. The route started off like any other. I led the rich brats through the left side of the museum. We walked past the history and war rooms,

past the living wall. I'm not like, just going to breeze over that one. Okay. The Mariana Trench exhibit. We house creatures from the bottom of the ocean in there that the public hadn't seen before inside immense, pressurized titanium takes. I like that exhibit the most, but it wasn't time. Hallways were always hauntingly quiet on opening day. Museum's property outside stretched for miles too. So no cars nor people provided any consultation for my lonely mind on long nights such as these. It was just me, the rich savages, and the exhibitions. Walking into a hallway intersection, leading left to the paranormal display, and to the right, the insect room, We had stopped.

Please don't see it. Please don't see it. This way, please. Why are you all stopping here? I knew why. They saw the glass cabinet that towered by the door to the paranormal exhibition hallway. Curiosity beckoned them.

It was covered by a dust blanket. Only I knew what was underneath. And I knew it was best untouched. Can we take a look at this? Voice said quietly from behind and shattered me like a toppled vase. My smile had to be kept up. I couldn't crack at the start of the tour. That would be tragic.

We will return here after midnight once we've explored the rest of the... One of the men sternly interrupted. We paid good money for this. Give us a look. I pulled hard enough at my hair. I'm surprised it didn't come out of my scalp. Please don't make me show you. I don't want to wake her.

Yeah. Give us a look! More bullies chimed in. I was no rookie to the psychological wedgy, but it was in my contract to not put up a fight. Swallowing hard, the words escape slowly and unwillingly. Yes, sure. My hand reached for the fabric,

reluctantly like it was a hot stove. I pulled the graphite sheet away from the case and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent lights popped and ticked as they flickered within the glass oblong that towered above us. The woman inside was goolishly tall, at least seven feet so. If she were any bigger, her head would have had to tilt to the side. Sometimes it did. Her black hair flowed onto her pale, shiny shoulders like an ash and willow. Her face plastic, and silky smooth, the flesh of a child's doll. Beneath the glass cube, Marriette, 1973 to 2004. The Batman's plump face stared upward, utterly transfixed with a thin, soaring woman.

How? How did she die? I thought for a while, my face contemplating and changing in the dim lighting. They clicked and blinked once more. It pains me to say this, but she was once the tour guide for this museum. I hadn't met the gold glass. Sadly, after a few. years she had a mental breakdown and passed away there were a couple gas from the rich folk passed away woman voiced from the crowd she she injected herself to death with plasticizing agents

in fact that is one of the loopholes as to why we can't keep her body here on display her body's more plastic than flesh and bone kick kick kick lights went out they'll be back any second i soothed reassuringly that story's absurd a man boomed unfortunate sure but woefully true the other loopholes being her will, she wanted to give herself to the museum just as the museum had given itself to her. The lights inside the case came back on. My heart sank into my stomach. Clicking noises had not been coming from the lamps after all.

Creaking had come from her plastic joints twisting and contorting, old plastic grinding against itself like a cursed figurine. Now visible, her head had been creaked to one side. She stared unblinkingly at me with glass eyes, dampening the sheet with my sweaty palm, I narrowly managed to quickly toss the fabric, covering the glass before anyone noticed that she had readjusted her head when it had been dark. Is that it? Can we touch her?

I want to feel her rubbery, plastic-y skin, since chills up my spine. I couldn't say no. As per my contract, all these wealthy scumbags could kill me for fun and get away with it if they didn't get what they wanted. Nobody would hear me scream. I had to think quickly. We should be moving on. I extend an open hand to the hallway.

This way, please. For some exhibits, I held on to the harrowing details. To feed them specifics would be like planting seeds of trickling intrigue in their minds. An intrigue led to an unsatiate curiosity. Curiosity always killed a cat. Matter the feline, a rich breed, or a stray tom. I didn't tell the wealthy people that the doll hated her glass prison. I didn't tell them that we closed her eyelids so she could sleep.

Things were going smoothly for a few hours. I let them hold and handle the child-sized beetles we had imported from Madagascar. They were beautiful and fluorescent, like sunlight through crystals. I got so caught up in my presentations, I'd almost forgot about Mariette's snapping plastic head. Mr. Jones, the rich guy dressed for a convenience store, clicked his tongue as he spoke. Hey, uh, guide. He threw one thumb behind his shoulder pointing backward. We're going to go back this way to have a look at something else.

I nodded reluctantly. Shoddy sneakers tapped away at the marble floors as both he and the woman disappeared down the hall. For a short time, things truly were going great. I even let one woman into the space where we held to class butterflies. They were gorgeous insects, almost invisible to the naked eye, translucent yet poisonous. The remaining billionaires were silently yawning. Deep down, I knew what they wanted to see. Chest tightened.

At that moment, I thought that I was beginning to hate my job from the hallway, came a lot. loud crashing a broken glass. Curiosity to kill the cat. Please excuse me. I muttered and sprinted into the dim alley of the museum towards the paranormal wing. Moments after I'd started running, I realized I left the doors open to the butterflies.

Behind me, the sounds of shouting and pitter-pattering as the tour sprinted the opposite direction. They were running from the floating creatures, running for their lives, running from deadly venom. It was too late. I had to keep going. My heart sank. I already guessed what I was about to find ahead.

The evening was no longer going swimmingly. Around the bin, I found one woman crouched against the wall by a window. She was a ball of tears, clasping her head with two hands. What the hell happened? She... Her throat was glaringly tight. Her words struggled to escape her. I didn't...

I didn't do anything. I looked up. Glass lined the ground and edges of the walls like rain had come and left the devil's hail. A few steps away, the graphite dust blanket half covered a gaping, sharp hole in the cabinet. Lights flickered from its mouth, mocking me. Glaring at my watch, my stomach nodded. It was at midnight yet. It was at midnight and somebody broke Mariette's display and she was gone.

Just like the woman crying beside me, I think my throat became tight too. Come with me. I said, holding out one hand. We got up and we ran. We ran until we caught our breath outside the ocean exhibit and the living wall. What is this thing? She said, staring at the peach wall. Don't touch it, please.

Couldn't think clearly. She was out there somewhere, clicking her ghoulish joints, towering in the halls, searching, searching for more plastic, more plastic so she could become the perfect ventriloquist doll. The doll she had become so fixated with working here. She would be a doll and she would play with her just like she would play with us. It looks alive. The woman reached a hand to the slimy, greasy. wall. I felt lost. Couldn't breathe. It was too much. The butterflies, Mariette, sick rich people

breaking things for fun with no repercussion. Finger-like blobs from the wall reached back out to the woman, thick apricot worms searching for warmth. I slapped her hand away. You mustn't touch that! She gasped, and I realized my mistake. My contract was broken, and my head shall be on a spike. Don't you dare touch me! She spat back at me, large, angry veins sticking out of her neck, Raise my hand to calmer. I apologize, ma'am. This strange thing is made of living cells. Without knowing, I was back on tour guide script, despite the trauma.

The very thing you're trying to poke at, you could eat. I don't want to hear it. Thank you. You stood there for a while, both unable to think nor speak. I stared at the wall unblinkingly like watching a hot fire. It's flesh molding, changing. Peach goo float in waves across its surface, inviting me to look closer. Underneath, on a golden placard, the living wall.

I shook out of it. Richard Jones had made it back to us. His green t-shirt was torn at the neck, his eyes sunken and traumatized. The door is locked, guide. We need your key. I nodded. Right away. Started jogging towards the direction of the foyer.

He wasn't following. Mr. Jones? Richard Jones was still standing next to the woman who had been crying in a ball minutes prior. He didn't speak, only glared back at me in the dim starlight that flowed through the window. When he placed his hand on the woman's back, smiled. I knew it was too late. He shoved her with force. The woman shrieked and went tumbling headfirst into the gooey peach wall.

What the fuck? Her bones snapped and buckled as blobby fingers wrapped themselves around her spine, her neck. It flowed into her mouth with ease, slowing only to pull it her teeth like it was eating meat off a rough bone. She screamed and screamed until she gurgled vile slime. The wall ate her whole. Fleshy goo displaying her features and flesh wide on its waving surface, bits of all. arm and mouth suspended upon a hungry blanket. Richard laughed.

He laughed and laughed and laughed. For him, money did buy happiness. Horrifying, horrifying happiness. I felt sick. I was going to throw up. The wall's voice was deep and hard to make out at first. A woman's voice deepened its slimy crevices. Richie, it moaned.

I turned to run, but I had seen he had disappeared and I was safe. It got the kicks he was looking for and made off with him. Rich. It was hard to block out the voice before it all stopped. I lay crouched beneath the window, blocking my ears and rocking in a ball. My heart was out of my chest, my stomach a knot, I didn't want to be a tour guide any longer. Sprinting and sprinting, I never looked back. I climbed the stairs swift enough that my thighs felt like they were going to give out.

Much time past that night in the museum. Hours. Opening nights were long and terrible. Nothing like this was ever worth the money. I found myself hiding in a janitor's closet on the same. second floor, occasionally peering through the cracks into the horror beyond. After some time, and when the vile people finished exploring the museum, I heard Jones crack a joke about the woman and the wall.

He and the rest of the rich people laughed. They laughed and laughed and laughed all the way back home on their private jets to their estates. When it was midnight, Marriette was asleep, and I shut her plastic eyelids for. I had glass to sweep, cabinets to repair. I'd learn time and time again that nightmares were not in our walls. The horrors were within the people that visited their sick pursuit of amusement

and the games they would play and I was their plaything. I'm sorry they played with you too, dear Marriette. The exhibition that made me quit was the sickening consequence of true human freedom and it was only for me to see once a week. Mariette still walks the halls at night

without her glass prison. Maybe I couldn't quit. I needed to repair it to make things right. She has such a slow, slow walk. Glassy eyes starting left and right, rolling loose like marbles. Her head pivoting left and right aimlessly looking for more plastic, needing more plastic to please the museum. To be the perfect exhibition, kick, kick. Before shutting the gate, I pensively peered around the grand foyer.

The museum was large and harrowing. For a moment, I wore a grimace on my face, remembering a time when all I needed to satisfy our guest was to show them insects. I've been here a long time. tails stripped from the walls like an endless flowing tap of horror there'd be more wealthy visitors I think I might have more stories to tell End of part

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tails from the gas station vibe of, you know, little little vignettes of things from a person's job. It's like quick moments that they go by and stuff. And the feeling is kind of in the more campy direction, but I like the campiness. Like, you know, it's very out like glass butterflies that are venomous and a living wall, a flesh. and the rich people so comically evil that they just kill each other for kicks you know I'll tell you what

Richie but it's a fun note Richie or Richard gives off museum owner's son vibes yeah doesn't he like you know weird weird sadistic maniac guy killing people because I'm guessing he's the ones

like hey we're going to go this way and he's the one who broke open Marionette's case and then he's also one who push the girl into the flesh wall it makes you think that It's just like, oh, yeah, sorry about my son. He's a fucking psycho, but I just let him walk these.

Walk, walk the halls of this museum. But I do like the idea of like a horror, a horror night at the museum kind of feel. I mean, I know that the statues aren't coming to life, but, you know, weird, mystical museum thing is, it's a fun concept. I think so. I think the idea of like,

you have these people who go to a place where they get to see these impossible things and they're the only people that get to do is who further ingrates them into like a high secret society level place. And you have it from a perspective of someone that has to watch. I think it's a fun idea. I think it's a fun premise. The living walls cool. The giant bugs are cool, stuff like that. It's all neat.

And I wonder how Mariette ties into like the future entries and stuff. Maybe not necessarily the paranormal and the flesh wall and stuff. But do you think there is a secret underground high society museum of sorts? of sadistic pleasure existing in the real world? You mean like a hypothetical island in the Caribbean where they traffic children and rooms that were made to look like ancient Roman bathhouses? No, I have no idea what you're talking about.

Okay. All right, there's a bit of condescending tone to what you just said. I guess if we're taking out that very real place, more so like a giant, like a structured actual museum, like displays or something? Maybe. If I had to guess, it would be more so illegal material, right? Like, because there's high society places that are public that you can visit.

And there's like, there's rich people that have private exhibits, you know, of like their own personal collections of things they've bought and collected. Like a lot of the times you'll read about, you know, famous artworks or historical items. And it'll be like, oh, it was sold to a private collection. Right. So there's things like that. Yeah. Well, it made me think a little bit of martyrs when it's like high, high society.

Like rich people getting together to see this like magnificent thing, even though it's at the sake of like torturing somebody. You know, but you like get to see into the eyes of like a martyr or whatever is, uh, is kind of what I was wondering. But you know, like obviously that there's like a paranormal element to that too or like a fantastical thing. But I am curious if you know, like when people say shit about like Bohemia. Grove and like, oh, they're doing like the rituals and stuff like that out there. I do wonder if there is something like that. There's got to be. Right? There's got to be something. Well, Bohemian Grove's a real place for the only video we have is them doing a giant ritual. Yeah, yeah. But I guess what I'm saying is something that's like, uh, like in this vein,

a giant collection of like weird assorted stuff. Like it would be like, I don't know. Yeah, just something more fantastical. I don't know what the fuck I'm saying. Never mind. Dude. You know what? I, fuck it. There's Jeffrey Epstein's Island and there's also Bohemian Grove. Never mind. I mean, after like Bohemian Grove and all the Epstein leaks and stuff, it's like, yeah, man, they probably got Cthulhu down there and they like cut his tentacles off for fun at this point. Thank you. That's what I'm wondering.

You know what I... I put nothing out of the bounds of reality for these people. You know what I think? Centaur pit. Like a pit full of like human horse hybrids? I think they're displaying weird mythological creatures of some kind or man-made is what I really think. they spliced it together.

They spliced man and horse. And there's probably something sexual with it. I mean, it's billionaires. They got to do something sexual with it. But I do think that there's something where it's like an oddities. It's like the big famous circus, you know,

quote unquote freak show, except now it's real and it's people making crazy shit. You know, I don't know. I'm not going to say that since I would believe that. I would say that the freak show thing has continued and like these taxidermy projects and stuff like that. Absolutely.

I feel like that they've kept them alive, though. It's like they're fucking prisoners in there or something, you know? I can see that. I can definitely see that. A minotaur man or whatever. I think that's certainly possible. And once again, they're always hard and it's always sexual because they're billionaires. It has to be.

Always, every time. Of course, yeah. Can you imagine? Well, yeah, that's one of the reasons. Because once you reach, and this is something, again, with all the upstein stuff, once you reach a certain level of wealth and power, you can really get away with whatever you want in the realm that most people think of. Like, you can hook up with whoever you want.

You can do whatever drugs you want. You can, like, all that stuff is poultry. Where you really get your kicks is doing something that's like unspeakable, something beyond the realms of society, which is why I believe there is so much like pedophilia in the elitist groups and stuff like that. Yeah, it's the ultimate like, also the invincible thing. I can't be touched. I'm impervious.

That's why I legitimately believe. there has been one billionaire who said, who said Minotaur Labyrinth. And someone's like what? And he's like, but you run around it in a boner with a boner. I would believe it. I would believe.

I would believe that. I mean, there's photos of Epstein's Island where they had like a room set up to look like a dentist office with like clown faces on the wall and stuff. And at his ranch, he had these giant like a pool rooms

that had pictures of Jesus and crosses around them, just as like a middle finger to religion, you know? It's horrifying. Horrifying. Yeah. God only knows what's what's lurking underneath these stones to be unturned one day.

Don't be surprised is all I'm saying. When a goddamn centaur or minotor person's running around like at a truck stop in Nevada somewhere or whatever, you know? I would. I would. And I'd be like, of course. Of course. Yeah.

So this, you know, I was like, Oh, the comically evil, like over the top. Maybe it's not so over the top. Maybe. Yeah, I feel like we've, I feel like there's that type of guns. Like, I'll just shove this woman into a flesh wall. Yeah. I mean, I think that it's, I'm sure the things are going to be cartoonish and like, you know,

in these in these rooms or whatever. I have a feeling with this museum of like the Uber rich and powerful. I feel like me and you are going to be like, well, that can't be right. And it's always going to circle back to. Yeah, probably, but that's probably going on right. Yeah, probably. I feel like that's going to. They're probably doing that at this moment.

Yeah, right now, right now. Like you say, you think these dudes who are trafficking children to touch, like no way they're not also killing people for fun. Right. Yeah, yeah, it's not like, well, come on. I'm not a monster. It's like, what the fuck he talking about? Those motherfuckers ain't stopping anyway.

They're actual, actual demons. Okay. Yeah. Yeah. They're monsters in human skin. Absolutely. Um, part two. Part two.

Part two subtitle is, don't bring your kids here. Great. Oh, wow. That's what an unfortunate title after the things we've just been talking about. Fun. Here we go. Last week, we had an incident at the museum when venomous glass butterflies escape their enclosures.

This week, I found myself alone in the ocean exhibition room. The angler fish circled endlessly in the abyss of its murky tank. Searching for an exit it would never find. It met me at the glass interface of its pressurized prison. Bumping its luminescent fishing lures. against the glass grinned at me with thin white pencils. Hello, little guy. I will say too.

The, uh, I do believe to like in these like ocean exhibits exhibit stuff. I bet you billionaires or whatever. I bet you they have species of animal or fish or anything that we've never seen. I'd believe it. Yeah. I mean, I mean, if they found like one, it's like put it in the collection, you know, there's definitely some dude out there, some Jeffrey Epstein type who has a a giant tank with like an orefish inside of it.

I am just, I feel like there's even, even because they, you know, I mean, the, the sea levels are right, all, you know, all this stuff of, I think that they're trying to go into the ocean. I think that there's people who are probably, we're getting conspiratorial now. This is what's going to bring. This is what's going to bring us out of this Isaiah is. This is going to be a very conspiratorial episode of this podcast that we have here. And I have a feeling that people are trying to splice their genes with fish to where they can

become merman, mermaids. Thoughts? See, if it was that surface level, I wouldn't care as much, you know? If it comes out that the reason Epstein was doing all that is because he wanted to be like a goat man. Okay. That's such, if they want to be merman, that is such a more comforting answer than no, no.

Like what they're doing down there. Let me tell you this. Everything once again is, it's, going to be sexual and horrifying. There's murder in it somehow. I'm just saying it's, it's going, that's the, that's the quote unquote end goal or an excuse, I guess I should say. Yeah, yeah. No, I could see that. Definitely some like human centipede stuff going on, but like these human animal hybrids for this thing. I think it's more like Tusk to me. It's not like they want to do it to themselves. They want to do it to someone else. And here's a question for you, Isaiah. I'm curious

if you think, can mermaids breastfeed? All right. There we go. You were doing so good. 43 minutes. Even then I was giving you the whole like the cenotar hard thing. I was giving you that because it's like, well, it's kind of in the realm of like sexual depravity. But now you're just going on your own routes.

I'm sorry. I'm just, I thought I had. I'm just going to keep reading. I'm just going to keep reading. Okay. I found myself staying a while in our deep sea exhibition. Watching the creature as he based and flicked around in his own little cube of the world.

He could never know why he was in the museum, nor who put him there. Instead he swam. He swam and swam and hoped that just one day the class would crack. Just an inch. Luckily, feeding the shaggy frogfish didn't take long.

The yellow fish knocked away clouds of dust along the bottom of its tank as it scurried along on its leg-like fins with the awkward gait of a geriatric golden retriever. It was hard to keep happy in this ghoulish museum, but that room always made me smile. Upstairs, I went before working through some paperwork for a few hours. I'm not sure at what point I mistakenly fell into a catnap at my desk, but I soon paid

the price at nightmares. Am I pretty daddy? Deep muffled voice. Blowflies sprawled across her face that was framed with golden hair, blacked wing spots covered her eyes and mouth. Am I pretty? She didn't sound like Sophia, the face of my dead daughter. Good Lord.

I'm jumping right into it. Nothing more. It must have been hard for her to speak. Flies coated her throat like popping candy, bursting and buzzing as she spoke. Daddy, did you dose off again? She giggled in a voice that was not her own. Flies crawled around her face aimlessly, worrying, buzzing, buzzing until I swat one, crawling up my arm.

I woke up groaning with a jolt. My wrist pink where I slapped myself awake. The monstrous foyer of the museum still clapping with an echo. My paperwork sprawled everywhere across my table, stressing me again just as easily as it had put me to sleep. List of last week's casualties, notes on tonight's guest, complaints, all forms of boring. Paper unstuck itself from my arm and fluttered to the ground floor

from my reception desk one floor up. The ocean exhibit and the unconscious escapism that NAPS brought me was my only liberation from the museum. Though, that was a time before sleep brought nightmares. When I went to check my watch, I noticed I hadn't smacked a fly after all. A glass butterfly had become mere bits of translucent wing that coated my fingers like glitter.

I rub my hands and the clear fragments bloated gracefully down the marble stairs in a breeze like tiny mosquitoes or dust specks sparkling in the beams of moonlight trickled in through the glass ceiling. For a moment, I wish it had stung me and taken me to a better place. At least then I couldn't dream of blowflies

coming out of my dead daughter's mouth. Ron and Jill and the rest of the main and staff packed up and left. The bustling noise was gone. There's no more work to be done except wait for more wealthy, deplorable people to arrive. I was alone again, the only staff member in the museum, and I let my mind freely slip into a different time, a time before I was the tour guide. It was time to open shop.

I combed my hair, pulled my shirt collar, free from my waistcoat, shine my shoes. Down the marble staircase I went, tapping down the steps through the butterfly dust like headlights and fog. The clock struck six o'clock. The museum was now open for the evening, and only for the rich folk waiting outside. I pulled the large door open. It groaned and echoed in the museum's enormous foyer. Seven aristocrats haughtily strode inside.

Three men and four women cladded fancy dresses and coats. One man took a while to come up to the front steps and enter the museum, carrying his wooden cane. The tour will start immediately. There's a coat rack to your... A girl. maybe eight or nine came quietly through the door in a teeny black suit. Her unsure gaze scanned the four-year top to bottom, her eyes large, glossy globes. She shouldn't be here.

I didn't see her on the register. I thought she won't survive here. Neeling, I spoke. Hello, miss. The girl shyly leaned from behind the frame of the front door, her skin turning as pale as the ivory marble flooring. This must have been the first child to set foot in this god-forsaken place, and for good reason, Which of these people are your parents? I tried hard to keep a warm smile.

Nothing. She simply glared at me with two shiny eyes under a blonde curtain of hair. She doesn't speak, Sonny. Man with the wooden cane cleared his throat. Didn't speak the whole ride here. Won't speak now. Doesn't respond to anything at all? Really?

One beak-nosed snobby woman put her coat on the rack. Hmm, probably deaf. I stood thinking for a while. My face contemplating, changing in the light. Looking around at the billionaires in the foyer, they already looked ready to sing their teeth into the exhibitions, or worse. Bringing her along with the rest of the group in the museum tour was simply not an option. Fortunately for her, it was a requirement for me to understand the basics of at least 20 languages to allow for appropriate interaction with the museum's

guest. This included sign language, but my understanding tended to be rather broken. I could usually only make out the main words. Kneeling again, I spoke to her with my hands. The girl gestured back to me that mommy and daddy had sent her on a visit to the museum as they were called away for a business trip in Dubois. How was the flight? I gestured. Good. Big nose wound was very annoying. She ciggled and gestured that I didn't need to do hand signs. She could read my lips. I liked her already. My smile didn't need much effort anymore. Came naturally. Though I was still stuck with a child in an unforgiving place. She was a rabbit running in an open field under the shadow of the museum's eagle-clod exhibitions. Worse, the unsated bloodlust and curiosity of the wealthy and free.

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My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Due to unforeseen circumstances, this evening's tours have been cancelled. Growns from the crowd, the tour clause in my contract never stated how many people I needed to bring with me. We just got here! Do not fret. The museum is all yours to explore. Exited a one arm to point them towards the deep sea exhibition. Please don't wait to anglerfish. Tapping and screeching sounded against the floor as the crowd disappeared down the halls.

Starlight beamed through the windows, lighting up the girl's face. She beamed straight back with excitement. Now the tour can begin in peace. Peace was a lie, however. Unsupervised, the crowd would soon find some way or another to demonstrate that they were worse behaved than the kids standing before. me. Demonstration that would likely involve death. What do you like to do? Drawing. I know just the thing.

Many minutes past that evening as me and the girl began exploring the museum. Her name was Rosie, and she was very nervous about all the scary exhibitions. At the intersection between the art and music showcase, between another hallway leading to a locked door, we halted. What's down there? She pointed a tiny finger down the dark hall. That room with the metal door. What's in there, guide?

I know the museum from back to front. But I have to say, I've never been in there. Tightly sealed shut. No key. Oh, okay. She gave a sulking nod. Yeah, I know the feeling. I swiftly smiled to cheer up as I ushered her into the art of music space.

It's like nothing she'd ever seen before. Her bright eyes could have lit up a candle. The towering walls and ceiling of the art exhibit were flowing waves of sand that changed and hissed as they rolled. One moment, the walls painted a shifting mural of starry night. Waves of blue and yellow sand curate. curling and shifting from one famous artwork to another. The wall to our left painted the scream. She spread her fingers into the sand waterfall.

Flob between her ditches like she had pinched salt. It's so beautiful. She gestured, her mouth of cape at the ceiling. Tap her on the shoulder so she could read my lips. We don't just house paintings here. Take a look at these. Leaning one hand against a small glass cabinet, gazed in.

Two brightly colored shoes were set upon an ivory silk sheet, eerie descent against the changing, colorful backdrop of the sandy walls, they gleam bright enough to show their true crystalline translucency. Beneath the glass cabinet, the clumsy dancers. She wasn't truly impressed until I heartily slap the cabinet. The knocking suddenly turned the empty shoes alive, tapping and dancing upon the silk beneath them. One dance changed to another. Another became a twirl. They gracefully ended their tango with the famous moonwalk shuffle. Wow, what are these? She pressed her hands against the glass. If she were any closer, they might have kicked her. Well, some people might have a good

voice, a fantastic, fantastic singing voice. I took out my sack cloth and began polishing the glasses I spoke. Some people have the rhythm for soulful moves. These shoes right here, they bridge the gap. She was glaring at me with wide eyes, listening with them too, pulling the weight of ears that couldn't hear. They've developed some time between the 60s and 70s. Help push the dancing and up singers into superstardom by giving them a dancing edge too. I gestured her on to the next display against one sand waterfall. For a moment, I caught a sparkle in her eye. Her hair and bright grin reminded me of my dearly departed daughter, filling me with

a long-forgotten warmth. I bet I'm having more fun than you are right now, Rosie. She took a seat. What's this, guide? Upon the table before, a small white pin lay over a graphite and ash-peckled stone tablet. I pointed to the thin edges at the black plate, she caught the stretched golden placard that said, ballpoint stone. Her head twisted around to me, eagerly waiting. Go ahead. You'll see. I nodded, and she turned back around. Her hand grabbed the pin, met the plate with a blocky tap.

Appropibly, the wall of sand bloomed a pale white, save for tiny imperfections of dotted peach-colored sand that gave her the impression of an art canvas other than plain paper. As her hand swirled upon the plate, Lots of black sand circles formed and swirled against the walls coarse current. Or draw something, Rosie. The plate knows what you will draw and will guide you. Sure at first, she shook the back of her golden head a few times, an eight-year-old perfectionist. In that moment, I smirked when I pictured her rolling up her suit sleeves to get the work done right. I laughed when she really did it.

Is that me? I let out, staring at the sand wall. A man with brown hair emerged on the moving canvas, dressed in an absolutely dashing. in maroon waistcoat. Must be me. The drawing was a bit beyond an eight-year-old's range of skill. We had the pen and plate to think for that.

Though she was doing a beautiful job showing off. Wow. Looks great, Rosie. She had all my attention when she began drawing another figure. Who's that beside me now? Okay, here we go. Uh-oh. Here it is. I was going to say, I'm like, listen,

I like this whole fucking Harry Potter fun time thing, but let's, you know, let's get into it and here we go. I thought it was going to get broken up with like they busted open, like the spiders, the time spiders or something and like, yeah. I don't know what it is, but the trope of like little girl drawing horrible thing is always so frightening to me. I'm always just like it's anytime, it's like the same thing as like when a, anytime a child draws something or like when your dog is sitting looking at a corner and you're just like,

what are you looking at that I can see? It's fucking horrifying. Yeah, there's been multiple nights. I'm going to bed and the dog's just locked in down the hall. Oh my God. I hate it. I get up and I'm like pushing the dog. like, stop, quit.

What? Just quit. In the sand of the towering wall before me, a gawky shape appeared that bloomed big black blobs. It looked familiar, yet terrifying. Diabolical sharp nails protruded

from its lanky black arms. Rassie? Nothing. She kept scribbling away tirelessly at the plate. Okay, this is where I would slap the plant. I would slap the pin or I'd get a spray bottle and I'd start spraying water. Yeah, you'd keep a spray water bottle for the guest.

Oh. Yeah, bad. Mad, Rosie, bad. The thing loomed over my figure on the drawing on the wall. Sand flowing, the creature looming, looming, looming. God. It was a sickening animation. One ghoulish jaw hung free over its disgusting long neck.

Rodney! Engulfed my head. Thin pencil-like teeth cut through my childishly drawn throat. Red sand suddenly coughing and spitting out of the wall and onto the museum floor. Staining Rosie's shirt like bloody rain. Reggie! I grabbed her by the arm. What the hell are you drawing?

I liked yelling at a deaf child. It's for me, not her. She glared up at me with glossy eyes like she was about to cry. It wasn't me. I lifted her from the seat and plopped her upon the floor that was littered with speckles of red sand. I turned to the wall and pointed at her depiction of me. See? That's you. My heart was racing.

Did the museum make her touch? draw this and her shaky arms slowly drifted to the black figure that's mr. sleepy good god okay hey you want to go see the living wall you should touch it feels warm yeah rosy it was a lot of fun hanging out but you got to get the hell out of here you got to go touch the death wall oh yeah it was so fun hanging out here go touch that wall why no just just go give a big hug also to the uh whenever you're first reading this I I picture that the person of the tour guide, I thought that they were like late teens, early 20s, maybe. But this seems like it might be like an older,

maybe not older, but like 30s maybe. Oh yeah, he's been here a while. Yeah, he's been here a long time. Yeah, yeah. Yeah.

For sure. I imagine late 30s, early 40s kind of thing. But not like, not in like a broad, like age kind of guy, like a Steve Busimean Fargo kind of thing, like a sort of squirrely picked on kind of guy, you know?

Oh, you're picturing him like that? No, not in appearance-wise. I just mean kind of in like the smaller frame. Oh, I see. The museum people are more like degrading to him kind of thing. Sure, right. I felt sick. I had tried so hard to pull her away from the mayhem,

but the museum had bitten back. Come with me. I said sternly and she took my hand. Off we went quickly, downstairs to the indoor forest exhibition. How to keep her safe, no more misadventures. As we left, Mr. Sleepy turned his head and stared at me with his vacant, horrifying sandy eye sockets. I didn't tell her that.

I do like the animated sand thing. Like that's pretty sweet. Yeah. Yeah. There's a, I remember, have you ever been to one of those places where they have like the,

it's for kids, the geography thing where they can move sand and it shows them how the topography changes and like where water would go and stuff like that. I think we had something like that. It was in Kansas City. It was called like Science City or something. But it was like,

yeah, like basically like a big area for, it was like little in sections, whatever. but it was like a scientific or like a little play area that like taught you stuff, whatever. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I imagine like that, but it's like vertical on a wall.

Yeah, pretty sweet. Also too, just the idea that you draw something and it like basically. It becomes real up there. Yeah. Like animating itself to life is pretty fun. We saw a few distant visitors along the way to the forest room. They roared with laughter, screamed. Ushered her along with me, holding her hand tight.

For a while, things were much calmer in the forest room. I explained to the girl. that it was partly an aviary and reassured her the birds still got sunlight through the glass ceiling when it was daytime, though this evening only moonlight beamed through into the museums into our forest. Rosie and I startled a few birds crunching the bark upon the ground as we delve deeper. Quiet, Rosie. Gestured this time. Yes, we have to be quiet.

I pointed to a display next to us that was wedged between two well-trimed trees. It was dark, but we managed to make out the shape of a person inside. That tree looks like a man. That's because it is. her eyes lit up as i whispered still clenching my hand tightly an experiment gone wrong we house it here so he can sleep he's not human not not anymore feast through his roots or anyone stupid enough to get close to him i like how this kid like gets possessed and draws one creepy thing and he's like all right well you want to come see the tree person don't let him eat you i like so

and just to make sure fucking mr uh ziquel whatever he's coming over and he's like sequel the sand is chasing them, right? Or is it saying that like a paranormal entity is chasing them, but it's not necessarily the same. It's just like whatever entity was drawn. That's like kind of like coming after them now or at least has a side of them. I don't think anything's chasing them.

Oh, okay. So then I'm like, well, I don't know. It was just the thing of like, well, let's go. And it seems like they're cutting through like a dangerous area for whatever reason. No, no, no. So it's, it's, what I'm reading it as is that drawing freaked him out so he leaves. Right. So he takes her over to a different exhibit, but they have to be quiet

because of the things in the exhibit. I see. I think. Nothing can be heard in the dark indoor forest. Only that of the crunching of leaves as she moved to press her nose against the glass. Screech. Rosie, don't make too much noise. What's his name?

No name. Gently pulled her away from the exhibit. Fucking grabbed underneath her armpits and fucking threw over it through over his head. Just honked her straight over. Yeah. Though some guests call it the slumber ghoul. He's relatively harmless. The one of our poor Jander's fellow sleeping here

during one of these long evenings never woke up. Oh, God, the slumbergool. The slumbergool. That's great. That's awesome. He's called, yeah, he's called the, if you come near me, I'm going to fucking kill you guy. He's, yeah, he's not that dangerous. We just call him the Holocaust death machine 5,000.

Yeah, which you know, he's relatively harmless. But if you go near him, he skins you alive and put you into a fucking juicer. Oh, okay. Okay, cool. Thank you. Yeah. Oh, that guy, that's just the sodomizer, 8,000. The what?

Excuse me? When you're a little older, I'll tell you what that means. Okay. Her hand tightened around mine. They say you eat you through your dreams. And if you're really tired, you don't even have to be asleep to feel it happening. Good fucking Lord. Why don't you keep some of this information away from the kid?

Just, you know what? You know what? You know what? I think it's best that we just leave here. Let's go look at the fish. Let's go to the gift shop. Yeah, they have a gift shop where it's just like a little cartoon depictions of all the stuff that wants to kill you. Yeah.

Wasn't that fun? You remember I was dying in here? And they can get a keychain. There's a little bear with the t-shirt. That'll be $500. Yeah, it's $500. Well, you're rich, dude. Come on.

Pay it. Yeah, who cares? That was all I had to say. She pulled my arm and a hurry towards the door. Sorry for scaring you, Rosie. Well, I mean, duh. Oh, shit. Sorry, kid.

No, what, what are we puritan now? What's the problem? We had almost made it to the back door when a couple of blue butterflies fluttered and landed on her hair. She had almost lifted one onto my finger with leaves crunch behind us. One of the deplorable rich people had found us. He was scrambling around in the dark, reaching out with hands unable to see. His hand met the cabinet that housed the tree man. The idiot sounded a loud honk as his fingers slid across the glass. Without warning, he smashed the glass, cackling as he ran out of the forest Dave

and back to the halls. Okay, so I get like these guys being like killers and wanting stuff to die, but they keep describing them like giant toddlers. What's this? Like, yeah, smash his glass and runs away. I mean,

don't know wrong. I do like these, uh, this very like Lutitunes-esque way that like these billionaires like walking around with like, uh, I imagine like pinstripe, you know,

like the classic burglar look. I keep picturing that there's all these like, like burglar, uh, billionaires. walking around with like giant sacks that have a dollar bills on it. He he he.

And then they like run off and they make like weird vaudeville cartoon sounds. Because there was that there's like the case earlier and then they're looking at the venomous butterflies and they're like, don't shut the door.

Let them free. And also like the level of like supposedly important and rich people casualties this museum has would be staggering. You know? Yeah, I mean, it'd be fucking, it'd be a lot.

Rosie tried to free from my hand's grip, breaking into a sprint to no avail. It's okay, Rosie, the back door, let's go. We jogged quickly through the trees, crunching bark and waking birds as we went, running, running. The door to the aviary sounded a clack. Somebody was locking us in. I jimmied the rest of doorknob at the back to no avail. The door first clicked, then bumped with no groan as it stubbed to a sudden shut. It widened little enough that I swore I won't be able to eat.

even fit a few fingers in the gap. Mr. Sleepy. Mr. Sleepy is coming. Something's in the way. I grunted. Suddenly the girl drummed a few fist hammers on my leg. She kept hammering on the side of my leg. Rosie pouted a worried face to the artificial tree line

before rummaging her face into one of my black pant legs away from something horrible. Yondered the trees. It towered with flesh irregular and charred black like an ashen log. Its mouth hung unhinged, wide open to ghoulish. its eyes of vacant white. It was watching us. Rosie.

I held the girl by her shoulders. Rosie, it's okay. He can't get us. The girl looked up with glossy eyes. Monster. She gestured. It cannot touch us if we're well slept. Stay awake, okay?

Gave her a warm look, but it was quickly cracking. Mr. Sleepy. I shared a gaze for as long as she could muster before her eyes met the ground. Rosie, I want you just stay calm when you answer my question, okay? I had to balance my gaze between her and the thing and the trees. Rosie sniffled and nodded. Did you sleep much on the flight to the museum? My eyes started to movement behind us.

Blackened stumps where like should be slogged under the cool, moving weighted like an unruited oak. Yeah, boy. Every slow step it took made its torso contoured with a sickening crack as if its bones had snapped and twisted. Its mouth had since widened enough that it could fit Rosie's beautiful, ripened head inside. Rosie, did you sleep? Crack.

Rosie! Crack, crack. Like a fever dream. I saw blowflies crawling over her eyelids and her mouth, just like my dead daughter, Sophia. Am I pretty daddy? I snapped out of it. Rosie, please! I boomed, shaking her.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack. I had to get her out. I couldn't lose her. Not again. I shot up for my knees, launching her onto my shoulders and bolted towards the other door. Her head bounced around while I ran, but when I steadied, we made out the ghoul. It was looming close, a mere 20 paces away. its torso flailed with the disjointed crack in directions perpendicular to its body.

Hold on! I announced as I held Rosie to my chest. I extended a leg and launched a kick into the door. Curses under my breath could not drown out the sickening sound behind me. All I could think of was that I had to get Rose out and that its step sounded like boot meaning snail. Get in! I said, and her shoes popped on the ground. This time I held my kick as one shoe planted against the door.

I could not open it wide enough for myself, but pressing the door with my boot. made it grown wide for her to enter. For a split second, I worried about the rich people through the door and in the halls too. One long, an ending nightmare. I finally broke through. The rich people who had been blocking the door shut

went sprawling like cockroaches under a bright light. That cackled maniacally as they ran through the halls. Almost got you! One of the rich men laughed as he went around a bend, his voice becoming distant as he ran. Again, just like, I like that. We're going to kill the child.

I do like to at least they're keeping them consistent that way that they're just as immature as the child that he's watching after. Or not even like Rosie's more mature than these people are, but I do like this idea of like it's a playground. Like it's a museum, but this is just like a sadistic fucking playground.

I mean, it's like they're just doing whatever they want with all the toys on display. Again, it's campy obviously, but it's like a fun camp, you know? No, I think so. It's very like Hunger Games audience-esque, you know? Well, even the outside of the camp. To me, I'm like, this is just the actual horrifying part of being, like being a tour guide for

a secret fucked up museum for billionaires. I would expect them to, it would be a, uh, what is it Saddam, Gimorah, kind of like fucking crazy party, whatever kind of vibe. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I could see that. Especially, you know, no cameras, no rules, no witnesses kind of thing. Yeah, exactly. They couldn't keep getting away with this. They couldn't keep tormenting me in the museum for sickening entertainment. Wait here, told Rosie. She was a ball on the ground, shaking and sobbing. I shut up on two legs in a rush and gave chase.

He can be assumed he locked the door back, right? I would have to, well, actually, I don't know. They didn't specify it, so maybe not. I almost assumed that he just ran as soon as the door burst up and they just started running. So, and also it seems like before in the last post, I don't know, doesn't seem like locking or closing doors is a part of his itinerary. It's not a, not a standard operative.

around these parts. The rich prick ran and ran. His hand screeching against the walls of the tight corridor. Our museum's greenhouse is on either side. You almost killed Rosie. Sprinting, I'd almost caught up with him. He was in arm's reach. Stop running.

His leg caught itself beneath one foolish stride. He went tumbling into one wall before pushing off of it and into another, smashing the glass and halfway tumbling into the greenhouse. Spectacles had come away from his face. Blood drain and trickled towards his scalp as he. hung over shards of the broken window. Starlight flooded in from the greenhouse and blanketed his face in a greenish hue. Help me! Corsely pleaded. One arm reached up at me, wanting to be pulled away from the glass into safety. Inside, Holly, our greenhouse Venus flytrap with the mouth to fit a man,

twisted and loomed in the evening light. She was a ginormous, beautiful plant. Hungry too. The man's head tilted backward and set eyes on the plant. He wriggled and wormed, trying to free from the glass that struck through him. I reached one hand outward to lift him, then stopped myself. Rosie smile glowed in my mind like hot steel. My daughter, Sophia, had that smile. A smile he wanted to take away.

My arm retracted. Lift me out of here. Hurry! I glared at him unblinkingly. Then it was over. With one swift swoop, Holly swallowed his torso. Green hairy fingers from her lips

snugly tightened around his body like mossy bandages. My employment contract has been broken and I shall be punished. Globules of thick slime dripped from the flytrap's lips, arms and legs burst out of her mouth as she chomped.

When I returned to Rosie, I held her hand tighter than I had the entire evening. I held and held her hand all night until it was time for her ride to pick her up from the museum's courtyard. Broken glass and escaped exhibitions tend to be the majority of the damage

and for a few hours I swept. When everyone had left, All that was left for me to do was sit at my reception table and wait for sunrise. My contract had been broken. I let a guest die at my hand. There were always all despicable, I suppose. But that one had to die. Rosie's warmth that had gripped me so tightly dissipated hours after the museum turned quiet. Everything was cold again. I miss my daughter. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you like Rosie.

There'd be more rich guests torment me next week. And there was no escape. I thought about the ocean exhibition I visited earlier in the evening. The angler fish and I are one and the same. I love you, Sophia. I slumped at my table. I lay broken and bruised. Rested my head upon folded arms, ready to let sleep come to me. I hope I don't dream of you, my girl.

I want to see the blow flies again. For a while, nothing. Then something quite curious. For the first time at 15 years, I'm using. Ziam's phone rang. End of part two. It's always interesting with these stories because this seems like a story, and correct me if I'm wrong,

this seems like a story where it was like, well, I'm just going to like kind of like write a bunch of first part stuff. And if something takes hold, then I'll just add on to it. Right. Yeah. It always,

I always think that these things do way better when you get to know. Like I always like every time that these like little like vignette stories, it always gets a lot more fun the farther it goes along because they're like, you get a little know a little bit more about the character each time and I think the way that the story is kind of like it's like to me it feels like a fucked up Harry Potter book doesn't it like kind of like in Harry Potter there's like the fucked up tree that like it'll swipe at you there's like these little things that are almost like childlike but then all of a sudden it'll kind of like hit you hit you with something heavier but I do uh I'm wondering if it's going to keep that kind

of um that tonality the entire time and I keep wondering my to how did he get this job? And is there something that he did? Like, is this job almost like a prison sentence or something? You know? Like, is he actually being paid for this? Or is this? Maybe one of those things now that he's here, he can't leave, you know?

Well, you'd assume so. I mean, anytime you have like a thing like this, you're, you're, uh, disposable, you know? Yeah, they're not just going to let him quit because that one line I really liked a lot was you broke your contract. you're going to be punished. It'd be kind of cool to see more of the organizers, which I'm sure we'll get into as we're going on because we're getting ready to be on part three or five. But it'd be cool to see like who's running the museum

and what does that punishment look like? I hope we get to explore that a bit because that'd be a lot of fun. I think this setup of having kind of these comically rich people in these like fantastical settings is a cool idea. And I like the recurring stuff of like Mariette and the sleep demon or whatever. I think that's fun. I think so too. I think I hope that they keep that consistent though. Like my fear is that I think that it's a fun thing to I would like to see that develop more like how crazy and childlike that these billionaires are. These rich people and like how they act in the museum. I hope that's expanded upon and like all of a sudden it doesn't just shift to where it's like now we're very serious and whatever.

Like I hope it stays that in that land. Yeah, it's okay if they introduce like a serious group who like runs the music. museum. That's fine. I agree. I do like the billionaires being like childish. It also makes it also makes them more susceptible to just all the like traps that are like lying around. Like they're not taking any of it with any kind of like sincerity. So they just keep fucking dying. I think is fun. But I do think like the second part, it was really fun having even though it was kind of random of just like by the way my kid's dad. You're like what? You know, that kind of came out of nowhere. But I hope that I'd like to know more about this guy. Like it'd be cool to know more about him and like why he's in this situation. And more important why he can't leave. Yeah, I like the idea of him kind of being like victim of, uh, or not him being victim. I like the idea of these guys kind of falling into these ludicrous traps. Like the last guy dying to a giant Venus fly trap, like a little shop of horrors.

That's really fun. I think so do. Also, I wonder what the consequences are for that where it's like, oh, the owner of FedEx died. well, oops. See, I wonder for wonder for legal reasons you couldn't do that, but that would be really, really fun. Yeah, Dave FedEx is at the museum that day.

Mr. FedEx, no. He keeps boxing shit and trying to like put, like send it off. You can't take the museum pieces, Mr. FedEx. Why not? In the first part, I like the idea that the president of FedEx is obsessed with packaging things. I mean, like that.

He's like, overnight shipping. They're like, no, Dave, put it down. No, Dave, put it down. And then he looks at the guy. He's like, he actually invented overnight shipping. Did you know? That's Dave FedEx, by the way. You're like, who gives us stuff?

He invented the idea of putting things in boxes and putting them somewhere else. Yeah. Wow. Also, in part one, I completely imagined that the richie guy who killed that woman, I imagine. I imagine that is Mark Zuckerberg. Dude, I was going to say the same thing. I was thinking the exact same thing.

That is so funny. Literally though, yeah, like casualty. It's just like, this is pretty much funny. And then I pictured when he pushed her in to the flesh wall, since like a big meme right now is Mark is like, I don't know, like Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

I imagined him like dance kicking her like Eddie from Tekin into the wall. He did. Like that look he gave was like that dead lizard eyes. stare he did during his like testimony in front of Congress. She's a bug. She's a bug. She's not real to me. She's not.

I feed bug. I feed bug to the wall. That's cool. Yeah. That's pretty cool. Insect into the wall. I feel nothing. I don't feel anything.

I'm going to go. I want to go buy something. Awesome. Thanks. I don't feel like that guy's going to come back though. 100%. And I, like I said, my bear trap is that it's the museum son.

Like the museum, the museum's owner's son is what I think. I could believe that. Yeah. I could take that. It just feels like it feels like all the other, all the other billionaires have been childish, but he feels very, it feels like very snoddy like my dad owns a dealership kind of vibe. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Definitely like third generation wealth kind of thing. Whatever. My dad will just buy it. Who cares? The way he said, my dad owns a dealership. Like in your mind, the pinnacle of wealth is your father owns a car dealership. I, ever since I've watched that awkward, it's from an aquatine hunger. forced episode. He's like his dad owns a dealership. My dad owns this dealership. I know. But now every

time I think of like a kid who thinks he's wealthy, it's always like a guy who owns his dad owns my dad owns a dealership. Yeah. Exactly. Yeah. It's perfect. It's perfect. All right. Part three. Part three. The guests are trying to kill me. Oh, good. This week, I found myself scrubbing away at the scatterbrain mirror in the paranormal wing of the museum. The premise was symbol. The mirror's deep navy and galaxy sparkled reflection would read your eyes and the deepest horrors and fears from the recesses of your mind would scatter onto the mirror like brain paint. If I'm being completely honest, I'd really dread it cleaning the mirror. I hated seeing my daughter's distorted face staring back at me or the reanimated horrors of the museum

eating away at my flesh. Yes, I'm talking about you, Marriette. I peered my head out of the large doorway to the plastic doll in her display. It'd be fun with these. I know that like people don't really include a lot of like photos and stuff on these are slash no sleep stuff it'd be fun if you're like a museum person just to give a visual of like just like a hand drawn map or something even on a napkin that you scan and just upload i feel like that would make it a lot more immersive too like that'd be kind of fun yeah just like a picture of the map or maybe for this one you could have a picture of the mirror you know in a room or something like that just like little things of like as if he's on his break like in the break room and it's just like a little a doodle things like that i think could make it feel more

personal too. Like that'd be kind of... Yeah, I think they flesh out a world. Yeah. I think they flesh out a story a lot, yeah. My microfiber cloth polished the blood and muck from the corners of the mirror's golden ornamental frame. It reached between the crevices of the perched gargoyles it depicted in its etchings

around the rim of its face. Around the center, I swirled and swirled until it was squeaky tidy. When I saw my daughter Sophia, I met her imaginary hand at the interface of the reflection with mine. When I saw a monstrous exhibition. and standing behind my shoulders, I rolled two unimpressed eyes. Cleaning carried my mind to the clouds, and I thought about the museum rather than the labor ahead of me. I guess there is great fear in unknowing, and like a disease, the fear I once had

for the museum's daunting artifacts soon spread to another host once I became accustomed to its horrifying mechanisms while living in its belly for so long. The unpredictable fear and excitement of the building bit the wealthy visitors like a rabbit dog. My panic no longer grew from the museum's walls, but blossom from the cruel, diseased hearts of the deplorable rich people that visited. I could always predict the way the museum would react, ever the manner human malice could. And every week, I had no choice but to confront those who visited the museum

and mold myself to their erratic and sickening behavior. It was the same fear that gripped me 15 years ago before I signed the employment contract, the fear I had in my 20s. The fear that came from finding out my daughter's cancer was untreatable without chemotherapy. We were young. My job didn't pay enough for costly therapy.

Hopelessness met me at the end of an empty whiskey bottle, which had stared at me accusingly until the very last drop. I was a failed father with nothing but time on his hands to watch my daughter Sophia wither away and observe her joyful, smiling soul fall through my fingers like sand. That was, till the day I saw a strange article in the newspaper. Tour guide wanted it read.

When I saw the salary listed, I saw not dollar signs, but my daughter's bright smile. My mind's eye witnessed her future graduation, her wedding, the second chance from the cruel illness that had been pulling her away from my arms and into a child-sized coffin.

Oh man, what a brutal sentence. I know. Not good word. Like I said, I always feel like every time they, every time you get deeper into these little vignette stories, they always go so much harder.

I don't know why. It just always feels like they're like really finding their own. You just build stuff with the characters and like it makes it more meaningful. Like if that sentence was dropped like beginning of the first story, it'd be we'd be kind of like, okay, that's harsh off the stop, whatever. But we've spent enough time with this guy

that it like gets impactful. Yeah, yeah, yeah. No, it's true. Yeah, imagine if the first like the first paragraph had my child, from her future wedding to a child's eyes cough and be like, oh, all right. Dude, I feel like knowing you,

you would be like, oh, I am in. Because I mean, I would be like, holy shit, they'd be fucking crazy. Yeah,

okay, if the story continued in that tone, yes, but if I read that and then the next sentence was, anyway, we passed the living wall, the sleepy poo man. And it's like,

okay, I'm getting a little conflicting vibes here. Yeah, like, like pieces together with a different author. all right you take this section i'll take this section yeah yeah the girl who named

an Asian character Ching Chong that's a Ching Chong dude it's Cho Chang dude come on that's the same that is the same thing the instantly recognizable cho chang from Jake okay my my

that is the same that is the same thing yeah well every character follows the same naming pattern where it's like stereotype like descriptor quality or whatever. And so it's like, yeah, if we had a sentence like that followed by anyway, the glass butterflies were venomous. It would be like off putting.

But the way the stuff's bit, because again, people all the time be like, oh, you don't like quirky, you don't like whimsy. I don't like whimsy details when it undercuts the story. I just want to be consistent. But because the story established, exactly, because the story established its tone off the back, then it stays in that tone throughout. fine reading a fun story and it can be campy as long as it knows it's doing that. And if I had to give it a bit, sure, there's times where I might, I might be a little more vocal

about not liking some of the quirky chungus humor. Fine. You know, sue me. You know, it's just, it's a personal thing. It's, it's really when the quirky chungus humor just like takes a serious story and knocks it down so far. But this will, honestly, the story doesn't have it yet. It's ramping up. It's just been like there. I don't know. I feel like, you know, I feel like, it's like the characters are, but they don't say jokes to undercut the tension and stuff like that. It's just they act foolish in the world is very fantastical. So then they come across these fantastical elements and they react to them like people would.

Like, please help me, save me rather than like the guy falls in and he goes, well, that just happened. True. Yeah. What is this?

A little shop of horrors. Like a Marvel quip or something. Exactly. As long as we keep staying away from like, you know, Mr. Cookie Feet or something like that, then I think I'll be happy.

I think we'll be okay. Yeah, yeah. Well, I mean, when a child describes something is Mr. Sleepy or whatever, it's like, yeah, that's how a child would describe like a sleep demon. Yeah, but isn't that what he called? That's what he called. That's what he called that, though, didn't he? He said some guess called the slumber monster.

Oh, okay. I see. But she calls it Mr. Sleepy because it's the way a child would describe, you know, that kind of thing. I feel that, yeah. But like, because it established that tone and now we have a internal character moment, the child-sized coffin line feels fitting, because it is in that personal turmoil rather than changing the tone

of the whole story around it. Right. Versus where a lesser story would really lay on the child coffin thing in the beginning and then have a guest to be like, what's her deal? She's made a plastic. That's weird.

Stuff like that. What the hell? Awkward. Yeah. Awkward. Yeah, they think they come up to the case with Mariette inside and the Mark Zuckerberg guy's like,

so. I guess she tried to cancel him and then. Actually, to be fair, if you did make all the billionaires, like that kind of humor, it'd be kind of funny. Watching Mark Zuckerberg Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu kick a woman into a full flesh wall, and then like Mark Cuban comes around the corners, like, awkward sauce. That would be kind of funny. If it stayed consistently in that, that'd be fine. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That'd be okay.

Yeah, yeah. But so far, there hasn't been jokes to undercut the threat of stuff around them, which I appreciate. There's still time. There's still time. There's still time, though. The employment contract to be the tour guide at the private museum was simple yet unforgiving. The paycheck was huge, enough to solve my personal woes and help my family. Though the paperwork was littered with strange clauses, most of which ended with an event of breaching this agreement, employee is subject to immediate termination and a sanguineation.

What the fuck? Excuse me? You want to run that last part behind me again? If you don't know what a sanguination means, it's a showy word to describe draining your circulation of blood. Thank you, story. I was 20-something, desperate, and I'd guess the word meant that they were going to forcibly take me from my property. Later, when I found out what it meant, I consoled myself. It was merely a sick joke. No organization simply murdered unruly employees.

My wife, however, didn't find it amusing. Though desperation took me, propelled me to sign up for Sophia's sake. and the museum held me in its jaws for 15 years. The contract was indefinite, and early termination would result in one thing, a sanguination. This was no known organization. No one would hear me scream,

not even God. And in this place, there was no God, only the rich and famous. Last week, when I picked up the phone, a voice sprinkled with familiarity met my ear. It was the voice of someone I had heard before, sounding deep and curdled between obese lips. It was the museum curator, and I had not spoken to him in 15 years since the day he presented me with my contract.

Hi there, boyo. He boomed, a hissing of stubbles sounded through the archaic museum phone. Who is this? He bellowed a fat man's laugh. You don't recall? After a short chat, he coughed into the phone to break the catch-up. What I try to say, lad is that I appreciate your commitment to the museum. That I do.

That I do. for the guest list tonight. He paused, murmuring gibberish as he read something. Yes, yes. Five will be attained to function tonight, four of which are guests. I nodded to myself.

I was off the hook, but why was he calling me? Great, uh, the last attendee is not a guest, rather will be there for your aforementioned extinguation. I think my heart stopped. Excuse me?

Oh, it's not all bad chap. If the attendee is incapacity and unable to carry out the clause, of your contract, kill you. We'll be seeing you on time for next week. Cheerio. Phone clicked off.

I see. That's funny. I like that it's just that casual. By the way, you're going to fucking die. By the way, guys, it's coming.

He's going to take all your blood. Good luck figuring out who it is. But if you can kill him first, you can still clock in. All right. See you next week. Say you next week. Bye.

It was a painful week after that night. My heart never left my throat. every waking moment my mind would drift and be reminded that someone was coming to the museum to end me. I suppose that was always a risk when giving tours to the deplorable brats that visited, but this was different. Whoever it was, their sole goal was to leave my body cold and lifeless. I checked my watch after I had finished polishing the mirror and began walking towards the enormous foyer. Uneasiness, as well as my turning stomach, almost made me forget I had to feed tooth fairy.

Up the stairs I went and down the halls, passing the locksdale door on my way. I never opened that door, and it always tickled my curiosity, that there was absolutely no way inside without a key. Besides, it was a matter for another time. The guests were going to arrive in 15 minutes. So was my executioner. I really held the tooth fairy is fed with teeth. Oh, for sure.

At the end of the flowing walls of the music and art exhibition was a dimly lit doorway that I rarely entered. Outside on a large golden placard of the entrance, tooth fairy. The room inside was a dark cube space with painted black walls. A single spotlight illuminated the painting hung in the center of the furthest wall. A horrifying face of an anguished man was brushed across the canvas that looked like a hairless burning corpse. Its mouth and eyes were vacant holes. Distant white specks could be made out in the open cavities of its face.

teeth, throatfuls and eye sockets lined with hundreds of teeth. We were given this painting from a woman who saw the face move on her bedroom wall. Obviously, no art dealers would take her up on a donation. Our cleaners kept the teeth from our deceased visitor's corpses for a special reason. It's grotesque, sure, but completely necessary. From my maroon waistcoat pocket, I pulled a handful of bloody teeth and fit them snugly in the rim of the artwork's ornamental frame. Monthly feeding became a ritual

so he didn't leave the painting and walk the halls. I hated the times I forgot to feed him. The times he crawled out of the canvas dye and slogged around the halls looking for me. I checked my watch. It was 559. Museum was about to open. I think it's funny

and I understand like with a situation like this, I guess upper management assumes there will be some death. But the idea that this guy continuously leaves existence. It's open, gets guests killed willingly or otherwise, forgets to feed the tooth fairy that walks around the halls. And it's like, well, you know, he's new. He's got to learn the road. He's been there 15 years. Yeah, 15 years. That's child's play. Don't you know we're immortal? I think it's a thing where it's like, uh, it's got to be a thing where it's like he's the only person working there because he's not only like a tour guide. He also like is maintenance. He cleans shit.

It seems like he's the only person working there and they got him in a fucking blood contract now. Literally, yeah. Quickly adjusting my waistcoat and brushing my hair. I came tapping down the marble staircase of the vast foyer. Two hands pulled open the enormous store. As usual, the rich folks sauntered into the museum on their invisible high horses.

By wondering, I scanned and assessed them quickly. Any one of them could be my undoing. In the group of five, there was two men. one plump and stubby, another gaunt and scragly. Out of the three women, two were bony and frightening to look at, like fleshy scarecrows with long, pompous noses. Lastly, was a lady that was quite pale and beautiful. Her eyes quite small in her face,

which was framed by ash-black bangs in a ponytail. That woman, however, stood out to me long after we had begun the tour. The ponytail of hers didn't stick out from her rich girl high horse, rather her middle-class mannerism. She carried herself with the pride that was of a hard-working businesswoman, content and happy with her nine to five, not the accomplished grandeur of reeling in millions of dollars of fortune for multiple estates. Was this her?

I took them through a couple exhibitions, passing the glass-walled hallways between our greenhouses where Holly had eaten a man the week before. They clapped at the Venus fly-traps enormous olive mouth as it twisted under the evening starlight oblivious to its horrific history. So maybe one of them knew, the one the curator had spoken to, must have known everything. We had stopped at the paranormal wing. They saw a Mariette for a while before their eyes, then set on something else.

What's under here? A woman said, pulling out a display cabinet's blanket. Take a look. Pulling the fabric away with one shaky hand like a magician, terrified of failing a stunt. He had no human mouth nor teeth. His snout was the long hairy tube appendage of a bull. blowfly. You could see his black eyes at the incandescent light at certain angles. They had faded to pitch after many years of anguish and isolation in his glass prison. His face was a charcoal black,

not gray. So was his gangly body that broke out wings and spiny limbs through his hairy graphite flesh. There was no wide in his eyes, only a screen door patterned upon two bulging, dark eyeballs that housed a thousand more. He watched us unblinkingly through the glass, one to five. One to formed wing buzzing and clicking, moving. Half human, half fly. Below the display on a golden placard, it read Beelzebub. That's fun. That's a fun name.

Yeah, exactly. It's just the devil. Well, Beelzebub means the Lord of the Flies, but the name is often applied to the devil. Yeah, yeah. The woman in a long brunette ponytail leaned in and gawked, pressing her done-up lips against the glass with a clack, as she turned her head to say,

Or shouldn't he be in the insect exhibit guide? The thing inside the glass turned his revolting head to as if it could understand her, as if he felt mocked. There were a couple chuckles from the rich crowd. A jaw tightened, though. They were upsetting him. He was there originally, yes. I wiped one sweaty palm against my trousers. He was brought to the museum by an anonymous donor describing it as being the product of experimental chemical warfare.

That's fun. The lady nodded pensively. The thing buzzed inside the glass. However, our team quickly disproved this and our museum was unable to understand what the creature was, nor what happened to him. And so he rots his days away stuck in the paranormal wing. It's tragic but necessary. I personally believe the person who donated him thought we were his last resort to dispose of him. Suddenly, one hairy feeler braced the glass and stuck against the barrier like a sickly black hoof.

I felt queasy and wanted to move on, but the questions kept pouring. How did he get that name? A man's voice said from the back. In theology, Beelzebub was one of the seven princes of hell. In Eugoritic, the name roughly translates to the Lord of the Flies. My eyes briefly caught the thing in the display cabinet, bending its head to the side like a confused dog. One disgusting tube snout rocking back and forth like a pacifier. Does it think?

I mean, like you or I? We simply don't know. Not many staff come into this exhibition chamber, let alone try to interact with the pieces. So. Extending one arm forward, I assured the crowd to walk on. We did for a while, until I noticed the woman with the black ponytail still pressed against the glass, gawking at the blowfly's body. Ma'am? She pointed an index finger at it for a couple moments before speaking.

I want to try to speak to him. He looks like he's in pain. I don't think that's a good. You? You probably pass him every day. You work here. She interrupted. Her tone searing me like a hot coal.

Giving tours. cleaning cabinets, and not once have you tried to find out if he's still human in there. Her finger darted against the glass to his bulbous, hairy blackhead. I glared at her for a while and brooded. Did this museum guest have compassion?

No, I swallowed. Was this her? The curator's inside woman? The one trying to kill me? If she got any closer to the flies, she'd be as good as dead. I might be the collateral damage. We should move on.

She snorted. No, I don't think we shall. The lady nodded her head towards the enclosure. Open it! You are welcome to try to communicate with it through the glass. Wrapped my knuckles against the boundary. She stared at me with shark eyes. With the glass, he's an animal.

Without he's equal. I want to speak to him as such. Now open the goddamn cabinet. I couldn't think straight anymore. Curator's game was plaguing me. This had to be her right. going to let Beelzebub free and kill us. Still, I had a plan.

Shouldn't there be, I mean, like even within the setting, shouldn't there be a rule like one guest cannot kill all the other guests on a whim, you know? I would assume so. I think it's just the rationale. I think to at least giving it the benefit of the doubt in these, in the situation, the amounts, the amount of pressure,

uh, that you would get from these people and like you kind of are, and also too, they're not around it every day or not, they're not around these pieces every day. So I feel like they keep doing all this child like shit of just being like open the door. And he's like, okay, well, that's going to kill us. But then like specifically you can't do it or you can't like not obey them, which also results on I guess you getting a death sentence.

So I don't know. It'd be a it. That would be a rough, be a rough job to have, let's just say. Yeah, needless to say. I also think that with it's interesting to me how Beelzebub, it's like a human fly hybrid. And they're just like, oh, I think he's like us. It's funny that like... He's like a elephant trunk or something.

Yeah. And they call it the Lord of the Flies. And I like how their empathy doesn't go to other people or anything. But it's like, this fly monster thing, I'm his friend. I'm going to be a savior. I'm going to make the connection. Like that's where the savior complex or... Savior complex or a thing of like, well, no one else is special.

And I feel like I could communicate with it. Like, I feel like it would communicate with me. It's like such a. It's a very narcissistic, like, way of displaying that. It's like girls when they say they can talk to animals or guys when they can talk to like, uh, never mind. I can talk to animals. Do what?

I said, I can talk to animals. You can talk to animals. Yeah. How do you talk to animals? I say, hello. And they talk, they talk back to me. What do they say? Mostly bark, bark and meow.

There's mostly what I guess in that sense, we can all talk to animals. huh? Yeah, that's fun. There's nothing preventing you from speaking your native language to an animal, I suppose. I guess it's the comprehension of it that's more taxing. I would never want to talk to my bass sound tugboat. I feel like he would say horribly nasty things. What do you think, tugboat? You're a little

harsh on tugboat sometimes. He's a son of a bitch. I understand that he puts you through the ringer sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes I'll see him look at you and he's like, oh, hunter. And you're like, you stupid. disgusting. First off, he doesn't say, oh,

Hunter, he looks at me with his paper thin face and these two giant fucking jawbreaker size eyes just drooping out of

their eye sockets. And he's just, and I could tell, I'm like, in a, in a moment's notice, like, you know,

that's thing where it's like, oh, yeah, if you die, you're like over time, your, your, your,

your animals would eat you or whatever, right? Right, right. That happens already. I'm not even dead. And I, I know that tugboats like,

at any time, I could eat that fat son of a bitch and it would taste delicious. See, I feel like that's a bad read. I feel like Crawdad would be more likely to eat you. Crawdad. No, she's sweet. She's a beautiful, beautiful creature. Yeah, but I feel like she's playing the long con because you're like, oh,

crawdad, little blah, blah, blah. And she's like kind or whatever. And I feel like she would just, okay. Now you're kind of make me horrified of the animal I like most of my house. That's unnecessary and extremely cruel. She's a sweet baby angel. between my two dogs, I feel like

Ollie would certainly eat me first. Even though he's like the sweeter of the two. Even though he's the sweeter of the two, he'd be sad about, then he'd be like, well, don't want it to go to waste. A man's got to eat. Man's got to eat. Meanwhile, Benny would be like barking and like

crapping himself and spinning in circles, falling across the floor, losing his mind. He would just go hungry. He would starve. Yeah. But not out of love, out of like fear. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah.

I don't know what's going on. So what else is it? I didn't know they could do that. I've never seen that happen before. Yeah. Meanwhile, Ollie's like, well,

yeah, he doesn't have any teeth anymore. So he'd just try to gum my lifeless corpse until something tore off. I feel like you would be, I feel like someone could gum you. I think you probably, I feel like you could get crazy.

I could see your, your body being eaten by gum. Are you saying that my flesh just looks that palpable? I think it's just, I feel like you look like you're made of. Jello. It's a crazy thing to say about a man. What do you mean by that?

I don't know. Whenever you, when you were in person and we're obviously, we're separate now and, but I remember, I remember very distinctly being like, this is dude, he just looks like he's made of jello.

I have no way to do it. Also, you kept touching your arms and stuff and it would like end in a weird way. Are you calling me, are you calling me, are you calling me. Are you calling me? Are you calling me?

I'm just saying, you're like shiny. You're like a, uh, you're like jello. You make me think of jello. Like a mold. So because I have smooth skin, I'm made of jello.

No, no, no. See, you're trying to make sense of something that might not make a lot of sense. I'm saying that I just look at you and I'm like, he looks like he's made of jello. That's why I just was saying that if your dog who has no teeth, I'm like, you probably could eat him. Slurp it down like jello. I don't know. I don't have all the reasonings of the world, dude. I'm a big fat man.

Do you think I look like jello? I think I look more like, uh, I think more like a, like a, I would never say that about a man I respect. Like a cheese curd. That's what I think I look like. Would you say you respect me, Hunter, as a man? Oh, absolutely. Okay. All right.

Oh, absolutely. Because I don't think I could say a man I respect look like jello. I think jellos, I think it's a delicious dish. I think that it's timeless. See, that's the thing. I wouldn't think about, I wouldn't compare my friends to tasty pastries and treats and treats and desserts. You're not an obese man named Hunter because that's all I do.

everyone has some kind of food category I'm like I don't know even my wife my wife looks like a chicken wing to me she's a chicken wing yeah salty your wife's a drumstick yes exactly or no a wing

a wing you said a wing a wing yeah okay what's Harry General Shouse chicken hook just kidding I did I knew I'd set that one up on purpose so I do it Harry you leave that one in you cut that immediately

no Okay, here's the real one. What about Nick? Nick? Oh, God. Like, sunflower seeds is what I think. That's such a good one for Nick. That's such a perfect. I would say, yeah, a handful of sunflower seeds. Yeah, the ranch ones. The ranch dusted ones. Good God. I'm already, my mouth is already dry. Anyway, uh, Belsabaab by thing. My shaky hand gripped the master key and slowly fumbled it into the cabinet's lock. Inside, the abomination sucked its tube snout pacifier back and forth in excitement. Its thousands of eyes saw fresh meat.

He was hungry. The woman reached her arm around and climbed into the cabinet with the creature. Her expensive slippers getting across the floor with a screech. She was talking brave before, but confronted with the towering, contorted thing ahead. The lightning painted her pale face a horrid grimace. at that moment. She knew she wanted to get out. The back of the woman still hung out past the cabinet store frame

in case she needed a quick exit. She didn't dare stand fully inside the flies enclosure. So how bigs the enclosure? I thought it was like a four foot tall thing on the ground, but is it like head height? I kept picturing like a glass coffin or something, but I'm guessing that it might be, because I almost thought that he was laying down

and they were like looking down in, but I'm guessing that it's like maybe like a little, maybe just like a little glass room then. Yeah, yeah, maybe. My heart was beating out of my chest. She was going to let him out and Beelzebub shall suck my flesh through his face straw

like a human strawberry milkshake. Breathing was hard. I felt like I was going to pass out. Without warning, I kicked the woman forward. God. You're trying to kill me. It just pushes her in really quick. You're supposed to be the hero here.

What the fuck? In front of a bunch of witnesses too. My foot planted itself. on her back and she went tumbling into the enclosure and against the far end of the glass, screaming, screaming. I shut and locked the door swiftly. The curator will not have my head this evening. I found her.

She's the one who wants me dead. Help me! Gasp with the crowd behind me sounded like they were wheezing into balloons. I leaned one hand against the door. You wanted to speak to him face to face. The abomination was reanimated. Spiny insectoid hooks spread from its hairy, half-human flesh. It spread and beat its ghoulish torn wings.

It was ready to feast. What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing? One of the men behind me shouted. I turned my head to him. Complying. Suddenly, the woman's drumming fist did something the frail insect's hooves never could. She smashed a hole in the cabinet from the inside and came tumbling out onto the floor in a cascade of glass.

Oh, God. One of the pompous rich man laughed. He turned to run, but the buzzing monstrosity caught him. from its class prison. He turns to run. No, no. It'll definitely be out by the time this episode goes up. But for the puppet show, which of the screams of mine did you go with?

I know. I can't remember. We're still messing with it right now. We'll see. Okay. I love that ins screams so much. It's definitely a good scream. Don't worry.

I need to use it somewhere, even if you don't. From its glass prison, it spurted from its mouth tube. Slime covered the man's face like sage jelly dotted with smaller black blowflies. It was like something out of my nightmares of Sophia. The blowflies board holes into his flesh, into his cheeks. Crawling didn't get him far. The flies were already digging. Tigging.

He screamed and the rest of the guest scream too. Flies buried under his cheeks and came crawling out through the corners of his eyes, red gaping holes emerged beneath skin that popped like peach-colored balloons filled with bloody paint. The flies were even inside his gums, and the man screamed. He screamed and screamed until the screams were no more, until it was just me alone beside his corpse with the flies that crawled and squirmed inside his spiny flesh suit. On my knees, I vomited against a marble wall, my hand meeting his pool of life fluid on the floor, exanguinated. The Alzebub's mouth tube met one of the man's calves,

and suck chunks of his fleshy soup up with a thirp like Satan's vacuum cleaner. From crawling to standing, I broke into a sprint, managing to steady by dragging my hand against the marble as I ran, leaving trails of bloody finger-painted lines, a grotesque artwork only the tooth fairy could appreciate. My feet skidded around the ground as I bolted around the corners, past the living wall and deep-sea exhibition. At the end of one hallway, my eye caught her ponytail that darted into the museum's theater.

She was up to something. Her plan failed. Now she was finding something else to kill me. Inside, the theater was vast and ornate, with rows upon rows of silky lilac seats. Marble balconies reached out over the stage like great, expensive white clouds. Small holes projected streams of light

from the theater's corners, ceiling, and stage. A brilliant blue humpback whale suspended and shifting light floated from the entrance beside me. downhill the slope of seats before blubbering and disappearing into the wall as the projectors flickered. Specks of light from a shooting spout had hit my face like droplets of rain

and felt like cold fingers against my cheek for a short lifespan. Our theater and its holograms were real. The brunette woman didn't know that, though. She was my executioner. Maybe she did. Do we know for sure that she's actually the killer? No.

Yeah. He's just, he very well could just be hunting a regular woman. All right, so he'd be playing. Sure. If that's what you... If that's what you want to describe it. Okay, man, fuck you.

She'd be playing. I don't know. Yeah, I don't know how to respond with you speaking in this current vernacular. So wherever you want to take it, I guess. She'd be playing, I guess. I slowly stepped down the staircase.

She was shaking, screaming at me from the stage. Her voice echoing in the enormous decorative room. Get away from me! I stepped closer, closer. She didn't stop screaming. You, you rocked me in the captain with... As she trailed off, the lights dimmed to a pitch black.

The next show was about to commence. Oh boy. Tumpets suddenly boomed and shook the theater. Spotlights illuminated a single holographic soldier cleaning his rifle to the ride of the stage. The next show and was a war performance I'd seen many times before. My heart was beating in my chest. The fly was searching the holocaust.

for more food and we were the closest feast. I was pleading for us to leave at the top of my lungs over the loud, roaring trumpets, barely hearing my own voice. The woman backed away, tears streaming down her face and distorting her mascara. As if possessed by the museum, the soldier finished cleaning his rifle, turned and gave me a sickening grin. White light flickered a show of revoltingly sharp teeth as he loaded his rifle. I had watched his presentation hundreds of times, and this was a first.

I screamed. The trumpets boomed and boomed. She kept walking backwards, away from me and into the soldier's line of fire. My mouth was agape. My shrink rumbled my lungs with reverb. My soundless voice tearing away at my coarse throat. The holographic bullet tore through her skull, a hammer meeting fleshy coconut. Bits of blood and brain painted chickenpox specks of death upon my maroon waistcoat. And the projected soldier showed teeth.

I thought back to the mirror I'd cleaned earlier. Scatterbrain animated. The museum's horrifying specter slowly bent to one knee and began loading his rifle with a non-existent bullet. That's really cool that like the hologram thing comes to life and shoots her. Yeah. And it actually is able to fucking like blow our brains out or whatever. Like it's yeah. That's pretty.

It's almost like magical. Like the hologram you expect to be like a like technical projection, but it ends up being like a spirit or like a ghost. Yeah. Yeah. I tumbled over seats and stairs. as I sprinted from the stage towards the entrance, holes tearing away at the lilac fabric of the chairs as he shot, opening flaps like blooming for Benna flowers.

I might have thrown up again if I didn't have to keep running. Beelzebub slogged behind me distantly at the end of the hallway. His spiny, hooked feet screeching against the marble. Buzzing mocked me from behind as a deformed wing that was never meant to fly, twitched in the starlight that flooded over his hairy thorax. Guess we're still screaming in the foyer. They darted in every angle like shaken ants. My hand reached for the museum's front door.

My lady executioner was dead, but my eyes were traumatized with gore. I couldn't bear it anymore. I reached to pull the door open and the museum's phone rang. Once again, my heart felt like it stopped beating. I let go of my shaky grip around the cold door handle. What if the guy who got killed by the fly was the actual killer? I think that's what it is, yeah. And then because because I was just say he's got I was going to say it's it's got to be something where he he thinks that he he thinks that he's figured it out.

But then it turns out that, you know, the person that he was so sure was not the person. You know what I mean? Yeah. Yeah. I certainly think so. I let go of my shaky grip around the cold door handle. Up to stairs I went, wiping one sweaty hand against my trouser leg. Reluctantly, I reached for the phone. Hello? I really like how they're being chased by the fly thing and he's about to leave with everyone. And he's like, oh, one second.

Yeah. Gotta go get that. Oh, guide. Sound of the plump curator, pulling from his cigarette. Debt punishment has been paid. None of tonight's guests were anything special. I swallowed sour spit. My throat was tight.

What do you mean? The middle class volunteers on luxury spots a trip to a private museum. None were there for the exact. negation. And boy, oh, did you prove that you belong here? What?

It just sit a bunch of normal people in. And it's like, let's see if he kills them. Turns out that, turns out that, turns out that the guide is also a fucking

sadistic monster as well. So that's fun. Yeah. Oh, I know. I'm going to tell him, I'm going to tell the guide that they're going to kill him

and then I'm going to see him kill a bunch of normal people. That explains why this woman is, the is the one who's like, oh, well, maybe you should have some empathy for this thing. Yeah, yeah, yeah, exactly. You walk by him every day and you don't ever just fucking sit there and talk to him, which it seems like it's coming from like a snooty place, but it's like, no, to be fair, though, the guy has been, what, gaslit for 15 years, whatever.

Oh, yeah, yeah, it's definitely a mind game against him, for sure. Yeah. But it's just a group of normal people who's like, we get to see a cool museum and then the guide unleashes Bielzebub on him. Oh my God! Oh my God! Yeah, exactly. That's fun.

That's a really fun twist. I like that twist. He looks up, he's like, you're all normal people. Yeah. Oh, shit. I slammed the phone on my reception desk,

the sound of plastic echoing throughout the four year and ringing in my ears. The be as a bit of just walk around with this like snort just doing, just like, just like sucking in and out. Sorry. It's like a train station almost. And his office is like a desk that overlooks the foyer.

And he's like, oh my gosh, what have I done? And meanwhile, on the ground. Oh! Like people being ripped apart. Yeah. Yeah. It's the worst version of undercover boss imaginable. We sit five normal people to see what the guy does.

Kills everyone with a fly monster. Yeah, exactly. They're all just dead. Gold feeling flooded my chest. My horrible realization dismantled me. This week, the guest never did anything particularly dreadful. It was me alone who had cornered them into hell from fear of losing my own life. My punishment from the curator was never death.

It was torment. Was I a monster too? Yes. Yes. For a while, I cried in the foyer. As he's crying, they're still just getting dismantled. Yeah. Open the door!

Please! Yeah. Oh, boy. I have got a lot of learning to do after today. There's three of them like crying, trying to break down the door and it's eating one of them right next to him. Please, God! I've got to see a therapist. I've got to start talking to someone about this.

Oh, good golly. Wait, does the health plan coverage do it? He starts like flipping through a manual and like they're getting, you see an arm fly through the air behind him. He had fucking smashed him to the door. I cried in the foyer, oblivious to the screaming and carnage unfolding throughout the museum. Okay, so that is what's happening. It's not even, not even dressing it up.

Like as he's here having a mental breakdown, it's just, ah! Tears. flow down my face and stained paperwork of dead gas. He's actively like writing the names. He's like looking over the balcony. Someone gets their head ripped off. He's like,

and Mr. Bennett added to the list. Oh, geez. He's like drinking up there. If only someone could open that door right there with this key that I'm holding. Oh, well. My hand's still shaking from fear and dread from the museum's looming and reanimation. Mastrosities. Bielzebub was coming.

I didn't like what I was becoming. It's going to leave this dreadful museum, no matter the price. All right. So now that's the end of part three into part four. So now it's basically saying that this is his plan of like, are we trying to assume by the end of part three, he's like that was the straw that broke the camel's back? Yeah, all of the people that he definitely got,

all the normal people, he a million percent killed himself. Yes. Yeah. I think that's, I think that was the place. He's like, I've got to get out of it. I have,

I actually have a question. for you. This made me pop up here a little bit with the tour guide and stuff. If this was a night of museum thing, who is the Robin Williams of this museum? You know? Who's the guy who's like the, because Rob Williams is like the one statue that helps.

I believe it's Theodore Roosevelt or whatever. But that's the guy who helps Ben Stiller the whole time. Who would be this guy for this museum? I think the implication is it'd be Marriette, right? Oh, sure. Yeah, I guess that's true. Well, I was going to say, I was trying to think of a real life person. I mean, he's obviously freaked out by her. Oh, you're saying.

It wouldn't be like Epstein. What would the equivalent be? You have like, Epstein's coming along with his left statue. And he's walking around. You know what I mean? I was like, I was like wondering who that,

who that character would be. No, it'd probably be like a serial killer. That's like in there. Like his body. That would be a mind fuck of a friendship, wouldn't it? I hate you.

I hate you as a person. But yeah, but the statue is pretty cool. It's Jeffrey. Dahmer. Oh, jeez. Looks like you messed up. That's okay, man.

Hold your head up. You're like, fuck you, Jeffrey Dahmer. I don't need you. Thank you, Mr. Dahmer. Yeah, thank you. Thank you, Jeffrey. All right. Part four.

Subtitle is, today I made my escape. There were two unopened doors at the museum that had always haunted me since I started. The first being the locked steel door, I had passed countless times at the museum, yet remained locked and never accessible. A peculiar haunting. that amounted from itching curiosity. It had been swimming around in my mind since that young girl visited the museum

a few weeks ago and her curiosity prodded away at its potential. Secondly, and more horrifyingly, was the shut doorway to Johnny Razor Tongue's display. The only exhibition I never entered out of unadulterated fear. I love Part 4.

It's like, yeah, well, then there's Johnny Razor tongue. Yeah, that's what I'm saying, though. I mean, like, listen, I get it. It's it, it, I mean, like, I don't, I mean, I don't know. I mean, it doesn't really feel like a scary name to me, but also like, I just fucking wish that I don't know. I mean, I don't know. Johnny Razor Tong is definitely not as bad as the sleepy man or whatever. So whatever.

No, I think the name's fine. I'm saying, I'm saying that earnestly, like for the kind of like, uh, hairbrain nature of the story, it's funny that in part for it's like, oh yeah, Johnny Razor Tunk. Yeah, well, you know, got to shut the doorway. Can't let Johnny Razor Tongue. Can't let him out. Excuse me? You want to say that name again, but slower?

Johnny Razor Tong is to blame as to why Mariette. Previous Guide, the one that walked the museum's halls before me, went mad. It's been said that his plastic ventriloquist dummy tongue only speaks in mind-shattering truths or lethal lies. He chooses either truth or lie based on whatever brings him the most entertainment at the time from his deprived, sealed exhibition cell in the corner of our paranormal wing. His disturbed mind knows only disarray, and it thrives in all manners of consequences from his cruelty. Mariette knew this all too well. The dummy poured pestilence into her ear from the moment she visited him, contorting and

twisting her once fortified mind like molten glass under his heated will. And so Mariette's ill-fated psyche bent. It bent and bent until Mariette was no more, until all that remained of the old guide was her doll-like shell after she gave in to Johnny's razor tongue. After she believed his lies, after she injected herself with plastic to become a ventriloquist dummy, just like him. After she decided to please the museum and to please Johnny, nothing remained but her tortured soul inside of her plasticized and reanimated body.

That's a fun little bit of lore, as in like the things inside the museum also trick you. Also too, just Marionette being an old tour guide, kind of, it goes pretty hard. And it does make me think that our our tour guide is maybe not going to have a similar fate, but I do wonder if something is going to sway or tempt him at the end as well. I could see him be falling some terrible fate and I think it will have to do with that

door that's been mentioned. I think so no. Yeah. I mean, they got to talk about it, right? It's been that lean towards. I'm wondering how much of the museum owner or director like the big fat British guy or whatever. Wonder how much of that is like actually real or if it's something. inside the museum fucking with him or like directing him in some kind of way.

Could be that's where the curator is down in the cell or something. You could see that. It was snowing the day I decided to leave the museum. My hand braced the cold window pain iced with white clumps and the warmth sucked out of my hand easily like cigarette smoke. Years prior when I had started as the museum's tour guide, I received word that my daughter's cancer had taken her. A letter.

That's all I was given by the oncology. The hospital informed me that my daughter had passed away by mail, which meant she had been dead for a few days before the paperwork actually arrived. The fact of that shattered me. I decided I would rather live with the burden of insanity before carrying on in this cruel world with the burden of a child dying. Thinking back, it had been snowing that day, too, before deciding to venture to Johnny's exhibit to let his toxic words take me just as he had Mariette. The snow outside reminded me of holding her gloved hand at wintertime shows, and her face in my mind's eye begged me to keep living. I didn't visit him that day.

Oh, until recently, I felt no obligation to ever try and break my contract and leave the museum anymore. Sophia, my world, my darling, was dead. Why would I ever leave? I could stay and hold the ghastly hand of her ghoulish reflection against the interface of our museum's horrifying haunted mirrors. Here, Sophia was with me, and I was never alone. Yeah, I like that.

I like the idea that the museum is kind of a placeholder for this mental prison he's put himself in rather than confronting the reality outside of it, you know? Yeah, well, it's a... I always like a nice story with, like, trying to process grief or being unable to let go. Yeah. And using a, uh, using a setting or a place that's, I think it's really cool that it's like a literal house of horrors.

But it's like he knows that she's there and she can see him. But a lot of the time it seems like he can't even stomach to look at her. It's like he knows it's wrong. You know, like he knows that it's like I'm torturing myself. And that's, that's really fun. Yeah. I like the format where it's very, uh, it's because like you said, it is like a little shop of horror sort of thing on its own. but it works as a placeholder for his mental state,

which from the outgid of this story is more than I was expecting. And I do like that touch. Not to say the story was bad, but just I didn't think the whimsical nature of it would lend itself to something that heavy, you know. No. Well, like I said, too, the farther on you get with these things, I always feel like they're opening more up to like why and how

and asking more stuff about the characters. And it always lends itself in a really fun way. Like, even like that tidbit in the first section would have been awesome. of like i feel like but i don't i just don't think it's that kind of writing all like we've heard from like imperial invective and stuff it's like you kind of just you kind of get one parts and if something kind of latches then you want to elaborate on it so it's just kind of like you know trying to get as many turtles to the ocean as you can before really diving into one yeah yeah stopping to gaze up at the enormous foyer i was reminded that i too was an anguished exhibition in this

rich man's contraption the poor guy to push and pull at the man who survived feet years of torment. Look at his hollow eyes. The wealthy visitors probably thought, look how dead inside he looks. No more misery. My daughter wouldn't want me to wither away like this, a pawn at the hands of the rich and famous. It was going to be freedom or death. On my way to visit Johnny, I found myself walking past the lock steel door, past the arts and music exhibition, and downstairs next to the living wall and into the paranormal exhibition. Something caught my eye. Mariette, the reanimated plastic shell of the previous guide in her display. She clicked her pale joints stiffly and fluttered her heavy eyelids against tough friction. She was deceased and on

show, but her soul was still very much alive, a soul that pushed her hand up and against her glass prison as if to say, stop guide. Look what Johnny did to me. What he's going to do to you. I'm sorry, Mariette, I thought. Believe it or not, Johnny's going to help me. leave this horrible place. Oh, you dumb son of a bitch. Yeah. Unless he has a really smart trick, I don't think that's what's going to happen. No, yeah.

You have to tell me a truth that only relates to the structure of the museum itself. Go. Well, it always, it always is funny when it's just like, you know, that thing that tricked you and, you know, put you into this place where you're cated, like, you're basically stuck in this prison forever. well I actually have smarterdom and I can do it. It's always funny when a character thinks that because you're always just like, how much smarter do you think you are than the other people who worked here? Yeah, you know? I'm going to beat the immortal

trickster. Me. Yeah, I'm going to be Johnny Razertone. You know, the thing that live forever's and is an anomaly in itself, I win. Me, a guy. Hello. I was so focused on organizing my plan to see the dummy and to leave the museum, I'd almost forgotten

to feed Ernie. I can never forget about Ernie. Beyond the insect exhibition hallway and to the left was our animals and evolution room. Quite frankly, rather dull, but Ernie always stood out to me like a hairy, clawed thumb. I found myself walking swiftly through the marble halls, climbing upon the balcony that stretched above the open plant exhibition room. From the balcony overlooking his iron barred pin, I tossed him heads of purple and green lettuce, which he chomped with an effortless, a crunch. See, Ernie was a bear-sized mole, and he had a seat. And he had a seat. secret. He was a gentle giant, and I loved it. It was so difficult to find a kind soul in this

abominable place, so I kept a secret. I found the hole he had dug through to the museum's garden and let him have at it. He could have his freedom if I couldn't. Completely dreading it, I took my time on my way back to the paranormal wing. Visiting Johnny was a necessary evil. The plan was based around the belief that I was well adjusted enough to figure out if Johnny was telling me a truth or a lie and adjust my plan to leave the museum accordingly with new information. I like, I like this guy. Like, yeah, well, I'm smart enough to know if it's a truth or a lie, even if it's like earth-shattering reality-bending information.

And you know what? I feel like that can help me walk out the door. Well, just how incompetent, not even competent, but just how surprised and kind of like, he doesn't have his shit together. Every instance we've seen, he's like been running away or he's like, you know, I left the fucking door open. It just makes you think, like, yeah, you've been there for over 15 years, but I don't think that really gives you, I don't know, any kind of advantage. I don't know. Let's keep in mind that he has killed five completely normal people because he was paranoid.

One of them was going to sanguineate him. But you know what? At least Rosie lived. Yeah, I saved Rosie by pushing another guy in two being his flytrap. He might have had it coming. But those five people I released Beelzebub on, totally, totally innocent. If he liked, lied, I would in turn unveil it, flipping his line on its head and use the opposite, a truth, to my advantage. Fifteen years of experience as the tour guide was behind my back, something Mariette never had when his words broke her down. Coming accustomed to the museum's horrors had made my mind a steel fortress. Wrong. Though, I just hope Johnny couldn't melt my mind as easily as he did Mariette's.

Oh, no, I'm sure. Yeah, yeah, buddy. You got it. Yeah. Real steel trap of mine here. Mr. Crying as the fly is eating people two feet behind you, you are a vessel, a specimen to be on touch. I have a feeling Johnny Razor tongue is just going to be like, your daughter's dead. And he's going to be like, why?

He's just like fall down to the ground. No, no, no, no, no. Yeah, he walks in the room and like Johnny starts to say something and then it's like, you want to pull up a chair, have a drink. Can you look like you could use it? Yeah, no mind-breaking needs done on you, big boy. My master key met the rustic, untouched lock and twisted with a clank. With one slow, reluctant pull, I opened the door to the ventriloquist doll's chamber

for the first and hopefully last time. It was foolish to me to assume the lights would still turn on after 15 years. I turned to grab the torch from my hip. I catch a marriott a few meters behind me in her display. based in a way and disgust from the room, which had been her demise years ago. Swallow tightly and smacked my flashlight alive against my palm. I like the idea that, like, the museum was cruel enough to place her right next to razor tongue. Like, she's in earshot, so, like, for eternity, razor tongues in there, like, you look a little fat in that dress.

Oh, yeah, you can't change it. Forget about that. Your daughter's dead. Get out of my head! How would you know that? Yeah. How would you possibly know that? He's like, you scream and cry about it all the time.

Yeah, he's just saying completely mundane stuff. Like, you've worked here 15 years. Oh, my gosh. Yeah, exactly. You're never going to renovate that car. You've always wanted to renovate. Oh, fuck. You don't see it.

The same socioeconomic factors that led to the 2008 housing crisis are likely to occur again. No! No! No, no, no, no, no! How would you know that? Another recession is due at some time of the future. It can't be! Johnny was sitting on a black stool in the center of the small room.

A light from my torch lip is pale skin, which contrasted against his baby's side. tuxedo. From the corners of his lips, straight downward to his chin, with thick red lines cutting into his plastic face or in a mouth. His voice was croaky, yet dripping and sickening enthusiasm. Hi, Michael. His words had already broken me. What do you mean? Already broken you.

He said hi. Literally his name. He said hello, and he's like, I think I have an advantage in this. the situation, his words had already broke in me. It's two words. What do you talk about? It's literally knew his name and he's like, get out of my

head! Yeah, oh my God! It's on his bat. It's not it's not even, he doesn't even know his name. He just saw it on his like fucking badge on his like uniform. Yeah, his name tag. Yeah. Oh my gosh. A decade even. I was lucky to even remember it. After a while

my name simply became guide. But how? How could he? Buddy, pal. His eyes wandered loosely in his sockets, left and right, rolling marbles as he spoke. How's it hanging, Mikey? There is no dust on his coned hair nor suit, as you would expect for an animated plastic horror who kept tidy by wondering the confines of his room. His mouth was ever smiling as he leaned to one side.

Ben, how's my girl? Stiff dummy frame moved and peered at Mariette over my shoulder behind me. I feel like it's gotta be more of like a nard war. Oh, isn't she just gorgeous now, Mikey? Look at this plastic shine. I think that's the correct tone, but the Jeff the killer, corpse husband thing also works for me,

so I'll leave it up to your discretion. Okay. But I do feel like the story is going for the Nard War. I think it is, yeah. We have to know, you're Mikey. Oh, isn't she just gorgeous now, Mikey? Look at that plastic shine. Or, I guess it could be menacing

if it's like in a jigsaw kind of voice. you know, which is the same as the corpse has been. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh, yeah, but it's just the amount of like, exclamation points makes you think it's like,

very bombastic. Yeah. Yeah, it's almost like a, like the, the jester, harlequin kind of character. Yeah,

yeah, yeah. Which at first I was wondering if this is supposed to be, if this is supposed to be a take on Jeff, the killer, or even like a Tommy Taffy kind of guy. Yeah, I feel like it's in that kind of archetype or whatever.

Yeah, yeah. This thing was revolting, I thought. And? Johnny turned a stiff head to me, smirking under the bright torchlight. How's your girl? Dead in a hole, Mikey? Oh, gosh. Yeah, immediately, my mind was thrown into oblivion.

It's like, get out of there, Mike. Yeah, this is, what are you going to? There's nothing he's going to say that'll help you. I really, I really love a character, though, who's just like, I'm ready. I've never been more ready. And then someone's like, hey, Mikey. Oh, my God. I forgot my name was Mikey.

Yeah. As a guy who is trying to go up against a mind demon, probably good idea to remember base facts about reality. Like your name. I would assume so. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

I feel like Mariette did already substantially better. I mean, already. This guy, Mikey just walked into that basement. He didn't check his name tag. He didn't check the calendar. He doesn't know what year it is. And he was like, there's nothing about reality. This thing can lie to me with.

Like, okay. My stomach plummeted. I would have torn his tiny, disgusting head off in an instant if I didn't need him. Puppet laughed with a menacing wine. Sophia? She riding in the dirt? My fist clenched, and the spotlight from my torch shook over him like the light from a swinging chandelier.

maggots probably calling all out of her cheeks, uh, Mikey? Stop! Suddenly burst out, my echo carrying for a while through the empty halls of the museum. For a while, he sat quietly on the stool. Slikes freely kicking the air like a kid sitting on the edge of a pier. He stared up at me with horrifying, glassy eyes and a devilish smile that never quit. I'm leaving the museum for good at 6 o'clock. I gulped, watching his every move for hints of the truth or lies.

response that was about to come out of his plastic mouth. What do you think about that, Johnny? His head suddenly spun around several times as he spoke. Wow, we, Fred, though. I have lots to think about. I do, I do. For a while, I watched this puppet eyes roll around and show only white. He was contemplating of sorts.

You won't find any freedom outside, Mikey. His mouth pulled open mechanically, clasps shut as he spoke. Though, you will fight freedom. One tiny arm beckoned me to lean closer, and I did. He was whispering when he spoke. Through the steel door. What? To lean back on his stool, one plastic square chin dancing in the light as he laughed to himself.

I thought about it for a while. That steel doors remained sealed since I started this awful job. He kept chuckling to himself before abruptly going quiet. His eyes were locked and the old guy behind me. Oh, Mary Death? Called out a childish croak. I slammed the door shut and locked the door. Outside that room's tense atmosphere, I felt like I could breathe again.

If only I could have gotten more information out of Johnny than a simple, straightforward lie. To avoid the lie of entering the steel door would be no drama. All I'd have to do is run from the museum. I always thought I would have to do. When I checked my watch and saw it was five minutes to six, I came bolting around into an enormous foyer. The cast would be arriving in a matter of minutes. I feel there's a very quick interaction with Johnny Razor Tongue. I feel like he probably is right that he has to go through the steel door because again, he said that Razor Tong gives you a truth or lie based on whatever amuses him.

And because there's no real freedom on the outside, it would amuse him for Johnny to have to come to that. I think that could be something that is, I was even thinking that the door could, like just because the author has, made this kind of or has presented this grief angle. It could be a thing where once you leave the museum, are you ever, like, can he let go of that, of his,

like, child, that's what I see. Yeah, that's what I think we're heading. Yeah. And it would amuse razor tongue for him to get in that position, I think.

Well, I was to say that maybe that's why Marriette back in the day was presented with something that she was like unwilling to leave or thought that it was the wrong choice or just something along those lines. The towering ornate museum door opened with its usual mechanical groan. I pushed past a man with a salt and peppered beard, his blustering coat nearly catching my face in the cold wind. Lady weather was against me this evening, but the plan was already in motion. The plan was to run.

I almost tumbled when one of the rich pricks snagged me by my arm as I jogged down the stairs. I couldn't hear exactly what he said. Swirling breeze swam in my eardrums like a cold stream. A sound that I didn't often hear from inside the rich man's prune. prison. It was beautiful. Every step into the museum's wide frozen garden made a gentle hush beneath my shoe in the soft snow. I couldn't look back until I met the tree line. When I did, I noticed a few of the men that gave chase. I launched through the spiny bushes ahead, taking exaggerated steps over rough terrain like horse that walked with a proud gallop. Cuts and scratches

against my flesh from branches felt liberating. It was painful, but it was not the museum's contraptions hurting me anymore. It was the fresh lashes of wild, unpredictable freedom. I'm almost free, Sophia. I can feel the warmth of my daughter smiling down on me. She wants me to be free. A deep voice of one of my pursuers boomed through the forest with reverb, and my heart spiked in my wheezing chest. Guide? They were closing in. Though, why were they after me? I left the door wide open for them. Turn around and burn the museum down, you horrible bastards. There was no doubt of my mind that if I stopped, one of the rich brutes would bash the brain juice out of my skull with a sharp rock. How dare I, suffering guide, threaten the fun of their wealthy expedition and take off into the woods?

Quick clapping and crunching of bark behind me made my ears prick. Without warning, one red silk shoulder of my waistcoat was snagged in an angry, bald fist before I was yanked backward, making me tumble into mud and muck. I pulled my head up with a groan. My joints aching dully, skin seared. like a full-body carpet burn. The museum guest straddling my chest was a mere silhouette. The backdrop of stars behind his head, only lighting up graying hair at the edges.

His cold fingers met my throat, tightening, tightening. Riggling left to right was hard with legs against my chest. Clumps of snow fell gently onto my face and bites of cold as his hands crushed my neck. I swung and swung at his kidney with my fist, but he didn't let up. Stars above became a blur, and the top of his face. head filled the bottom of my vision. One of my keys I had clenched between my knuckles, punctured his side, and it went rolling down a snowy bank. Gripping my purple bruised throat, I stumbled forward, but wheezing meant I was getting enough air to keep up a jog.

Stop! His voice called. With each step, snow had seemingly gotten thicker, though it still gave way to my feet with the same distinct hush. I couldn't let up, not when I was this close. Yonder the snowy bank in front of me was a large building I had never seen before, It was quite smaller than the museum. Bigger than the offside cottage I slept in during my days off. A warehouse. It didn't take long to limp to it, break inside. The smell of rotten wood and mold inside the warehouse crawled up my nose like invisible, pungent

fingers. Bars of starlight came through boarded windows, covering the walls and floor and crooked, glowing streaks of the moon's azure silver gleam. It was dusty, unkempt, dry, grimy particles coated and tickled my thoughts. throat, the dust in the building was so awful that my cough might have looked like a billowing steam. Silhouettes of all shapes and sizes lined the walls and shelves, most with flaps of paper attached to them. It was a haven for retired exhibitions. That, or their hell. Thudding me as someone pushed and pulled at the door trying to follow me inside. Unsettled flakes of

crumbling wood drifted down from the ceiling with every shake from the banging door. The shoddy place could impossibly hold the wealthy brute outside for long, as my heart was I was erased. I departed Sophia's face suddenly glowed on the black canvas on my tight eyelids. I think I'll be seeing you soon, darling. I stumbled forward, coughing and glaring around the murky warehouse as the thuds became impatient. I needed something to get me out of here. Anything. Where you think you're going? Man's muffled voice boom from under the door. He was the same man who had gripped me by my throat minutes prior. His tone was strained and fed up. I pictured his face flush in the cables of his neck sticking out of his thick roots.

My cold digits wrapped around one of the plank ceiling of window, boarded shut. My options of fight or flight narrowed to the latter. But the door was stubbing against something, but not for much longer. One of the lines of light pouring inside the dingy's face sparkled upon something a few feet away made out of glass. I walked closer. Each step, the floorboard sped out a dying croak. and I was near enough to make out what the thing was a cold feeling bloomed in my stomach.

So this is basically like they just set old stuff they don't want in the museum anymore, right? I think so. Well, it also all seems, and I might be stretching with this, but does it all seem like things that people are like wanting to let go? And now they're being like, I'm trying to see if there's an angle between the grief that this guy is experiencing with losing his daughter

and potentially the quote unquote evil or like horrible things that people are also trying to disregard that are now on display for other people to be like amused by. That's what I'm wondering. If it's all being stacked up

and like granted some of them are like monsters or something but what like what place does it come from? You know? Yeah. Yeah. But it does seem like it's all disregarded. Right. The thing I approached in the blanketing dim starlight

was animatronic, ghoulish. Clumps of it's brown artificial. and frane fur were clumped together in sticky balls of black grease. Its glass tennis ball eyes held tiny, startling black pinhole-sized pupils. It was a human-sized depiction of a vintage stuffed monkey holding brass symbols. Stuffing had come away from its middle and spongy yellow bunches, exposing rusty metal gears within a mechanical chest. I try not to make eye contact with it, out of fear of it following my gaze. I still had to think quickly about defending

myself. The door had it stopped thudding. Messily stuck to one free ear of the mechanic being were a few pages of forms, baited and dusty. I puffed away dirt from the paper with one labored wheeze. Read, exhibition name Kelsey, children's mechanical mascot that once educated schools about the importance of healthy teeth and gums. And it noticed it until now, large and eerily human-shaped teeth struck out from the monkey's fur lips. An amateurish. chronic monkey to tell your kids to brush their teeth, of course. Out of commission, 1983. Reason.

Excessive homicidal tendencies. Signed an approved Mariette. So it's Freddie Fast Bear. It's got to be that, right? Yeah, he walks into the cabin and, like, the lights light up and it's playing the song, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. You know what's kind of that introduces a fun angle, though, that I kind of wish we would have gotten to the other, because I know we're, it's the one four or five. And I do like the idea of them accepting items.

And it's like new shit that's being added to the museum. That's a pretty fun angle too. Yeah. Yeah. And also, like, what kind of museum is it where it's like, ah, the possessed murder monkey? Yeah. Everyone's seen that. You know.

Marietta and I connected by threats of time after all. these years. It must have been an especially terrifying item toward locking it up in a warehouse to rot. I couldn't believe that I had found something retired by the previous tour guide in the museum. It made me feel less alone. I had felt the flavor of deep-chested and rotten fear in over a decade, a time when I was unacquainted with what lurked around the museum's or in eight corners. However, this evening I was again in unfamiliar and petrifying territory. Why was I not informed of this place? I would have decommissioned Johnny Razor-Tuner, and a heartbeat. Not for me, then for Marietta's tortured soul. Without warning, the stuffed mechanical

abomination switched on. It chilled my blood to see golden, iridescent bulbs flickering in the place where its lifeless, beady globes had been. Its jaw gnashed wildly, lagging and biting. It was stuck in the loop for a while. Seeing through eyes that hadn't seen the world in decades as it woke from its slumber, it turned to me. Gleaming gears and yellow eyes all. while feasting on who it broke its sleep. Me. The speaker tried to sing in a child's voice, but the rusty electronics could only cough up distorted noise.

When it finally started the tune and began walking, I made for the door. Kelsey Yum! Kelsey Yum! Drink milk for bones. Put it in your tongue. My hand met the handle of the door. I went tumbling backward as the man kicked it in first, my elbow collapsing into one rotten floorboard.

The mechanism behind me sang and sat. sang and her cymbals crashed and crashed. Bones, bones, bones, strong teeth for bite. No moans, moans, moans, burn your teeth at night. The intruder's hand was immediately aiming for my throat once more, but I was faster. I turned quickly, catching one of his arms and pulling them behind his back in a lock. Twisting, I faced his kicking legs outward at Kelsey. The symbol clapping animatronic monstrosity approached slowly, gears churning in its open chest.

Crash, crash, crash, crash went the symbols. They crashed until the gears caught both his boots in its exposed core as he tried to kick her away. But he was locked in my arms and he was locked tight. From then, it took a while for the man to stop screaming. His feet met the unyielding gears of animatronic innards in a red cloud of skin and bone. Kelsey yum, calcium drink meat for bones.

Put it in your time. This guy's literally getting Michael Afton right now. he's literally getting the spring lock failure writing empty pieces Michael Afton That's the guy who made Fanaf right No, no, no But the guy that made it's Scott Coffin

Michael Afton is the purple guy Within the series who kills the kids And the way he dies is he crawls inside Of one of the suits to hide from the kids' ghost And all of the spring lock It's in the third one it happens All of the spring locks in the suit fail and like crush him to death inside of the suit.

That happened in the first movie, though. I remember watching the first movie. Yeah, but they, I remember because we talked about FNAF on one of these episodes and then I ended up playing it the first one, but I didn't remember that in the first game. Yeah, the first game, I mean, all the games are just like the actual survival segments unless you find the hidden puzzles and stuff in two and three. But the first one's just a survival segment after the kids have been murdered and

possessed the animatronics. And the third one, you see like flashbacks where it shows that they got there. Basically, Michael Afton killed a bunch of kids by luring them in with this mascot costume. And the mascot costume had a failure and all the joints in it like shot back into place and crushed him to death. That's kind of fun. So basically, this guy getting sucked inside of a suit. He is getting Michael Afton. Have you ever done a...

He's getting Michael Aft. I love that as a verb. Or, or, or, or, or... Have you ever done a finale? video? Yeah, I have. It has like 14 million years. That's absurd. That's awesome. I did a I did a lor thing of all the games and everyone's like, yes. I remember even that. Like, I never played the games, but I mean, obviously you have to have heard of it. It was so big. It was so crazy popular. Yeah. And that video had like a huge resurgence when the first movie came out.

And everyone's like, what are the kids into on the telebox? You know. So, yeah, sure. That, that for sure. Yeah. What's that doing on the telebox? Oh, a man being crushed in a spring block failure? Perfect. Perfect.

Freddie Fasbear is actually the ghost of Cassie? Oh, my God. What if the monkey is actually Sophie? Oh, that's fun. I mean, wouldn't you be like, I personally wouldn't go the Fanaf angle? I mean, it's probably not, but it would be kind of funny if it was. Whereas just straight-fing-hast.

At this point, I would be like, that's hilarious. I mean, we have a giant simple monkey crunching a guy to death with gears. Hug Daddy, Sophie. Oh, ah, uh-oh. Or-R-R-R. The Living Tombstone song starts playing, We're waiting every night. Oh, my God, your voice.

What the fuck? That's what it sounds like it's a song. It's like a mechanical nightcore thing. Be your home and one. To finally roam and invite. The once childlike voice coming out of the same speaker became choppy and deep pitch, like a singing birthday card with a dying battery. At that moment, I could only hope my daughter wasn't looking down,

watching me ghoulishly smile as my rich pursuer struggled and screamed in my locked arms. Close your eyes if you're watching, honey. Daddy's gonna be free soon. His daddy gets sucked inside of the monkey animatronic. Daddy's going to be free. Daddy's free. Like, Dobby. Daddy's free.

The simple smack of its head. Yeah, yeah. The man screamed and screamed, and the dying speaker's voice line sung and sunk and sunk. Calcium. Calcium. Metal gears were up to his calves. his cartilage popped. His leg bones buckled and broke with a stomach curdling crack

as Kelsey snapped his femurs like thick white pencils through her gears as if the man was fleshy mulch. I only let go when he finally became limp. Screams were no longer. All that could be heard in the dusty room was the mechanical spinning and clunking of gears from the animated monstrosity to my side. For a while I sat in the dark as it ate him whole.

It felt good to finally fight back, but it was never meant to feel this. good. Sound of his bones crunching. Sound of his voice extinguishing like a wet flame. I was no longer going to be the one being tortured and tormented. I was going to be free. I just want to say, just want to say, he's killed seven people now. Yeah.

And I truly believe that last person who was like, hey, hold on. I don't know if that person was. Well, I mean, he was choking him out. So, oh, true, true. Never mind. Now, you know, that's true. But five innocent people, right? There were five who died that night.

At first I thought it was the museum curator at first, but I guess not. Though, as the age old saying goes, ignorance is bliss. I wish I had to look down at the mutilated man. I wish I hadn't seen that he was not someone wealthy or guests after all. Catching a proper glance at him in the dim moonlight shining over his overalls and glistening keys became terrifyingly evident that he was museum security. Okay, so All right So

fucking, fucking bear trap Bring that back up to six God damn I knew it! I knew I knew I knew it because he probably Yeah,

he was probably like, hey, you're breaking in or something and then yeah, of course, of course. I killed a man

that was just trying to do his job. No, I didn't. I didn't. The museum did. Okay. That real steel trap

of a mind coming into play building his own reality right now. deep down i think i knew i was responsible though deep down you held him down so that monkey could get it don't don't know how uh i don't know how uh i don't know how deep down we have to go pretty surface level there mike pretty surface i think there you know don't need to be a fucking rocket scientist to figure that one out get this sentence

and that i might have enjoyed watching it happen but no it was the museum that did it for sure i got to tell you i got to you, I'm falling out of favor with Mikey. Very, how do we? Oh, now, I'm not going to go there. I'm not going to go there. But I did have the thought maybe Mikey's like an attraction. Like he thinks he's a person, you know, but he's like a ghost that haunts the place or something. I was kind of, see, whenever I said like, oh, is this a place where people are dropping their stuff off, right?

And that he was one of the murderers or something. And that, like, he has pretended to be a tour guide this whole time. But then the whole can, at first that's what I was thinking when it's like, oh, he killed his daughter is what I was thinking. I see. But then it's about the cancer, you know. Yeah. Unless it's just like, by the way, she didn't have cancer. I strangled her.

Which would be pretty lame. By cancer, I meant I stabbed her to death. Yeah. You know, the worst kind of cancer. Or I should say the museum stabbed her. I do like, I really like that the museum is taking the creature. It's taking its place. You see, I was going to say my daughter, but then the museum showed up.

Yeah. I would. I went to get a meatball out of the freezer. It was then I found the museum that makes the meatballs. It oddly works pretty good, too. But it was time to keep moving. I swiftly bent down and swooped a metallic lighter in a ring of many keys before leaving the stuffed whore alone to eat.

Most of the keys were long and identical to mine from the look of things. snow was blowing outside the warehouse. I had to quit freezing ice peppered eyes to see. He's just leaving the giant killer animosromic free. To be fair, what is he supposed to do? Well, let me go put that up real quick. What is anyone supposed to do? Like, how they get it in that building in the first place?

I don't know. They had the National Guard airlifted to the house. They should deploy it like Freddie Fasbury. three middle east. Three fucking black hawk helicopters

flying it in. Could you imagine being in a imagine being Al Qaeda in the mountains and you see

like a helicopter flying in fast bear. That would be fucking they've got they've got ropes hooked

under his shoulders and seven over the mountains like oh or or oh oh oh oh

oh oh oh oh oh oh my god oh I had to squint freezing ice peppered eyes to see and orient myself away from the museum's grounds. For a while, I walked aimlessly in the blistering snow, not seeking a goal, but salvation as much distance I could make between the museum and myself. The weather was relentless, and I was ill-equipped from the get-go.

At some point, I had a call with the museum's curator as I stumbled around the barren icy wilderness, but reality bordered with delusion. You could never leave the museum, Michael. The voice was buzzing through the speaker. You two are entwined. Wait, when did he take a call? Oh, has he never left the museum? Because he's like, at some point, I had a call with the curator as I stumbled through the wilderness. Reality bordered with delusion.

Yeah, I think that we've been under the assumption that he has, but I guess not. Which I think that only, because at first, I will say, I was like, oh, he can never leave. because how would you like how could you trust anybody you know yeah but but then he was like oh my his wife and he had a daughter and stuff so it's like okay well he has a family outside of this unless I'm guessing that the daughter's death broke up the marriage so he's been there which this further

this further kind of puts proof in the fact that he might legitimately be a a piece in the museum he could be that might be where this is going my jaw was chattering I watched the steam from my mouth and lips escape me. This money. The type of money to let you run something like this. Your contract simply does not end if you leave our border, Sonny. You should know this.

All I could hear for a while was the clinking of a lighter opening and the curator sucking through a cigarette over the phone. Occasionally the wind blew a strong gust and pulled away my coat. I think it's time you expire, Boyo. See, we even have a new guideline up to replace you. It's over. I'm going to be free. My voice was slow and hard to hear our

chattering teeth. Curator scoffed. No, Michael. You're not. I want to thank you for letting those people that are lonely at the top of the financial mountain, those rich and famous who are under constant judgmental lies, those akin to exhibitions at the museum, let them truly be somewhere and be someone

where they are not themselves. At our museum, they can be the audience. Not the newspapers nor the public exhibitions. and you were instrumental in such success. Breathing didn't come easy. They are swirled and chilled my lungs like inhaling menthol. I'm going to be free. Words were labored for my lips.

Farewell, Michael. Phone clicked off. I staggered for a while after the call it ended. Hypothermic brain fog had me go in every which way. I had no chance of making it back to the museum in such delirium. Did I want to return, however? No, of course not. It was cold.

I was tired. I lay down in a pile of snow under a naked tree. The evening's snowy breeze no longer felt like anything at all across my numb face. Just for a little while. Sleep in the cold for a little while. I tilted my head back, letting my eyelids drift shut and the stars above sing me a final lullaby. For a while, the constellations looked like my daughter's face, and I smiled.

If I held a handful of snow tight enough, it didn't feel like I was dying alone. It felt like someone was holding my hand. The fear started to blow away with the wind. I like, that's another good line. If I held the snow tight enough, it felt like I wasn't dying alone. That's a good line. But also, I think I've told the story before. And I told you I had a buddy that almost died of hypothermia like that.

No. What? Like while camping or what happened? He was, it was in January and it was a clear day out in Tennessee. Not this year? No, no. Like, it was in a January month. This would have been like,

years ago, I think. He went out kayaking, and then while he's out of the water, like far from his truck, a huge, like, snowstorm came in. And the wind swept him off, so he had to swim to shore. And he was totally middle of, like,

state park, no roadways or anything like that. So he starts, like, walking through the woods, and it was, like, below freezing, and he was wet and cold. And after walking for, like, half an hour, he got really, really tired. And there was, like, a little depression in the ground that when he laid in it,

the wind wasn't hitting him. And he's like, I feel tired. I think I'm just going to take a little nap. And he starts to go to sleep. And he's like, wait a minute, that's what the cold wants me to think. And he has this huge burst of adrenaline and starts sprinting to the woods and eventually finds a

cabin and starts beating on the door. And it was an older woman inside who lived on her own and she thought he was some crazy man trying to break in. So she called the cops. And like, he's at the door like, please let me in. And this woman's like, I'm calling the police. And he's like, that's good. That's fine. Just throw a blanket on the porch. Just toss one outside. You know, it's crazy though. Do you,

if you're freezing to death, I know if you have heat exhaustion, it can like boil your brain and you kind of like you can be, uh, not like delusions. I don't know if you can. You can have delusions if you get like brain melting hot enough. Yeah. Could, uh, does the same thing happen when you are freezing to death? Like does your mind going to a similar take? Is your brain beginning to slow down or working too fast. It starts to go in overdrive and show you stuff. So yeah, you could definitely see delusions as your brain's effectively turning off. Well, I'm glad your friend made it. My God. Yeah, me and him were out hiking and he showed me that spot later. He's like, right there is where I almost died. Yeah. See that storm cloud coming?

Let's camp out. I'm so sleepy right now. Yeah, he's like, wake up! But the snow in my hand was hairy. and it was warm, and it was breathing. A cold pile beneath my arm erupted into the air with a snort as if from a whale's spout. His brown fur looked unworldly against the field of snow. He couldn't see much with his two black, beady eyes beyond his whiskers, but he knew it was me, and I knew it was him. That's cute.

Like how big he is. I did not think he was that big. Yeah, he said he's like bare size. I swiftly buried into the thin layer of concave snow that Ernie's pink and brownie. ground head came from. It was hard to see anything inside the hole, if at all, but it was a lot warmer than the surface. Inside, the lighter I had pulled from the security guard no longer faltered at any wind in the tight space, and I caught the tail end of the mole's pink hind paws and the lighter's soft glow as he began to scurry back through the tunnel towards the museum. I crashed a slog through

the tunnel using only the lighter and irony to guide me. Warmth returned to my extremities and spread in waves. Come to think of it, the lighter was not the only thing. The lighter was not the only thing I'd found on the man's body. Upon the key ring I had taken was a peculiar long and winding key I had never seen before. One that I had never owned. A key to the steel door.

End of part four. I do like that he tried to make the escape on foot because that's like what logic would dictate but it's like, okay, if he does that he's just going to freeze to death. So now he has to try the door. I feel like I'm high because he definitely have, I feel like he's never left the museum since then. He certainly might not have.

I would believe it. Yeah. So that was like some unless it was supposed to be like a done, unless he had a cell phone that he hasn't mentioned before and that's what the call was through you know, which maybe. But no, he said that the call was coming through

the speakers of the museum. So it was like the museum just that loud. The speakers out front, he can hear it in the woods. Possibly. I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, part five. Subtitle Bean. I finally opened the lock door. I was spinning out Specks of dirt by the time I made it back to the museum through Ernie's tunnel.

An earthy taste coated my tongue and throat. Soil stuck to my grazed elbows. When I finally emerged in the evening light, came through the windows of the building. Ernie's snub nose was sniffing and snorting as I pat him on his furry brown head. Pompous cackling beckoned me from the hallway, type of egotistical rich laughter that came from throwing a heavy, inflated head back. Wiping muck away from the face of my watch, I saw it was already nine o'clock. The deplorable guest had already been roaming the museum for three hours.

I didn't want to ponder what unimaginable damage they'd done. I was about to leave through the doorway of the Animals and Evolution exhibit for the foyer and make my way towards the sealed door. But when it suddenly began, my heart felt as if it had stopped. One after another, the display cabinets throughout the museum that had once held the imprisoned exhibitions exploded into clouds of broken shards. Shattering banks echoed down the hallway, the floors above me. the greenhouse. It was a symphony of broken glass clattering throughout the entire building and bursting

pops, a cacophony of impending frenzy. The air inside the museum was intense, scalding. Me, its tour guide, the eyes and ears of the place, was trying to leave it for good and the building exploding in a hot, retaliating rage. The museum poured me for attempting an escape, and the exhibitions were let free. From the halls, the once cackling gas soon found quiet in confusion and silence swiftly, grew screams as delirium blossom into blind fear. Glass displays still distantly popped and met the marble like clattering hail. It occurred to me in that moment, Shark Terror, that the museum itself was an exhibition in and of itself, a wealthy man's Pandora's box, and staring around at the violent exploding

glass that housed her precious artifacts, her message was hauntingly clear. If she couldn't have me, no one else could. Two men frantically bolted into the room, running from her. an unseen whore. Their faces were polar opposite expressions. One spoke volumes of fear under a furrowed brow, the other had a jaw that was tightened with invisible bolts of disdain. Mr. Frightened and Mr. Angry, a rigid dichotomy which showed their contrasting feelings in the face of death. Here, in this abominable rich man's graveyard, they knew they were going to die. And to hear the museum narrow their death sentence with every pop of distant class felt intensely

euphoric. What's going on? Mr. Frighton's voice was a helpless drone. Where were you? I was... I held my breath. From their demeanor, beginning to calm, it was evident that they felt relatively at ease in the seemingly dull animal wing of the museum. I would have felt the same if my eye didn't catch the finger-length chameleon crawling up Mr. Ingris wrist. The other man caught wind of what I was looking at. He looked down at Mr. Ingris forearm and his bulging eyes looked like they could have fallen out of his head.

Oh, God. The man with the chameleon up to his elbow said, I've read about these on the placard. How did it get? His voice was shaking. I wiped one sweaty hand on my leg and began to back away. This? All of this didn't concern me.

I had to escape the museum. I had to find out what was behind the steel door. It's going to bite me, right? It's venomous. Right, guide? Get it the hell off me! I interjected, stepping one foot back, then the next. No, though it.

Without warning, the man peeled it from his skin. One thumb pushing against the chameon's neck to expose fangs. Mr. Angry swiped the reptile at the other man with force and its mouth stuck to his skin like a dart poured, and he laughed. The rich and famous visited were never going to change, I thought, watching Mr. Frighton squirm and hold the blood that slowly drizzled from the fleshy carved hole in his neck. The bitten man looked like a chameleon for a while, at least part of him did. His wounded neck skin bloomed orange, violet, scaly flesh beneath his jaw was iridescent in the moonlight. Human cells.

were never met for camouflage, and the man was soon testament to that. Mr. Fryden didn't make a sound, only an anguish grimace in pain as his skin cells flowered sage, then ocean blue. The pain was clearly insufferable, enough to turn him mad, enough to want to spoon the bloodshot eyes out of their sockets. Though the worst stomach-curdling process was yet to come, there was never venom, though the chameleon's bite was turned in his skin. When his human shell could bear the stress of chameleon evolution no

longer, the blotches of scales that his flesh had morphed into soon became clear as glass. Transparent areas of the man's skin bloomed in circles, growing slowly and easily like puddles of rain. He went to grab a banister with one gruelishly crystalline hand, but he couldn't have known that the chameleon's contagious clear pigmentation would also make his flesh as thin as paper. Poignant finger bones tore through the tips of his fragile paper skin like spiny white staples as his hand touched the wood, and he screamed and screamed. Mr. Frighton fell to one knee, the only limb that still showed the true color of his flesh. As he toppled over, I saw his liver, his heart, all organs and gore were on show as I stared through his back that looked like a mere translucent veil

or a jellyfish. That's so cool. That's so cool. That goes so hard. His skin gets so thin, his finger bones poke through him. That's fun. The chameleon's contagious pig. miraculously started to spread to his neck bones and his skull, and his skin and bones bloomed as clear as a window. No sound came out of his mouth when he screamed then, only that of the sickening tearing that came after his brittle seethrough neck snapped under the weight of his brain. His head made a splash as it died from his shoulders onto the marble floor. Watching his facial skin flake away to translucent dust, I was reminded of the venomous glass

butterflies we housed in our insect exhibition. I wouldn't be surprised if this was how they originally came into being. There was a brief, satisfied respite after I watched the rich man meet his demise. When my heart and standing hairs upon two shaking arms settled, I recalled how vulnerable he had looked with his organ showing, how scared he must have felt in this moment before his head broke loose from his body. His memories, his hopes and fears, his rich ego all ending in an instant as his fleshy mind bubble met marble. How gratified.

The other man tore me out of my moment of ecstasy as if he had plunged me in a freezing bath. Mr. Angry was wildly swinging a hammer in front of me and narrowly missed the bridge of my nose. We're completely fucked because of you! His voice lashed me with a searing culpability. He swung again and missed because that time I was already on the move. I bolted for the door, my feet skidding as I turned in the hallway towards the foyer. Angry guests, exploding cabinets. It's all too much, Sophia.

I thought, I know you're watching me, honey. I'm going to be free. I reluctantly passed the steel door as I swiftly climbed the grand staircase of the foyer. I was going to open it this evening to find freedom just as Johnny had told me I would, but not until I could shake the angry, wealthy prick on my tail. So he's just running to try to get this guy away from him before he opens the steel door, right? Yeah, well, I think that he's now fighting for his life before he, like, leaves. I think that if he, because I think that if he goes in there with him, I mean, I don't know.

Yeah, I think he's just trying to shake him. Yeah. The floor inside the Arts of Music exhibition was littered with the shattered glass of the displays of free exhibitions. And when I entered the room, I immediately went straight for the back wall. Above me on a golden placard,

the tooth fairy. Mr. Angry followed me into the dimly lit space, wielding his hammer tightly over one shoulder. Nowhere to run, guide. The man turned left, then right. No reanimate freaks left here to do your bidding either, eh? As I scanned the floor for smashed glass, glass, the remains of any escape displays.

But the tooth fairy didn't do my bidding, and it didn't need broken glass to be set free. Only the deep, nauseating hunger that rubbled within its canvas belly for the guest's mouth bones was needed for it to wait from its dye. An ash-colored hand tore out from the painting beside me, slowly reaching, wanting. Strings of oil pigment like bloody tree sap or syrup hung from its arms and neck as it hoisted itself out of the canvas. Its face had no eyes Its head was only half of that Only the jaw, mouth and cheeks

Remain below its jagged outline of a missing scalp It's fucking tooth fairy payoff is sick That's so cool The dripping ink as it's stepping out of the painting That's so fun I like that follow too Because I kind of get that with the sand In the second part

Like you get just it's a fun Yeah I like that The man turned but the tooth fairy's fingers Were long and its famine even longer It leaped from the canvas Pending him tightly against the ground His hand was limp and the hammer slipping from his grip. My heart was racing, skin, goose flesh, but watching the animated painting pull the man's teeth

fell intoxicating. There was a vial amusement that burned within me. As I counted the number of teeth, the ghoul had to unroot before the man's words became a wet, indiscernible mess. Six. Seven. When there were no teeth left, it started at his lips. Pink leeches that peeled away, the syrup strings and nerves.

I smiled because the tortured tour guide that I once was proved to be no salvation for him. Perhaps only dentures were. So I picked up his hammer and left him there to expire. The museum four year outside was as it always was. Ornate and grand. I looked up at the mosaic ceiling and laughed as I walked down the stairs of her belly. Excuse me. An orchestra of exploding glass displays.

It is funny. I just like that. Sorry. just good timing. An orchestra of exploding glass displays and screams drowning the sound of my chuckle like a loud, swirling drain of disarray. The horrifying museum for the rich and famous was absurd

and it ate me whole. I like, he's like, I'm going to get it out of here, Sophie. And then he's watching two guys die and he has to stop the chuckles as he runs with a hammer through the whole. I'm telling you, he's a fucking, he's a psychopath. He's a monster. Even if the guy was like going to kill you.

I would still just be like, okay, cool. I'm not going to wait around I'm just going to leave. Bye. Yeah, yeah. That was my time. Yeah. I had the key to the steel door. And with it, my misery would come to an end. I feel like you smiling too, Sophia.

Dance leaving. The hallway wasn't very far. The steel door wasn't far. How much longer, Sophia, you're going to be so proud of me. My stomach sank. I didn't anticipate the museum's curator to be situated outside the metal door. Two stumpy legs beneath him that looked as if they hardly held up his grape-like frame, which busted at the seams.

Michael? He said sternly. His back almost flat against the cold metal barrier behind him. Please don't do this. The head of the metal hammer in my hand shined brightly at the right angle. I walked towards the curator in the door. Oh boy, yo. You've gone mad.

That grin! The museum has gripped you, hasn't it? My fingers reached up and patted my lips like they were going numb. Oh, God, how long have I been smiling for? How long? If you turn and leave, we won't come after you. You have a choice. Come on, Mike.

Contemplated for a while. Cold from the snow outside, came through the broken four-year windows, and chilled my bones, and I watched the steam in my breath rise from my lips. Tire, be free. Look what years you have left or enter the door, and you will never leave. It'll break you, Boyo. It'll break her. He was holding his hands up submissively. Please, Michael.

Do you want to leave? I wanted to reply. I wanted to say yes, but the museum held my tongue, my arm, and the hammer swung and swung. Each blow was half my gold half museum, but all of it, every cracking of his skull, every slosh of the curator's brain under my hammer, was the bite of 15 years of torment. It was surprisingly easy to turn his skull into broken shards of bone and a gurgling fountain. Blood ran freely onto the ornate white floor like long, branching worms. My God. The poorly lit grayscale blanket of the evening, the curator's life fluid stood out vividly

as a red pool against surrounding dull wash colors. My breath was labored through smiling teeth that were speckled with red paint. He's dead. He's really dead. It took a while for me to catch my breath, but when I finally did, I fumbled around for the key in my pocket and found that it slid into the steel door with ease. Surprising ease, as if the door had been opened regularly. Oh, boy.

It can't have been. I was here once a week and it was always locked tight. A steel door groaned open. Circular lights adorned the short metal hallways and rose, leading to a second wooden door a few steps away. Above the door, a golden placard. It read. The next, my stomach plummeted.

In bold letters, the next guide. That's fun. That's fun. I like that. I reluctantly brought myself towards the second. door and pulled. If I'd been wearing a smile again, it was soon gone. Pink wallpaper plastered the walls inside the space and peeled off occasionally and curled rips, save for one wall that was well kept, most likely because it was decorated with Polaroid photos. The shelves were littered with teddy bears,

ground with clothes, the ceiling with fairy lights. I moved to the wall with the images and braced it with one hand as I peered closer. As I picked up one of my pictures, I caught the scent of my from the dry blood on my hands. It was dated three years ago. Center frame was the curator. Slimmer back then, alongside a blonde teenager in a tidy ponytail. They were smiling.

Another Polaroid unstuck itself from the wall as I pulled. Upon the white bar beneath the picture, there was some writing that was messily scribbled and vivid flytrap's birthday. Data a couple years prior, depicted the curator and the girl, younger this time. beside our giant Venus fly trap we kept in the greenhouse. This photo had been taken at the museum while I was working.

Is it Rosie? No, I think it's his daughter. It's got to be related to his daughter. Yeah. Why would he not know her, you know, maybe she's older. He thought that she was dead, maybe. I think his brain, he is an unreliable narrator at some point in this, I think. Yeah.

Reaching all the way to the end of the wall, I picked up the earliest photograph. stated 15 years ago The curator was sitting next to a hospital bed The slimest I had seen him And with a full head of hair Beneath the Polaroid More writing Cancer free

Right of the picture on the bed Beside the curator was the same young girl Maybe five or six years of age She had bright blue eyes And Sophia The pink room was spinning I felt like throwing up This can't be happening

It wasn't happening The curator was right. I was going mad. I'm going mad. I'm just going mad. Dad? Her words were quiet, distant, and afraid. Her voice broke me into.

I turned. Those same eyes, that same smile. My sweetheart was older. She was in her early 20s. After all, it had been 15 years since I last heard her voice. Sophia. Words tremble from my lips. For a while, I cried as she hugged me.

I thought about how the curator doctored the hospital's notice of death that I'd received so many years ago. I thought about how Sophia had been beneath my feet the entire time, caged like an animal enslaved as a future pawn for the rich and famous. But after some time, I only thought about her smile. But she pulled away from me. Her eyes caught the bits of the curator's skull upon my marooned waistcoat. We still caught up.

We had a lot to talk about. But after she had seen what was on my coat, her smile faded and the sparkles in her eye was long gone. Still bawling, she set upon her bed. Where have you been? Right here at the museum, honey. Once a week. These days I spend off-site never far. They don't let me visit the museum on off days.

They have lots of cleaning to do. He was choking up as she spoke. Her words took a while to come loose from her lips. No, they don't. Dad, the curator shows and teaches me about the museum on those other six days. She pointed a shaggy finger to the Polaroid pictures on her wall. He says I'm going to be a superstar tour guide, loving every moment of working here just like you. Thought back to the golden placard on the wall.

The next guide felt like my heart was going to give out. This world was cursed. It was cruel. Honey, it doesn't matter what he said. He's a terrible, terrible man. He's been raising you to beat. I shut my eyes tightly, inhaling a deep breath. I didn't want to tell her who he was.

I didn't want to tell her that her life was a lie and her caregiver was a monster. He's grooming you, darling. Like a cattle for slaughter. You're going to be a pawn for the rich and famous just like me. She was shaking her head. No, that's not true. It's not. She bolted up from her bed and made for the door.

The curator's my friend. He would do that. I was shouting. He's as bad as the rest, honey. Listen to me. They're all monsters, all of them. All the rich and famous that visit this godforsaken horror house. There's no way she ever saw the rich people.

She was hidden away through the door the nights I had given them tours. She didn't know where to begin when unraveling my incoherent rambling. And at that moment, just a sobbing mess. I went to hold her arm to settle her down, but she screamed, Get away from me! Felt helpless. Listen to me, please. The rich are deplorable, and they're here once a week. You just don't see them because you're locked. She sprinted through the door. Sophia, don't! Her slippers splashed as it met the maroon puddle of blood that pulled outside the doorway. She screamed and screamed not only because she was beside the curator's face that

had been mashed to a bloody pulp of broken bones and flesh by my hammer, but she might have screamed because at that moment she knew her father was a monster words fell in of sophia's trembling lips you're you're a m'n went to grab her by the arm and hold her and tell her it was all right and that we were free but she slapped my hand away and shrieked my voice was quiet pleading i'm not a monster honey she was backing away from me pale moonlight flooded in and painted bloody steps upon the museum's marble floors where his slippers had been looking down at the ground she She didn't see the disgusting man lying there that had tormented me for fifteen years, nor the man that had kidnapped and groomed her to be the next guide.

All she saw in the museum's curator's lifeless body was the remains of an honest man that had raised her in her father's stead. And I had just haphazardly scattered his brain across the marble floor with a hammer. She broke off into a sprint down the hallway. Around the corner and down the steps she had walked many times before. I screamed after her and gave chase. When I finally saw her again, she had stopped in the middle of the foyer a few steps from the door. Bellsabub and the Tooth Fairy were patrolling the halls, slowly making their way towards us.

The museum's abominations did not wander aimlessly. They were searching for me. The museum was searching for me. It's not going to let me run free. The back of her blonde hair was facing me as she wrestled with the door locks. Sophia shrieked as I made my way past her and jam my master key into the door and twisted. My heart was racing. The key that had worked for 15 years was not turning the lock. I kept twisting and turning my wrist, cussing of the museum's exhibitions loomed. It would never open, of course, not this evening, because something was amiss. The museum had no guide. Inside the foyer, the Elizabeth fluttered a broken fly wing as it sucked

his disgusting mouth tube in and out like a pacifier. When they would reach us, they would pull my teeth and flesh from my bones as easily as boiled meat, Sophia would be next. No, no, she was going to be free. The ground scratched as Bielzebub dragged one contorted spiny foot across the marble. Closer, closer. That's what I knew what I had to do. My arms were wide. I'll be resuming towards at 10 o'clock.

Please leave your coats on the rack in the foyer. I said. My voice echoing through the museum. The sound of scraping and glass displays smashing was no more. Is that what you want to hear? screamed at the museum. The two horrifying exhibitions inside the foyer. stood frozen.

Is that what you want it? Trailed off, falling to my knees. Tears streamed down my cheeks and onto the ornate floor. The museum would have been satisfied with either me or Sophia as the guide, but it was always meant to be me. Always. A clack chimed from the door behind me, and Sophia and I both turned. Snow drifted slowly to the ground through the large doorway to the outside gardens.

I managed to make out the gloss of the curator's black sedan underneath piling snow part near the steps outside. Do you see? Took Sophia's hand and held her cold grip tightly to mine. This museum's cursed. The people that visit are cursed. Reaching forward, braced her pale cheek with my other hand before she could squirm away. Look at what I've become.

Look at me. Staring into her, I saw my sweetheart, my world, my everything. Sophia was here and she was real. She was alive. Look at me, darling. Tears stream down my face and met my shirt collar in blotches. I may not be your father. Not you, not anymore.

Brushed your hair from her brow. But I want you to know that I love you, Sophia. Her wet eyes met mine. I knew she hadn't seen her dad. She saw the museum. I'm glad she did because if she hadn't, she might have stayed. I will always.

Don't always love you. My girl. I'd like to remember her smiling in that moment, but it may have been a trick of the mind. I'll let go of her hand, leaving the curator's car keys in her shaking poem. You get in that car and you get in that car, Go.

Sniffled and nodded. You go and don't stop until you're safe, honey. Johnny was right about finding freedom through the door, though it was never mine. The museum had possessed me, just as it had Mariette, and I could never leave. But Sophia could. Goodbye, Dad. For the first time in years, my smile was warm and genuine. False memories of her future flashed through my eyes as I watched her breathe the cold air

on the outside steps. I saw Sophia's first stay at her real job. I had a smile on her face at her wedding, her children start in school. My eyes followed her as she disappeared into the snowy evening in the curator's car. When I faced the museum, the exhibitions had wandered on, and the building was silent. I put on a ballroom waltzing record before I began sweeping the glass off the museum's cold floors. The exhibitions were free, of course, but it was no secret as to how I survived 15 years of trauma. The museum had protected me from its exhibitions, because I was

her guide. As I made my way around the ground floor of the building, I noticed one glass display that had not broken in the chaotic evening. It was when I had passed the paranormal wing that I saw her. Her hand braced the window of her prison, and her fingers slid down with a screech. Come on them, Marriott. I said as my key fit snugly inside the glass cabinet. The music from the record player was a divine tune of strings and soul, a song to dance to. I felt a spring in my seat. step as the old tour guide and I made our way to the main hall of the museum. The beautiful evening stars above the mosaic glass ceiling painted the marble foyer, beautiful

azure. My grip made its way through Mariette's cold plastic fingers until we were holding hands under the night sky above. Her face was that of a shiny doll, but it didn't matter. She still had the soul of the young woman that once walked these halls. She was stunning. This evening was her time to feel young and alive again. Bleeding, I held her hand together, Mariette and I slow danced in the moonlight.

Mariette, my daughter is free. Sophia is free. She's out there somewhere, starting a new life. The moon, museum's marble in my heart, the color of cold lips. The old guy and I waltz left and right. Isn't that lovely, Mariette? Twirled under the stars. Mariette.

And there we go. That's the end of the series. Wow. What a fun ending. You know, it was weird. The story started off. You could kind of, I mean, at least for me, I feel like I could tell that the guy, it's like none of that stuff was planned or anything.

Or maybe it was, but I mean, it read like it wasn't planned. I feel like, I don't know. I feel a lot of things. I mean, like the visuals and the descriptions of the, you know, some of these fucking gross outs were awesome. Like, I love the jellyfish part was probably my favorite in terms of the visuals and stuff. I wrote a note earlier. And I'm curious what you think.

I wrote this. I put, what if it was a museum that takes your pain and grief away from you to be on display for others' amusement? And maybe that transaction means that you will permanently lose that memory or it will be taken from you. Something that might connect more. First, well, actually, let me ask you this.

Do you like the idea of Sophia being alive there? Or do you feel like that was kind of like a cop out? No, but I almost don't believe it. Neither do I. That's what I'm wondering is, is the museum showing you something that will make you stay? That's what I think. I think that basement was like almost a tulpa of sorts. Like it's the thing in your mind the museum creates to entrap you there.

Right. And it knew for him that would be, and I think the curator was lying about it and the pictures were fake and all that. And it goes back to what the whole razor tongue thing was that he'll tell you a lie or a truth. so his whole lie about like your freedom lies beyond the door down there like it's freedom of the soul because he's not thinking about his daughter but it's the thing that will keep him stuck in the museum for yeah well the freedom is the lie for sure the freedom is that is that oh actually my daughter's totally fine and she's alive if i mean i agree it feels a bit too convenient in a way where and then that that that little bit at the end to where he's dancing with mariet whatever it's like oh

She's not even here with us. Like, he's like kind of, he's stuck alone again, you know? Yeah. Yeah, that's why I kind of get by that Mariette, the question mark at the very end. Like, a lot of that was just happening in his head. And the museum, if the museum is a living thing is established at the end, the depiction of Sophia was just the thing to make him, you know, stay there. And it goes back to Razor Tongue because he's like, oh, where's your daughter rotting in the ground?

At first, that's assumed to be like a painful truth. to just pick at him. But in hindsight, that would actually be a lie. It's the lie that he, or sorry, no, that would be a painful truth, right? Because it's the thing to pick at him. But it is the truth because his real daughter is dead out there somewhere. This is just the museum giving him something to make sure he sticks around. Yeah, yeah.

I mean, I think, I'd be really curious to see the story if it was more concise from the beginning. because I feel like by part three, about halfway through part three, about halfway through the story, that's where it really felt like it was kind of finding its groove. It'd be fun to see these things kind of set up a little more at the beginning. Because yeah, you know, we get some fun stuff in the first two.

And you get the Rosie and you get to kind of like see through Rosie that like, oh, I had a daughter too. That's why he's like befriending this girl and treating her, like almost like a play date that he wishes he had with his daughter at a museum. But it'd be fun to see this as a more concise story from the beginning versus something that was evolving into a fully developed story. That's like one thing with some of these, some of these vignette kind of like multi-part episode series is, it'd be cool to see something in one long poster, like one book even of something that's like maybe a little more fully curated from the top would be fun. I thought that the ending, though, was really was fun. I think that's a lot of fun.

Like, it's the thing in the museum that makes him stay. Yeah. Because it gives him this false confidence that his daughter's out there. So where his false memories he wanted from earlier, they can be real in his mind and he'll stay right there. Yeah. Also, the, I will add, so he started, this is five years ago and it doesn't look like he's updated it since. But he started writing a prequel series from Mariette's perspective. Oh, that'd be fun.

So he has one part up right now called Where the Man? Flies, which will link that in the description. So if you want to see more of the prequel stuff for Mariette, then that'll be in the description. The idea of, I don't know if you found this, or if you thought this as well, but the idea of her putting plastic made me think that she was like, maybe, like, didn't want to grow old or was, uh, was concerned about her looks or something. Like wanting to preserve beauty of some kind was kind of what I was thinking with the whole plastic, uh, like preservation or whatever, doll-like mentality that she turns into.

She's huge, though. I mean, seven feet, over seven feet tall is what they said. So I don't know. So, but I don't know. I mean, all in all, it was really fun. It was a nice, beefy story. That was a fun, that was a fun long story that did not overstay its welcome. And it also didn't just like use the fun to degrade the quality of the story.

It was just fun throughout. And I enjoyed it. That was a good one. No, I think so too. I think also it was a story, too, that starts pretty campy. And then by about part four, I think it completely is. abandons that, or not abandons it, but like, I mean, it kind of, it takes, I like that it starts off campy because it's like, this is a weird job I have until he's like, actually, I want to get

the fuck out of here. And then the story almost twists with how the, uh, tour guide himself is experiencing, like it basically his perception of the museum changes. Therefore, I feel like the horror got a little more serious. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I enjoyed it. That was a lot of fun. Pretty fun. Well, guys, that's our episode this week. We thank you so much for listening. Like I said, Or like Isaiah said, we got links in the description for the author. So please go follow them, go give, you know, just go show them some love, go show them support. Also, maybe check out the prequel series. It sounds like a lot of fun.

To all the people listening right now on audio platforms, please consider giving us a nice thumbs up or a good rating. It helps us out a lot. And if you're wanting some extra content on the side, go to patreon.com slash creedcast. We got an imperial invective interview and a nice author interview that we're stoked on. And we do some bonus episodes here. there. So if he wants a free content, feel free to head over there. Until next time, guys,

stay creeped. Stay creeped. And remember if the living museum full of monstrosities against nature you work in says from a puppet that is established to be a mind demon that ruins reality, if it says that your daughter

that you assume is dead is actually alive in the basement for 15 years, probably don't trust it. Probably just good rule of thumb. But hey, real bear trap of a mine you're working with there, buddy. Um, bye. Don't you wish you could just hit skip on the worst parts of your life? You know, the same way you can skip an ad.

I get it. I'm Siyaya and I live in Ice Cove. I've made some questionable decisions that didn't end up the way I planned. And today I'm still figuring it out. Somehow things usually get worse before they get better. Apparently, that's how I roll. So bundle up and come along for the bumpy ride. Stream a new episode of North of North Tuesdays on CBC Gem.