Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (2 page)

Mr Chapman's eyes quickly passed over the clumsy, imposing grandeur of the entrance, yet the uncompromising resolve he had shown to Neil was already evaporating and he wondered if it might be possible to return to Ealing after all.

Apprehensively, he looked back at the small, blue van and the faces of his sons staring out at him. With the bitter wind tugging the hem of his trousers and biting into his exposed ankles, he felt as small as Joshua, but clearing his throat he managed to give them what he hoped looked like a hearty wave and made a determined stride up to the doorway.

Concealed beneath a sculpted ash leaf fixed to a hinge was a small brass button and Mr Chapman gave this a couple of furtive dabs. Within the museum there echoed a faint, tinkling noise and the man waited upon the middle step for the call to be answered.

Several minutes passed and as he grew colder, he wondered if he had been mistaken about the entire situation. It didn't take much to confound or confuse him and people were often taking advantage of this, devising what they considered to be hilarious practical jokes at his expense. What if this was just an elaborate hoax?

‘Don't be silly,’ he told himself. ‘I had an interview, saw the premises.’

Yet even as he thought this, Mr Chapman couldn't help but doubt the whole business. Everything had happened so very quickly, from the time he had answered the advertisement to the subsequent brief interview and the immediate acceptance of his application. If he hadn't been so desperate for work he would have found the unnatural haste suspicious—but now it was too late to begin worrying. Everything was settled.

He was just about to press the bell again—but even as he raised his hand to do so, he heard the rattle of a heavy bolt being drawn back. Swiftly, he swept his fingers through his greasy hair as the iron-studded door opened.

Brian Chapman found himself looking into the face of an elderly woman whose steely eyes fixed accusingly upon him as she studied him with a sour expression upon her pale, gaunt face.

‘We are not open,’ she stated, acidly. ‘If you desire to view the collections then you must return on the last Thursday of every month—before luncheon. Good day.’

The lady was obviously very old, yet she was not like some other elderly people who shuffle around in sloppy slippers, lost in a large cardigan and with an imbecilic, faraway look on their faces. No, this woman retained all the frosty dignity that had ever been hers and her wits were as sharp as her words.

An abundance of fine white hair was piled upon her head in exquisite curls and a string of black beads threaded its way between them, dangling in darkly glittering loops just above her ears which were adorned with pendulous, diamantine earrings.

Her blueish, almost translucent skin was stretched over a fine-boned skull which sat erect and high upon an elegant, if somewhat scrawny, neck.

She was dressed in a faded black evening gown, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with jet beads which matched those which snaked in and out of her hair. Arrayed in this dimmed finery, she looked like a once-regal duchess who had come upon hard times. She was a remarkable sight and she reminded Mr Chapman of a dried flower that had once been fair and beautiful but was now fragile and withered—a poorly-preserved semblance of the glory it had once known and revelled in.

‘Wait!’ Brian called out as the elderly lady moved to close the door in his face. ‘Mrs Webster, I've come about the job—remember? You interviewed me. I'm the new live-in caretaker, Mr Chapman.’

A flinty sparkle gleamed in her eyes as she nodded and he suspected that she had known who he was the entire time but enjoyed making people feel uncomfortable.

‘You will remember that I am
Miss
Webster,’ she smartly informed him. ‘Neither I nor my poor sisters are married.’

‘Ah yes,’ he answered apologetically, ‘you told me that last time.’

Opening the door a fraction wider, she gestured for him to enter and the taffeta of her faded gown rustled softly with her movements.

‘You had better come in,’ she said curtly, in a tone that commanded absolute obedience. ‘You may as well begin at once. What is it, man? Why do you hesitate? Speak!’

Brian pinched his nose. ‘My children,’ he uttered, cowed by her brusque and scornful manner. ‘Do you recall I mentioned them at the interview?’

‘Young man,’ she began with disdain ringing in her clipped voice, ‘I am not senile, I recollect all that was said on that occasion. If this is your blundering attempt to tell me that they are here with you then I suggest you bring them in before they catch their deaths.’

In silence, but with a curious smile traced upon her face, Miss Webster disappeared into the darkness which lay behind the entrance as the new caretaker scuttled over to his sons.

‘Neil!’ he called. ‘Give me a hand with these bags, will you?’

It didn't take long for the Chapmans’ possessions to be unloaded from the van, forming an untidy pile beside the bollards, ready to be carried indoors.

With a holdall full of clothes slung over one shoulder, a medium-sized suitcase in his left hand and a bulging carrier bag in the other, Neil trudged into the grubby alley and looked for the first time upon the grandiose entrance to the Wyrd Museum.

‘Looks like the doorway to a tomb,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘A great, big, hungry tomb just waiting to be fed and swallow us whole. This whole place is foul!’

Frowning, he climbed the three steps and cautiously passed into the shadows beyond.

The moment he crossed over the threshold, Neil coughed and dropped the suitcase as a horrid, musty smell assailed his nostrils—he spluttered in disgust. It was like opening a cupboard that had been sealed for years and inhaling all the damp and dry rot that had accumulated in that time in one great fetid breath.

‘Are you ailing, Child?’ snapped a brisk voice.

Neil looked up—there was Miss Webster standing before him with her thin hands clasped primly in front of her.

‘It's just the smell. . .’ he explained, ‘I wasn't expecting. . .’

‘Smell?’ she archly interrupted. ‘I smell nothing. Is this a schoolboy joke? I have had little or no experience of your generation, child, so you would do well to keep out of my sight whilst you are here and refrain from any more of this idiotic humour. I have never tolerated nonsense and frivolity of any sort repels me. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Very,’ Neil answered, bristling indignantly at her severe and unjust tone. 'This slum probably hasn't been cleaned for years,’ he observed in a grim, inaudible whisper as he surveyed his dingy surroundings.

No interior could hope to live up to the Victorian facade that framed the entrance to the museum, but the poky room he found himself in was a disappointment nevertheless.

It was a cramped and claustrophobic hallway, crammed with ornaments; from a tall and rather spindly specimen of a weeping fig planted in a stout china pot, to an incomplete suit of fifteenth-century armour that leaned drunkenly against the dark oak panelling which pressed in on all sides. To the right of where Neil stood and just behind the entrance, a small arch had been cut into the panels and traced in letters of peeling gold were the words ‘TICKETS FOR ADMITTANCE’.

A flight of stairs covered in a threadbare red carpet, and mostly hidden by a solid wooden bannister, rose steeply to the other floors. On the landing, one of the Georgian windows let in a pale ray of dirty brown light, weakened by having been filtered through the grime of centuries—and this tinted all it touched a melancholy sepia. Under its ghastly influence, the dim little watercolours which hung on the far wall seemed to have been daubed from mud and where it touched the weeping fig it was as if the leaves cringed and curled in revolt.

Stepping into the province of the pallid beam, Miss Webster glanced uncertainly upwards and her white hair was sullied and transformed into a filthy gold.

‘As you are to live here, Child,’ she said, addressing Neil once more, ‘know now that you may wander where you will in this museum,
if your courage allows.'

A secretive, almost teasing tone crept into her voice as she gazed about the hallway and inhaled deeply as if savouring the rank atmosphere of the place.

‘You see, child,’ she told him, ‘there is an ancient and fundamental belief amongst some people which assigns to certain sites or buildings a particular mood, a spirit—or heart, if you wish. It is a belief which I am wont to share most wholeheartedly.

‘In the days that are to come, when you are roaming within these venerable walls and learn the little you can of what they have to offer, pause a moment and think on that. What manner of heart might you suppose beats here? What will be the nature of the force that watches you and feels your footfalls travelling and moving inside it as a whale might feel a shrimp wriggling deep in the caverns of its belly?

‘Perhaps the answer to that lies within yourself, but many are those who have blanched and fled when they became aware of the presence which abides here. Older than the soil wherein the foundations of this museum lie, it is. For an eternity has it pulsed, this shadow-wrapped and mysterious heart. Yet, whatever its nature may be, it is most certainly not a comfortable one and I make no apologies for it—or what it may choose to do with you. In many ways it is out of my control.’

Her words hung ominously upon the air and Neil wondered if the terse old woman was trying to frighten or intimidate him. To show that she had not succeeded, he folded his arms and stared back at her with as bored an expression on his face as he could muster.

'This you will discover for yourself,’ Miss Webster assured. ‘Until then all you need to know is that the private apartments of myself and my poor sisters are located upon the third floor and that area is forbidden to you. I must also tell you that my sisters are not as... strong as myself and sleep much during the day, therefore you will make no disturbance of any kind in case you awaken them. Now, who is this?’

Neil turned to see that Josh had walked in the door with a small bag of his own clothes in both hands. Immediately, the four-year-old screwed up his face and let out a loud ‘Eerrrrrkk!’ followed by ‘It stinks!’

Miss Webster eyed the fair-haired toddler caustically and pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned a bloodless white.

Under the glare of this cold contempt Josh moved closer to his brother and caught hold of his sleeve.

‘Don't like her,’ he murmured honestly, ‘she's got a face like a camel.’

There was an awkward silence. The old lady breathed deeply through her nose but said nothing until the boys’ father reappeared bearing two cardboard boxes.

‘Mr Chapman,’ she began in a voice of wood, ‘I will now show you to your rooms.’

‘I haven't finished bringing the rest of the stuff in,’ he said. Won't be too long. I can't leave it on the road...’

Miss Webster's lips parted as she turned on him a chilling smile, revealing a row of mottled, brown teeth. ‘My time is precious to me, Mr Chapman,’ she said with an assured finality. ‘Pray let your belongings remain where they are for the moment.’

‘But someone might. . .’

‘Out of the question!’ her crisp voice snapped before he could finish the sentence. The folk who dwell around here are no doubt aware by now that you have been made welcome in this place. They would not dare tamper or take anything that belongs to a guest of mine. Only once has my hospitality been violated and by the likes of one that shall never be seen again. For who now could withstand those nine nights hanging from the ash? Besides, it was so very long ago, so very long, when I was green enough to... well let us say that I have never allowed myself to be so vulnerable again.’

She licked her discoloured teeth and sneered scornfully. ‘But this is not the hour for such ancient histories. Mr Chapman, I swear to you that your goods have never been safer, not ever.’

‘If... if you're sure?’ he said doubtfully.

‘Decidedly,’ came the insistent reply. ‘There are many, many affairs of which I am most certain. Now follow me to your quarters.’

As Miss Webster turned to open a door in the far wall, Brian put down the cardboard boxes and pulled a wry face at Neil.

‘Old bag,’ his son mouthed silently.

The man nodded hurriedly, then looked across the room to where Josh had wandered. A strangled gurgle issued from Mr Chapman's mouth and he stared at his young son in disbelief.

‘Josh!’ he cried.

The little boy was staring at the suit of armour and before anyone could stop him, gave it a none too gentle nudge.

With a snap and a rattle of rust, the spear broke free, toppling headlong into the panelled wall where it scraped and gouged a frightful, deep scratch in the wood, inscribing a perfect arc all the way down to the parquet floor. Thrown off balance by the violence of the weapon's descent, Josh tumbled backwards into the armour. For an instant the helmet quivered, then it flew through the air like a cannonball and punched a great dent into one of the cardboard boxes, buckling it and sending it spinning against Neil's legs. Promptly, the boy fell into the box, then with a tremendous, resounding crash of clanking metal, the rest of the armour collapsed and a riotous clamour rang throughout the dismal hall.