Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (6 page)

Some evil intelligence was behind all this, some malignant mind controlling the interior of the museum, leading him deeper and deeper into its heart; watching his movements as it had watched him playing in the yard. Was it guiding him to itself?

If so, what for? What would he see? At the end of his stumbling search, what crouching horror would confront him? He would be too tired to fight the creature off, that was why it was doing this. When the end came he would be utterly exhausted, too spent to defend himself.

His eyes stinging with anguished tears, Neil burst through the gathering darkness and yelled at the top of his terrified voice.

‘Stop it! Let me out! Let me go!’

From the gloom, something rose up and caught hold of his foot. Neil screamed as he fell and crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.

‘Get off! Get off!’ he bawled, tugging his foot free.

The sweat was streaming down his face as he stared fearfully into the dim shadows before him; then he gave a choking cry as he saw that it was only the corner of a rug that he had tripped over.

‘I’m getting as potty as them upstairs,’ he muttered. Then he realised where he was and his spirits plummeted lower than ever.

He was in The Separate Collection and above him was the cabinet containing the eye of Balor. Neil shuffled backwards, either it was his imagination or a trick of the failing light, but in a deep crevice that scored the leathery surface, he thought he saw a glimmer of red.

‘Let me out of here!’ he called again. ‘Stop—please!’

The silence in that eerie room almost deafened him but he was too petrified to get back on his feet.

Sinister shapes crowded behind the cabinets, a terrible silent throng that waited for its moment.

Then, from an unseen point beyond the cases, there came a voice.

‘Hey, kid,’ it yelled, ‘cool it will ya! It's jus’ this heap o’ bricks toyin’ with ya ‘n’ havin’ its fun.’

Neil slid across the floor as he scrambled to his feet. He hadn't a clue who had spoken, but it was muffled—as if it had come from inside one of the display cases.

‘Hey! Leave the kid alone!’ the voice yelled again. Emitting a high-pitched screech, the boy hurtled from the room, and then, three minutes later, found himself standing on the landing.

With his knees trembling and the breath wheezing in his chest, Neil hurried down the stairs as the awful thought flashed horribly bright in his mind—who had spoken?

When Neil finally returned to the apartment, he made no mention of the disturbing experience on the first floor, and when his father asked what he had been doing, he merely shrugged and mumbled that he had only been wandering around. Now he was safe and surrounded by everyday, normal objects, with the television droning away in the background, his fears seemed foolish and absurd.

Later, when Josh was fast asleep, his young face turned to the glow of the nightlight that shone feebly by the bedside and his arms wrapped tightly about Groofles, his toy polar bear, Neil lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling. Had he imagined it? Had his own terror blinded him to the correct route to the landing? Yet what of the voice that had spoken? That was no figment of his frightened mind, he had heard it, there was no doubt about that—none whatsoever.

Resolving to return to The Separate Collection the next morning, he murmured to himself, 'There has to be a simple explanation—just has to.’

Before long he fell into a wretched sleep troubled by disembodied voices, and when the morning came he felt as though he hadn't had any rest at all.

After preparing his father's breakfast, and leaving Josh stubbornly attempting to dip a toast soldier into a hard-boiled egg, Neil quietly slipped out of the apartment.

Into the museum he went, glad of the brilliant, wintry sunshine that streamed through the windows. There would be no murky pools of shadow for his imagination to work upon today and, with this comforting thought at the forefront of his mind, he quickly made his way towards the hallway, then hurried up the stairs.

Through particles of swirling, floating dust that gleamed and scintillated in the morning rays, Neil went, incredulous that he could ever have lost his way the previous night. Everything appeared so completely ordinary and straightforward, and more than ever did his fears seem ludicrous and unfounded.

Only when he approached The Egyptian Suite did a momentary pang of disquiet return as he fumbled for the light switch. Yet even that was not necessary for the daylight around him was so bright that it spilled in through the open doorway in a welcoming and almost friendly manner.

He was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to investigate last night's events at all, the entire incident was so silly to him now.

‘I suppose I might as well while I'm here,’ he decided, stepping briskly into The Separate Collection.

The room appeared smaller in the stark, unforgiving glare of morning. The oak panelled walls were riddled with woodworm, the varnish on the paintings was cracked and flaking and the glass panes in several of the display cases were fractured and held together by gummed tape. One of the cabinets was missing a leg and the damaged corner was supported by three fat books. Like the Webster sisters themselves, the place had the air of faded elegance, a thing once fair and lovely carried too far beyond the span of its natural life.

Neil gave a faint, embarrassed cough as he recalled the terror that had been so convincing and real to him.

‘Still, I'm not surprised,’ he consoled himself, ‘not with all these grislies. You could believe anything here.’ But this did not explain the voice that he was certain he had heard. No matter how frightened he may have been he had not dreamed that up.

In amongst the cabinets Neil walked, casting his gaze this way and that, searching for an answer to this perplexing and disturbing riddle. A theory had occurred to him early that morning, that the answer might lie in some mechanical device hidden in the room. Perhaps there was an old intercom system here, or maybe someone had left a radio behind, and this was the evidence that he hunted for.

Peering beneath the tables and cases he looked for a tell-tale wire and listened for the faint crackle of a radio signal—but there was nothing.

All that was in the room with him was the collection and however much Neil tried to be rational and dismiss the horrendous possibility of a supernatural answer, the prospect would not be subdued and kept rearing to the surface of his thoughts.

It was impossible not to think of it, for he was surrounded on all sides by macabre and gruesome artefacts and that morning he discovered many that he had not noticed before.

Beneath two domes of glass, set upon either end of a stout table whose legs were carved into the scale-covered claws of a huge lizard, were the preserved and ancient remains of two ravens. Neil stared at them and looked for an accompanying label; but there was none and he wondered why these mangy specimens had been kept at all.

Whoever had stuffed them hadn't done a very good job. Their plumage was patchy and the bottom of the dome was covered in fallen feathers. No glass eyes gazed out from their balding skulls, instead there was a sunken knot of papery skin—stretched and torn over the fragile bone.

One of the birds had fallen from its artificial perch and a shrivelled eye socket was pressed against the curving glass as if it was squinting lecherously at the outside world. The beak of this ogling imp was hanging wide open, for the flesh that had once kept it in place had crumbled. So not only did it appear to leer, but this chance imitation of a hearty grin suggested that the creature was enjoying itself immensely.

Neil scowled at the raven—it looked as though it was laughing at him and he gave the dome a flick with his finger that made the glass chime like a bell of fine crystal.

‘Well, beakfeatures,’ he said, ‘it can't have been you I heard last night. Or maybe you had a parrot friend round?’

With a dismissive grunt, the boy moved through the room, then paused when he remembered the row of shrunken heads. ‘Come off it!’ he tutted scornfully. Those things are dead. Whatever I heard—it certainly wasn't any of them.’

Despite this, Neil wandered over to this chilling display and took another look at the ghoulish tribal heads hanging there.

‘All right,’ he began with mock sternness, ‘own up. Which of you was it? Who likes frightening people half to death? I won't be cross if you just tell me. Is it because you've got nobody to talk to?’

He managed a weak chuckle at the pathetic joke, then really laughed at how stupid all this was.

‘I'm glad I never mentioned this to anyone,’ he sighed. ‘Dad would have put me upstairs with the rest of the crazies. Neil Chapman, you're losing it.’

Still laughing, he gave the shrunken heads a farewell wave. ‘Probably couldn't speak English anyway,’ he chortled before his stomach began to growl and his thoughts turned towards the breakfast he hadn't eaten. ‘Sorry, lads, got to go—don't want to waste away like you, do I?’

‘Hey! Pipe down will ya!’

Neil froze and his previous terror came crashing in on him in spite of the glorious sunshine that filled the room.

‘Who... who said that?’ he spluttered.

‘Aw, it's getting so ya can't get any peace, not nowhere, these days.’

The voice was muffled, irreverent and, to his surprise, spoke with a broad American accent. It sounded ordinary enough but Neil could not keep his hands from shaking. Whoever was speaking was definitely in the same room—but where?

He could see only the display cases—there was no one else present, at least no one visible.

‘Where are you?’ he called, nervously eyeing the doorway and longing to sprint over to it.

‘Quit bawlin’, will ya? If there's one thing gets up my nose it's noisy kids. Goddammit—di'n'tcha make enough racket last night?’

With hesitant steps, Neil began to move in the direction of this belligerent voice. It appeared to be coming from within one of the cabinets and the boy steeled himself for whatever he might find.

‘Bad enough hearin’ them screwy dames,’ it continued, ‘now I gotta put up with you. I didn't think the neighbourhood could get any worse, shoulda knowed better.’

Past an array of pickling jars that contained repulsive examples of serpents and small mammals all drowned in alcohol, Neil drew ever closer. Before him, rising tall and forbidding, was the draped cabinet which held the casket of Belial.

‘So, kid—what ya doin’ in this pile of cr— ahem, this shack? It's a helluva day, get out there an’ throw a few pitches.’

Neil stood in front of the black curtains, then abruptly he turned aside. The voice wasn't coming from in there, so where... ?

Nearby, beside the arrangement of frog skeletons, was a plain case that he had previously overlooked. Inside, according to the label, was a grouping of articles found within the trunk of an ARP Warden from the Second World War.

There was a stirrup pump, a corroded flashlight, a bundle of yellowing leaflets, a ration book, a small shovel propped up in a metal bucket, a gas mask and, sitting incongruously in the corner, was a grubby-looking teddy bear.

Neil stared through the glass thinking that he had been correct all along. Somewhere in all that junk there had to be a concealed speaker and one of the Webster sisters had been playing a game with him, disguising her voice to sound like a man and no doubt tittering her dotty head off.

Huffing in disgust, he ran his eyes over the walls. She was probably hidden behind a secret panel and watching him through a tiny hole or through the eyes of a painting.

“Very funny,’ he said aloud, stooping to look for the incriminating cable running from the back of the cabinet.

When he failed to find it, he cupped his hands round his face and leaned against the glass—peering inside.

‘Must be in there,’ he muttered, glaring at the suspiciously bulky pile of papers. ‘You'd think pensioners would have something better to do with their time—gormless old duffers.’

Groaning wearily, Neil shook his head, ‘OK,’ he called to the unseen old woman hiding in the wainscoting, ‘You win, I was fooled.’

At that moment, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye and he stared into the case once more.

Something had moved, over there in the corner, near where that tatty bear was sitting.

Neil hunted for a logical explanation—perhaps it was a mouse. Shuddering, he hoped it wasn't a rat—this old place could be overrun with them. He shivered at the thought, then a slow smile spread over his face as he regarded the lonely-looking toy.

'They'll be making a nest in your stuffing next, mate,’ he chortled.

The teddy was old, its grimy fleece and the faded red ribbon tied about its neck told him that much, yet there was also an endearing, homemade quality about it. The face was a little understuffed and, coupled with the patch of leather that served as its nose, a wry smile was stitched into the fur. Two large ears were sewn on to the sides of its head and the left one drooped amusingly just above one of the round glass eyes.

Neil smirked. The eyes were fixed directly upon him as if the bear was staring back with as much curiosity as his own.

Suddenly, all expression drained from the boy's face as the fur at the edge of the teddy's mouth puckered and twitched. Then, as Neil stared, incredulous and disbelieving, the toy broke into a broad grin.

Neil fell backwards and cringed from the cabinet—terrified that now his mind was deceiving him, conjuring up insane and impossible illusions.

Behind the glass the leather nose wrinkled and folds of dusty fur blinked over the round eyes. With a shake of the head, both ears gave a sharp wriggle and the bear craned his neck to see what the boy was doing. Then the toy's mouth opened.

‘What the heck you scared for?’ he cried. ‘Yer ten times bigger'n me!’

Dumbfounded, Neil could only answer with a choking splutter which gargled within his throat. Then the teddy raised one of its arms and signalled for him to rise from the floor where he had fallen.

‘Ya look a real schmuck down there, kid!’ he scoffed. We ain't got time for you to stay gawpin’ down there. What is this? You simple or what?’

The glass eyes almost disappeared beneath a furrow of fur as the teddy scowled with irritation. Throwing his head back, he glared upwards and shook his paws furiously.

'This ain't gonna work!’ he raged. ‘Jeezus—the kid's a geek! What the hell am I supposed to do with it? Fifty years I've been kept hangin’ round—an’ fer what? He ain't got no guts, he's yeller'n the rose o’ Texas! I want outta this right now! Pronto!’

Neil didn't know who the bear was shouting at, he seemed to be ranting at the ceiling, then abruptly he halted and flinched as though a voice the boy could not hear had thundered back at him.

‘You gotta be jokin!’ the bear snapped up at the empty air. ‘You tellin’ me I ain't got no choice in this? After all this time? It ain't right I tell ya, I don't want the jerk—let him stay here! If that dope's the only chance I got, I might as well give it up now. Yeah—I know he's the one—I'm not sayin’ he ain't, but look at him, for cryin’ out loud! He's born useless and I ain't takin’ him!’

The bear winced once more and raised his paws defensively to the ceiling as if warding off a terrible onslaught of abuse, but the anger that burned in his eyes was wild and horrible to look at.

Then the furry arms were lowered and the wrath on the toy's face was gradually replaced by weary resignation.

‘All right, all right!’ he apologised. ‘I hears ya; if it's gotta be, it's gotta be, but jus’ remember what I said. I ain't gonna take the rap if he don't come outta this in one piece—OK?’