The Monster Museum

by J L Bryan

  Maybe Antonio and I would have continued to have a relationship, and maybe I would have messed up and gotten pregnant...and today, I might be crammed into an apartment with Antonio and a bunch of crying kids, both of us working dead-end jobs.

  Or maybe I'd have gone on to college, met someone right for me, had a successful career and maybe just the one to two kids—

  “I'm sorry,” Ryan said, interrupting my train of thought, which had grown alarmingly self-involved anyway.

  “No, I was the one who blanked out for a minute there,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

  “I didn't mean to dump-truck my life's problems all over you,” he said. “Let's get back to your work.”

  “It's fine,” I said. “And it actually does help to understand the emotional climate in a household. That can be affected by these entities. And it can affect them.”

  “Emotional climate,” Ryan said, grinning a little. “I like that. Emotional climate change, coming to drown us all. Could be a song in that.” His eyes unfocused a little, staring past me. Do you think...is there any chance...this haunting thing could be her? Paula? Maybe checking in on the family? You know?”

  The raw pain on his face was hard not to notice.

  “Has anything specific happened to make you think it was her?”

  “No, just...” He shrugged. “Thinking. Hoping, maybe.”

  “I can't say much for sure until we collect a lot of evidence,” I said, as gently as I could. “Do you have any activity at your last home that you thought might have been her?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He seemed deflated.

  “Because if it's been four years without activity, she's most likely moved on,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “Which is a good thing,” I added, trying to cheer him up. “It's what you want. You don't want them to be trapped here. Ghosts just lost, confused fragments of a dead person's soul. They aren't usually the whole person.”

  He was quiet, thinking, looking down at the floor.

  I felt bad for him, but after a minute, I decided it was my job to keep things moving.

  “Okay,” I said. “Have you noticed any changes in your kids' emotions since moving here? Or their energy level?”

  “I wouldn't say we're a cheerful family,” he said. “We haven't been in a long time. Nobody's happy here; nobody wanted to move from our old house. But work dried up at my dad's company; bigger companies moved in and things started to get rough. I wasn't sure how we were going to make rent or ever afford health insurance again. Then my great-uncle left me the museum, which came with a free place to live...” He frowned, looking around at the apartment.

  “Do you have any idea why he left it to you?”

  “I don't know. Maybe because I liked it that time I visited when I was a kid, but I barely remember it, honestly. Or maybe Uncle Leydan saw me as someone like him. You know, black sheep of the family type. I wanted to be a musician when I was a kid, not a contractor like my dad. But that's the nice thing about being a kid, right? You're free to believe in dreams. You don't have the bills coming in every month. You don't have anyone else who needs you to provide for them...And I'm doing it again, aren't I? Sorry. I promise I can keep things to myself.”

  “It's totally fine—”

  “I've been sort of trapped in kid-land for a long time now. No adult conversation.”

  “I want to hear anything you have to say.” And not just so I can keep looking at you, whispered an evil voice inside my head. “You never know what might be relevant to the case.”

  He nodded. “Let's go talk to the girls next. Then I'll show you the museum.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Penny and Polly continued their quiet coloring, ignoring the video game paused on the TV screen.

  “Hi, girls,” Ryan said.

  “Hi, Daddy,” their soft voices chorused, their hands still coloring.

  “We need to tell Miss Ellie about everything you've been seeing around here. Anything strange.”

  The girls' eyes looked at me briefly, then back to their coloring book.

  “Everything here is strange,” Penny, the girl in dark clothes, finally said.

  “I mean the really strange things, though. Like the boy.”

  “He's not dangerous,” Penny said.

  “He's our friend,” Polly said, her voice even softer than her sister's. Penny elbowed her; it was a slight gesture, disguised as a reach for a “cornflower blue” Crayola, but I noticed the girl's elbow jab into her sister's bicep along the way.

  “We haven't seen him much,” Penny added. “Maybe he's gone. He's okay though. You don't have to hurt him.”

  “I don't want to harm anyone who's innocent,” I said. I knelt down on the floor by the coffee table where they were coloring. “What can you tell me about this boy? Where do you see him?”

  Polly opened her mouth, then looked at Penny and hesitated. Penny gave her a slight nod, as if granting permission to speak.

  “Sometimes he's here,” Polly said, in her barely audible-whisper.

  “Here in the apartment?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Sometimes in our room.”

  “We're not supposed to have boys in our room,” Penny said, louder and more assertive. “But Amil doesn't count because he's not all the way here. He can walk through walls.”

  “And turn invisible.” Polly looked at the frozen Harry Potter video game. “Like Harry.”

  “Only he doesn't need a cloak,” Penny added. “It's just how he is. Sometimes he's here, and sometimes he's away.”

  “Does he only show up in your room?” I asked.

  “He can be anywhere,” Penny said.

  “He likes to find us,” Polly whispered. “He likes to play hide and seek.”

  “Really? Where does he like to play?”

  “All over,” Polly said. “Up here, or out in the woods...or down in the museum—”

  Penny shook her head, and Polly fell silent, even though Polly was looking right at me and could have only caught Penny's head shake out of the extreme corner of her eye.

  “Did something happen in the museum?” I asked.

  “We don't go down in the museum,” Penny said, her voice sharp, not so soft and quiet anymore. “We aren't allowed.”

  “It's dangerous,” Polly whispered; no sharp new tone for her.

  “That's okay, we don't have to talk about that,” I said, realizing that the girls were trying to dodge getting in trouble with their dad. “Tell me more about the boy. Did he tell you his full name?”

  “No,” Penny said, and Polly shook her head.

  “How old is he?”

  “I think he's our age. Maybe a little older. He hasn't said,” Penny told me, Polly nodding along.

  “Can you tell me what he looks like?”

  Penny and Polly looked at each other. Polly blushed and looked away, her hair screening her face a bit.

  “Polly thinks he's cute,” Penny said.

  Polly bared her teeth at this, as if angry at her sister.

  Though Penny was looking at me and couldn't see Polly's angry look through Polly's hair, Penny reacted as if she had seen it, or else could sense her sister's feelings. An amused, triumphant smile spread across Penny's face.

  “Ryan, do you mind if I speak to Penny and Polly alone?” I asked. “Just girl stuff?”

  “Of course. Some girl stuff might be a nice break for them, actually.” Ryan saved Ronan's video game and turned off the TV before leaving the room.

  The girls drew closer together once they were left alone with me. It was an almost imperceptible movement, like plants turning to follow the sunlight, but it was there.

  “So,” I said. “Tell me more about this guy.”

  “Are you going to make him leave?” Polly finally exploded—which, for Polly, meant her voice was still soft but louder than a whisper.

  “Toldja she has a crush,” Penny said.

  “You like him too!” Polly said, and now it w
as Penny's turn to blush, her dark secret exposed.

  “So he's about your age, and his name is Amil,” I said. “What else can you tell me? I want to hear how he looks, how he talks, everything.”

  The girls looked at each other, staring each other down, seeming to argue without any words or gestures at all. Occasionally they let out tiny hissing and grunting sounds, their eyes widening as if for emphasis.

  I waited, trying to keep a patient look on my face, not wanting to interrupt them while they worked out whatever they were working out. My cousins had done this, too, communicating in their private way that was impenetrable to anyone else.

  “He dresses in a robe,” Penny finally said. “A short white one. With purple threads.”

  “His hair is black. And his eyes,” Polly said, still barely speaking above a whisper. She blushed again. Apparently the boy-ghost was dark and handsome...not unlike these girls' father...

  Again with the stupid thoughts, I told myself. Checking out other guys was not exactly the fast road to repairing my relationship with Michael. What was I going to do with Ryan, anyway? Raise his three kids with him? That wouldn't leave much room for anything else. Plus, my work was dangerous to people in my life—therefore, the fewer people in my life, the better.

  Maybe I could quit, though. Get a normal job. Take care of these poor kids who'd lost their mom. Learn to be maternal.

  Shut up! I told myself. My mind was going to places that were both unfamiliar and unhelpful. Was I really fantasizing about this guy I'd just met? Moving in, helping with his kids, forming one big haunted museum Brady Bunch—well, not that, because I had no kids of my own. Some kind of insta-family situation, though. One day you're alone, the next you have a husband and three kids. Plus whatever ghosts might be around.

  “Okay,” I shook my head, trying to clear it of thoughts that had clearly been born of desperation and loneliness. “What else can you tell me about Amil?”

  “He wears sandals, or else goes barefoot,” Penny said.

  “He's nice,” Polly said. “He's kind.”

  “Polly thinks he's cute.”

  “So do you!” Polly hissed back.

  “Yeah, but I'm not in love with him.”

  “I'm not either!”

  “Girls, it's okay, I get it. He's cute. I need to know more than that. Does he speak to you?”

  “Yeah, but he doesn't make any sense,” Penny said. “I think he's from another country.”

  “You can understand him if you listen close,” Polly said. “He can speak with his thoughts. He can show you things.”

  “Like what?” I asked. “What has he shown you?”

  “The ocean,” Polly said, the very slightest hint of an actual smile appearing on her lips. “Boats.”

  “What kind of boats?”

  “Boats with big sails, so big...like a giant's bedsheets. And lots of people rowing. Storms tossing the boat, everyone screaming. And sunny days. And summer nights, the stars and the moon—”

  “She's making it up,” Penny said. “I've never seen anything like that. Just the boy.”

  “I am not making it up,” Polly said, louder than ever, which still wasn't much louder than a kitten's padded paw stepping on a pillow.

  Penny bared her teeth like an animal, silently threatening her.

  “Hey, maybe everybody could calm down a sec,” I said. “I just have a couple more questions for now, then I'll stop bugging you.”

  “You're not bugging us,” they both said, their voices chiming again as if they were momentarily on the same wavelength again.

  “First, what else has he said to you?” I asked. “Has he told you anything about himself?”

  “Only that he's from the sea,” Polly said, dreamily. “That's his home.”

  “Has he ever told you to do anything? Either of you?”

  “He challenged us to find him down in the museum, and in the caves—” Polly began, until Penny stopped her with a low sss sound.

  “Caves?” I asked.

  Polly looked at Penny, then back at me, and she kept quiet.

  “I'm not going to get you in trouble with your dad,” I said. “I'm not like a spy trying to get you grounded. I need to know exactly what's been happening here if I'm going to help your family figure it out and clear it up.”

  They looked at each other again.

  “Meh,” Penny said, very quietly, more of a grunt than a word.

  “We played hide and seek in the museum,” Polly said, her voice small again. Then she added: “And in the caves.”

  “Are you allowed to go into the caves?” I asked.

  “Not without Dad,” Penny said.

  “But the caves are the best,” Polly said.

  “They're the oldest part of the museum,” Penny said. “You can read the brochure.”

  “I'd like that,” I said.

  Polly hopped up and ran away down the hall.

  “She's getting it for you,” Penny told me.

  “Thanks,” I said, then I felt weird for thanking her when all she'd done was order her sister to go fetch it. I made sure to thank Polly more profusely when she returned with the brochure.

  “Has he ever tried to make either one of you hurt yourselves?” I asked. “This is very important. Even as a suggestion, or as a joke.”

  They looked at each other, then at me.

  “No,” they both said, softly.

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes,” Penny said.

  “Okay. Be very careful with this boy, if he comes back again. Don't trust him. And above all, don't let him talk you into doing anything to yourselves, or each other, or someone else.”

  “Do you think he's evil?” Penny asked.

  “No!” Polly snapped.

  “I don't know anything about him,” I said. “I'm here to find any ghosts who might endanger your family. Have you encountered any other people like Amil? People who aren't all the way there, who disappear?”

  “A little bit,” Polly said.

  “No,” Penny said, cutting her a look. “Polly always imagines things. I kinda have to keep her grounded. I'm the sensible one.”

  “And what am I? The stupid one?” Polly asked.

  “No. You just get carried away. You know you do. You make things up and then you believe them.”

  “Amil is real!”

  “I know,” Penny said.

  Polly flushed red and ran away up the hall. A door slammed.

  “I'm sorry,” I said to Penny. “I didn't mean to upset either of you.”

  “She'll be okay,” Penny said. “She's the emotional one.”

  “And what are you?” I gave her a warm smile as I asked.

  “I'm the logical one. Clearly.” She did an exaggerated eyeroll in the direction of her departed sister.

  “I appreciate your help.” I stood and brushed a little carpet lint off my slacks. “I'm sure I'll have some more questions later, but I think I've ruffled enough feathers for now.”

  “No bigs. She keeps hers ruffled, anyway.” Penny bent over the book and resumed coloring an insanely elaborate dragon mandala. I don't even know how she fit the crayon tip in among the tiny squiggly details. It did look like it could be relaxing—maybe Stacey had a point about them.

  I followed the sound of clanking dishes to the kitchen, where Ryan was putting away a mismatched assortment of mugs into a tall, rough-hewn wooden cabinet that might have been a hundred years old. I winced at his lack of contact paper. Then winced at myself for wincing.

  “How'd it go?” he asked.

  “I'm not the greatest with kids,” I said. “Honestly, it's a little hard to tell whether they're encountering some kind of entity or creating something imaginary together. All I can do is try to gather some more evidence.”

  “Told you,” he said. “They're off on their own planet sometimes. It's like they can read each other's minds.”

  “My twin cousins are the same,” I said. “Well, I can set up an observation. The green,
scaly thing you and your son saw is my biggest concern. It sounds like your daughters are in touch with a completely different entity, who seems friendly...but they can present themselves deceptively.”

  “How deceptively?” he said.

  “They can look like anything,” I said. “Not many of them actually realize they have this ability, though, so they end up looking like some version of themselves from life. Or some monstrous exaggeration of their inner psyche, which...can get ugly. Now, a savvy ghost trying to connect with children might disguise itself as a child, maybe even taking its own childhood form...but what you don't realize is that the child grew up, became a serial killer, died an old man in prison—”

  “The one in my house?” He nearly dropped a cup that looked like Bugs Bunny's head.

  “No, no, the one in my totally hypothetical example,” I said. “The one in your house might be benign. Might even be a scared, lost soul, trapped here by circumstance, looking for a way to move on to the other side.”

  “But the psycho killer masquerading as a kid could be real, too?”

  “Could be. That's obviously a worst-case scenario. I'll have to dig into the history of the property to find out what might be going on around here.”

  “Are my kids in danger?”

  “I can't guarantee they aren't until I learn more. I'm not trying to scare you. I just don't have enough information. But the wall-crawling crocodile thing doesn't sound like something with which you want to peacefully co-exist.”

  “Okay.” He put the last of the dishes away and closed the dishwasher. “If you want to learn about the history of this place, the museum's the place for that.” He walked over to the living room, where Penny still sat alone coloring. “Girls, we're heading down to the museum for a minute. Watch your brother.”

  “Okay,” Penny replied.

  I followed him, but not to the same doorway through which we'd entered the apartment. Instead, we entered a room with dusty bookshelves spaced along wood-paneled walls.

  “My uncle was pretty eccentric,” he said. “If you haven't guessed it already. The museum...isn't exactly a fine art museum, or a natural history museum, even with the monster exhibit. It has bits and pieces, odds and ends, whatever my uncle thought a curious public might find fascinating. Whether that fascination was out of admiration or disgust or even horror was secondary.”