Page 28 of Phobia
Pushing down harder on the panel, the hinges gave way; the wall swinging outward. I lifted my head, studying the curved stone staircase, the walls completely encased in slabs of gray stone. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I turned on the flashlight feature and shut the panel door as quietly behind me as possible. When I heard the latch engage, I made my ascent up the stairs, using the tiny strobe of light to guide my way. If I thought the museum smelled stale, it was nothing compared to the tight confines of the hidden stairwell. Dust clung to the railing, and I could practically taste the cobwebs in my mouth as I made my ascent.
My phone vibrated in my hand, and I paused, glancing at my wife’s text.
Where are you? It doesn’t take that long to grab smokes.
Her nap was short-lived. I considered not replying, but knowing she’d chain call me until I answered, I thumbed out a quick response.They didn’t have Sour Patch Kids. Slight detour.
You’re full of shit.
I might as well pick out my funeral plot because she was gonna kill me. On cue, her contact ID illuminated my screen as her phone call rolled in. Her toothy grin as she posed in her wedding dress, with a bouquet of my ma’s peonies and wisps of lavender bound with twine held in her hands. Her contentment in the picture contradicted what I knew would be her irritation on the other line.
I hit the decline button. “Sorry, Little Rabbit.”
My insolence earned me another text message.Did you just screen my call?
As another phone call came in, I ignored the vibrations. I couldn’t afford to burn precious time by arguing with her right now. I’d show her just how sorry I was later. If she wanted to hold a knife to my throat to change the power dynamic while I yielded, no problem.
Climbing the final riser, the outline of light silhouetting the door directed me. My fingers brushed against the lock and I drew my cheeks in, assessing it through shrewd eyes. It wasn’t the first lock I picked and it wouldn’t be the last, either. Testing the panel to determine what side the niche swung, I deduced it opened outward just like the door below.
Fishing the switchblade out of my pocket, the very one I’d used on Trina at home earlier, I pressed down on the release and the blade shot out; the whistle slicing through the air.
There.
Now it was like she was here with me when she inevitably found out where I’d been.
Nothing said romance like knives.
Placing my phone on the floor, the flashlight illuminated the cheap lock. I inserted the tip of the knife as deep as it could go into the lock’s mouth, applying the slightest bit of pressure to jimmy the latch free. Rocking the tip back and forth, the click of the mechanisms disengaged. A pleased, expansive feeling filled my chest as I tugged on the loosened lock and fed it out of the latch. Pocketing it, my body slanted toward the door, and I listened carefully for sounds or movement beyond the door. Several minutes passed before I pushed on the door, the grit inside the hinges grating while tawny light filled the stairwell.
Wax figures greeted me. I was in the main gallery room.
This place was different in the light, but somehow, in the stiff quietude with motes of dust floating in the air and without the false sense of safety of the crowds, they were creepier, too.
More alert.
Shutting the door behind me, I made haste, my strides long as I took in the room, rushing to get myself directionally acquainted and recall the layout. We hadn’t been here very long, but it was enough time for me to take a mental note of all the exits and rooms.
You never knew when you needed an escape route.
Sticking close to the walls, the collection of serial killers acted as my landmark, and knew I was close. The deeper into the inner sanctum of the museum I got, the more aware I grew of the sensation of every hair on my body standing upright with attention. An unmistakable prickling crawled up the back of my neck, addling my ability to think clearly.
I didn’t scare easily. I had a history of intentionally doing things to provoke the Grim Reaper. But this place… it made me antsy.
’Cause some part of me knew, despite the absence of people, I wasn’t alone.
Coming to a stop in the threshold of the Founding Father’s gallery room, I pulled in a tight breath through my nose, fixing my stare at the Baroque-style ceiling, studying the artist’s interpretation of the Rose of Rockchapel and the uncanny similarities she shared with Josephine Fischer.
“What the fuck are you up to?” I murmured under my breath, strolling into the room. I circled the Founding Fathers, taking in their details.
Unlike the other aged figures in the museum, the sheen of their wax gleamed, as though it hadn’t had time to fully cure.
Rolling my shoulders out, I stepped toward Increase Walsh, engaging his beady blue eyes in a staring contest I wanted to lose.
“Blink, asshole,” I commanded in a stilted voice. Frustration hardened my stomach, my muscles growing rigid as I straightened my spine.
Nothing.
The stale air stung my eyes, but I wasn’t budging. I studied the minutiae, searching for an anomaly. I couldn’t shake the thought that much like the Rose of Rockchapel above us, there was something familiar about this fucker, too. The whites of his eyes were too bright, almost human-like, complimented by the strain of red veins. My jaw screamed under my teeth as I lifted a hand, running the pad of my thumb along its lashes.
