I have no idea why my friend wanted to see this museum. It is dark, dusty, and reeks of mildew in every nook and cranny. The guy at the entrance had a bad case of halitosis and demanded that I put my name on the guest list. I wrote Alfred Hitchcock. I am 100% sure he has no idea who that is.

While my friend talked to the curator who was dressed in a minuscule black dress and had amazing legs, I wandered into the quiet hallways. Paintings upon paintings of probably dead and rotting artists I haven’t heard of. I could hear the curator’s gold bangles clink together while she tells my friend about displaying his work. I wouldn’t even think of putting it in this dump.

I turned into a wider corridor with religious artifacts and a couple of paintings. Ochre, brown and black, those are all the colors I see. The monotony intensified every second until I stepped in front of this musty smelling portrait at the very end of the room. It was a painting of a nun, I am sure it was a saint, I just don’t know who and I don’t care. She was in the regular black and white habit plus that itchy looking wimple. Wooden rosary beads on her side. She looked like she hasn’t slept for a hundred years judging from the black circles under her eyes. She looked at me intently like she knew all my sins and how much I hate looking at her now. I felt my skin crawl and wanted to leave. Dismally, I was pinned there. Staring at this badly done depiction of Catholic faith.  Her eyes bored into mine.

After a minute, I heard it all. The rustling of starched garments and light footsteps. A slow and sure pace. The arduous breathing of someone who has lived too many years. The chilling noises of terror drew nearer. Almost a foot away from where I am standing. I caught the unmistakable sound of wooden rosary beads.

She was behind me.




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