Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path by Robin Jarvis Page B

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