The Museum

The singular blue-white austere neon tube cast elongated shadows over the shelves in the janitorial closet. The clinking of metals on wood reverberated in the empty great hall as the woman gathered her arsenal of cleaning supplies: awfully toxic chemicals, old but professional-grade mops, brooms and a sad, muddied plastic bucket. Slowly, she dragged the cart out of the closet, back facing against the massive wooden information desk: dark red cherry wood stretching across 4 meters in an oval shape, a deserted island in the marble-tile sea at the museum's entrance.

Going past the reception, she took the hallway on the right, the recommended starting point for a complete experience. The sound of her worn-out faux leather boots bounced off the walls of the empty corridors. Devoid of life at night, they become completely unrecognisable to anyone but the lone security guard sleeping in his cubicle at the entrance.

People always bustle about in the museum. There's always an exposition that needs to be set up, a famous painting to be seen and a jaunty aspiring artist's debut to be celebrated with the clinking of glasses and laughter. However, after closing time, and after all the dust settles back in its place, a thick blanket of silence covers all the exhibits, every small sound becoming wrong, sharp, deafening.

Prior to her arrival on site, she had been instructed to follow the same route as marked on the leaflets freely available at the reception desk, stashed neatly in plexiglass pockets hanging on the varnished cherry wood. Once she stepped through the doorless opening in the spotless, ivory-white eastern wall, she found herself overwhelmed by the narrowness and hospital-like appearance of the corridor. Everything was white, sterile, unmoving. The opening towards the exhibition rooms were effectively hidden by the uniform whiteness of the claustrophobic hallway.

↯

Breathing heavily, she inched forward towards the first room, "The Mirror of the Soul". It was an ode to the magical ability of eyes to openly and honestly describe the entirety of a person and thus, it was filled with paintings of eyes. Just eyes; nothing but eyes. Single, pairs, furrowed brows, teary red and swollen depressed eyes, happy eyes. Hazel, muddy, sky-blue, turbid, amber, mad, pleading, showcasing each and every human emotion one could liberally think of.

There were cutouts of famous paintings such that the eyes were highlighted as well as original artworks by various artists. The goal was to prove, once again, the importance of looking people in the eyes, of talking face-to-face. The eyes never lie; they always paint a picture of the individual's naked interest.

Her first instinct was to stare at the beautiful, masterfully painted or drawn pictures that adorned the walls in a slightly disquieting asymmetrical manner. She gazed in amazement, fully forgetting her purpose inside this pretentious building.

Picking up the broom, she started swiping away the dust, dead skin cells of rich, influential people, hair strands, scattered lint, remnants of DNA, and extraterrestrial stardust. It all piled together in a small heap. Carefully, she took the dustpan and swiped the pile in, inching it away until a fine line of dust was all that remained. You can never really pick it up. No matter how hard you try, it always manages to escape. Its resistance is remarkable.

As she was mopping the marbled floor, a chill ran down her spine, starting at the very first vertebrae, the atlas, sprinting all the way to the lumbar region and down her legs, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. She felt watched. Of course, there are security cameras everywhere. No one wants their stupidly expensive art stolen. But it was more than that. She got accustomed to the feeling of being monitored from lamp posts and facades early in life, but nothing can override the instinctual and subconscious response to eyes, real, human eyes, being pinned to you, watching your every move. Disturbed, she looked around only to find nothing. Nothing but dozens of eyes hanging from the walls. She stared a long stare, and nothing changed. The brush strokes and pencil lines were still the same. Were they watching her?

She kept swiping, trying to shake the feeling off, but to no avail. She tried to reason, there were paintings of eyes everywhere, of course she would feel watched. It was all in her head, it had to be. Watching the walls, she noticed the eyes were targeting her, like archers at the Olympic games. It must have been an ingenuous trick played by the designers of the room. The eyes were all pointed at the middle of the room. Yes, that must be it. She kept swiping, taking a step towards the door, still looking at the paintings. They were still on her. It couldn't have been. She paced around the room, dropping the mop. They followed, shifting ever so slightly, but enough for her to notice. It couldn't have been. She shook her head and picked up the mop again. A frozen bolt of lightning passed through her body, making her limbs jolt in random directions. The shudder passed, but the anxiety remained. She swiped faster.

The once beautiful and masterfully painted artworks became creepy, loathsome and thoroughly distressing, inducing a state of internal irrevocable terror. She had to get out. Rushing, she passed through the doorway leading to the adjacent room, breathing heavily. It couldn't have been. It was all a trick of the light, her mind playing games. It was late and she was tired, that must have been the issue.

†

Here, in the medium-sized, white-walled perfectly square room, the seven drawings symbolizing each prayer in Le Pater by Alphonse Mucha were plastered on the walls: three on the southern wall, three on the eastern one and one on the northern side, next to the door. A lengthy context was given on the side she just entered through.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven,"

The black and white illustrations were unlike anything she had ever seen before, so incredibly detailed, expressive and nuanced, all in simple shades of grey. Leaving most of her anxiety and terror behind, forgotten in the harrowing eye-filled room, she allowed herself to go through the explanation printed neatly in Times New Roman, 48, on the wall. It talked mostly about the influences, a bit about the artist himself and only briefly about the art. Each piece had its own explanatory slate pinned next to it.

"Hallowed be thy name;"

A shirtless, skeletal man raises his hands in praise and exasperation towards a female deity figure up above while others hide their faces, quivering on the narrow rocky protrusion above a valley, curled up. Following the same procedure as before, she swipes the floor, gazing blankly, awestruck at the gorgeous artwork.

"Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done; "

Bending down, she picked up a different plastic flask containing a special cleaning solution for wood. A woman radiating kindness comforts the unfortunate, disturbed and hopeless, who gather around her like flies around a corpse. They each want a small part of her, of her holiness, of her grace. Hope blooms in their eyes. But salvation is an end.

"On earth as it is in heaven."

A bare-breasted woman rises above her fallen sisters, embracing what is to come, death in the name of living forever. The janitor skims the titles of the next pieces.

"Give us this day our daily bread."

More sorrow and turmoil, and a sense of hopefulness for the afterlife radiate from the drawings.

"Forgive us our trespasses,"

Unknowingly, she starts reciting:

"as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

the power and the glory,

for ever and ever.

Amen."

Calmness washes over her like the waves of the Jordan, washing away the fear and anxiety.

⛢

The next room was not well-light. The paintings almost blend into the dark grey background. Rushed strokes of ochre and grey oil on black, putrid cherry red popping out at times, distorted smiles and contorted faces, skulls and bones. One yellow goat eye pointed directly at her, a faint grin plastered across its face.

There was a piece of paper in the middle of the room and she went to pick it up. It was crumpled up and seemed to be empty. Except, when she straightened it a black circle, printed in ink, appeared. Drops splatter on the floor, echoing in the empty room. At first one, then another, three more. A black substance, viscous and shiny, was leaking from the centre of the circle. She touched the back of the paper. The liquid was sticky and warm. Crumpling the paper again and putting it in her pocket, she went to grab the mop, but when she reached the cart waiting near the wall, her boot let out a slosh and stuck to the floor.

More of the same substance was leaking from the Black Paintings of Goya, inching towards her. It was climbing up her leg, like a slimy worm. Not skipping a beat, she violently shook her leg trying to get it unstuck but it wouldn't budge. In a desperate attempt, she took off her boot and dashed to the door through the corridor. She stopped for a second to catch her breath, thinking she was overreacting. Even if paintings can sometimes leak when they've been stored improperly or the oils can seep through the canvas, the amount she saw in the room and on the floor made no sense. Not to mention the disgusting feeling of it on her leg or the stench it gave off, a smell like pitch tar bubbling. Her thoughts were quickly cut off by a thick and slimy black mass, like a half chewed and spit out caterpillar, crawling through the doorway. Letting out a scream, she turned around and entered the next room, closing the door behind her.

⚭

The room was empty, except for the glass box on a marble pedestal in the middle. White sterile walls and white-tiled floor reminiscent of a morgue, perfectly suited for the exhibit: two contorted bodies melting in and out of each other, a naked, skinny, human separating in two. The wax formed blue and pink veins under the translucent skin of the faceless, headless monstrosity. It was prompted in an awkward position, kneeling with its shoulders planted into the marble, legs slightly extended. It had no hands and no mouth, but agony spread from it like mist, filling up the room.

The woman, sticking to the wall, tried to get to the other side of the room. Cautiously, she kept her eyes pinned to the figure, even though deep inside she knew it was ridiculous. When she almost passed the box and shifted her gaze towards the door in a brief moment of relief, a deaf bang reverberated on the glass. The creature was trying to stand up, but its lack of hands led to it toppling over. The thing became angry and started banging on the glass more violently, wiggling and thrashing like a rabid beast, fracturing the thick glass, and once the janitor got to the corridor, a sharp sound indicated the shards raining down.

She could no longer escape the situation into denial and rationality, so she started running, survival instincts kicking in, through the hallway and into the opposite room, smashing the door shut behind her. Sculptures and paintings rushed past her in an indistinguishable array of colours and shapes as she sprinted through three more rooms.

🜟

She stopped in front of a shiny silver curtain made from party tinsel foil. Everything else was black. Her breath was jagged and erratic. A quick look over her shoulder comforted her slightly. The monster was nowhere in sight, but her gut was telling her to keep moving. Gasping for air, she disappeared through the curtain. Projections of people dancing awkwardly with no music were displayed on the walls of the installation. Sometimes, they would stop halfway through their movement to stare at the person passing by, shifting the power balance, making the woman feel like the exhibition. None of them made any sounds, and in the complete silence, the thumping and dragging of the creature could be heard from the corridor.

Letting the cold tin brush against her skin once more, she stepped into the next exhibit, picking up the pace again. A wall of thick, straight black hair was erected in the middle of the room, similar to the moss walls that are so popular in the bathrooms of high-end restaurants. The woman felt an itch in her throat and started dry coughing. Her eyes began to water as she choked on air. Something was raking her throat like nails on a chalkboard, and she started heaving and retching, overcome by a wave of convulsions. In a desperate attempt to remove the irritation, she stuffed her fingers down her throat, grabbing at a long soft strand and violently pulling it out. She pulled and pulled and the strand of hair kept coming out, covered in mucus and saliva, gathering at her feet in a small pile. It must have been at least four meters when she was done. Coughing and spitting, she continued moving, tears still fresh on her cheeks.

Her hand gripped the cold metal handle of the heavy, rusty metal door. She hesitated. A metallic scratch and squeal and a cacophony of high-pitched screams and low guttural groans managed to reach her through the door. But the thumping and sloshing from the hallway was getting louder and closer, so she swallowed her fear and opened the door.

A rusty carousel, spinning round and round, filled up the room. But it wasn't a jolly golden circle with lights and beautifully crafted seats. No, it was a crude metallic contraption atop a pedestal of asphalt powered by four clay animals hung by their necks, running around in a demented haze of agony. The friction was melting their legs and bums, leaving behind a grey mark on the rough black floor. They looked at her whenever they passed by. Their eyes were so empty and sorrowful. One of them was resigned, seemingly accepting his fate. Another was utterly hopeless and did not even glance at her. A sheep with only half of her hind legs was begging her for freedom. The last one, a dog, was smiling through the pain. But his smile was forced, and his eyes were filled with tears.

Instinctually, she lashed at the last animal, grabbing the thick rope buried in its clay skin and tugged on it, fighting the contraption, until she ripped it out of its hold, ruining the display. But the dog was free. He ran away, scared and wounded but its melted stumps of limbs gave in, and he started crawling, slowly melting more and more, ripping and tearing the grey clay away as he tried to reach the door.

There was no time. She could not help them anymore. She had to get out. She could not fix this, not now. She was close to the entrance now, only one more room to go through.

⚶

Passing through the opaque butcher strip curtain, she was met by an unpleasant, fleshy smell mixed with sweat and urine, and an aftertaste of fresh leather. The contorted mass of wax could not be heard anymore. The walls were a sick shade of beige with pink, soft and shiny holes. Red undertones and dark purples, vomit green and yellows and ugly browns tainted some spots. Her boot sank. Her hand was still holding a couple of plastic strips as she stared in disbelief. Something dripped on the middle of her head, cold and wet and she jolted. Slowly and fearfully turning her gaze towards the ceiling, she noticed a limp toothless mouth, slightly agape, saliva gathering at the corner. The lips smudged into the unfolded pile of intestines, dangling a few centimetres under. All the walls rose and fell rhythmically, as if breathing. The motion was dramatic enough to be registered by the viewer, but only after a while, only after the initial shock wore off.

The exit was on the left, about 5 meters away. Her steps were slow and every time she lifted her foot, she had to make an effort to pull it out. A damp sound would come out, like a plunger unclogging a drain. And with every step, she would wince and frown, contorting her face more. To her despair, the breathing of the room was in tune with hers.

Not far from the exit, her leg got caught in a loose string of blood vessels and she fell face first into the cushioned floor. Covered in lymph and mucus, she raised her head, encountering a vertical eye popping from the wall above a pair of stained and yellowed teeth shoved inside the piece of flesh. The eye was black. It had no iris and no sclera. The teeth began to move.

"Run, run, there's no escape now!" a demonic cacophony boomed as if the gates of hell opened for a second. She took the advice and dashed through the souvenir shop and down the corridor towards the security office where she banged on the glass to wake Bob up, all the while the unsynchronised laughter of hundreds of devils boomed on the corridors. He did not move and once his chair turned to her, his face started melting like a wax figure until there was nothing but his blue eyes. The nerves keeping them inside their sockets loosened and they fell, resting on his cheek bones.

Tears poured down her face and she ran to the janitorial closet. She toppled over all bottles and tools until she found the white bottle with a blue label. Unscrewing the cap and flinging it, she let the substance wash her tears. Defeated, she fell to her knees.

Squirming in pain, eyes clenched shut, she began reciting "Our Father, in Heaven, Hallowed be your name;" Grunts of fear, choking on saliva and breath, she kept murmuring, repeating the prayer with her hands burning, tightly clasped together, skin melting them into each other. "And forgive us our sins," she let out a cry and shouted "Deliver us from evil! Please, God Please!" as she collapsed to the ground.

☽ ☾

In the morning, Bob went to check on the mess. He saw the janitor lying peacefully on the floor. With the tip of his boot, he turned her on her back. Her face was burnt, barely recognizable, blisters and bare flesh. Her eyes were gone, leaving behind a white and yellow pool. Besides her, there were two blister packs of different medication, and an empty bottle of Clorox.

List of Artworks

In order of appearance in the text

• Alexandre Cabanel, The Fallen Angel,  1847
  
• Alphonse Mucha, Pater Noster, 1899
• Francisco Goya, Witches' Sabbath (The Great He-Goat), 1821-1823
• Berlinde De Bruyckere,  Into One-Another II To P.P.P,  2010

Cover

Vincent van Gogh, Wheat Fields, 1888