Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path by Robin Jarvis Page A
Authors: Robin Jarvis
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
