Avalon worked at a museum specializing in blending artistic representations of monstrous creatures from various time periods with modern interpretations on the subject. Neo Pop Goth was how the website described Arte del Mostro. While I work in the subjects covered by this art, I don’t always understand the artistic representation. Nor do I care to hear someone explain it to me.

The museum’s collection was small, taking up three rooms in the basement of a seventy year-old office building. (That’s considered ‘new construction’ by New Cari standards). The staircase down was narrow and the architect had been of the opinion that light is optional for navigating the descent. Or maybe the construction crew had cut some corners. There are plenty of stories in the local papers where that led to minor catastrophes.

Once inside the museum, the lighting improved, but it would still be considered dimly lit by most people’s standards. Only slightly better than what you would find at a dive bar.

The space had been remodeled, and if I hadn’t walked through the building I would have assumed I was in a basement office of a suburban office park, and not a repurposed space.

Off to the side was a brochure rack of tourist destinations the city offered.

The receptionist desk was an antique, and barely large enough to hold a regular-sized notebook, but it was able to fit two other objects in the far corners. The first was a desk lamp for the benefit of the receptionist. And the second was a cabinet-style sign with slide-in letters for the benefit of the guests. It read:

Today’s

receptionist and docent is

Avalon

No last name. At first I thought it was weird, but then if the gossip rags knew that there was a yet-unknown member of the Camelot household, there would be no rest for her. And if they found out she spent her time here, well that would make their jobs almost too easy.

Avalon was busy shading a sketch with a charcoal pencil and hadn’t noticed me. She used the light from the desk lamp as if it were scarce and could run out at any moment, never to return. The ergonomically correct chair mismatched the desk’s style so much that even I was bothered by it. But I was also a bit envious.

She was a young woman in her twenties with skin that looked like she spent a lot of time out of the sunlight. She kept her unnaturally dark hair short and feminine. Complementing her hair was an even darker black dress with swaths of iridescent crimson that sparkled when the light landed at the correct angles. Her lips were coated in a deep red lipstick, and around her neck was an intricately crafted silver necklace. It was thin around her shoulders but grew chunkier around her chest. It contained a polished turquoise amulet the size of a half-dollar.

Most people like turquoise because they think the color is appealing, but in my circles, gem-stones like that have a deeper meaning. The immediate one that came to mind is that it is used to heal old wounds.

Avalon put down the pencil and greeted me with a warm voice. “Welcome.” There was an awkward pause after it, as if there was some sort of slogan that should have followed. Like “Welcome to Fast Burgers, may I take your order?” But what would really have matched the aesthetics or the Neo Pop Gothic art was “Welcome to hell.”

Absent the slogan I replied, “I’d like to schedule a tour.”

She threw me a skeptical look, but was able to conceal any judgments about me or my request. “Are you sure? You don’t look like our normal patrons.”

I’m middle-aged and a little taller and larger than average. I dress in business suits that are decades out of fashion, and I gave up on trying to fit my hair into some sort of style long ago.

“You’re saying I’m normal.”

“No.” Her reply was quick. And she knew it was so quick that it was clearly in rude territory. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just you don’t strike me as someone interested in anything supernatural or paranormal.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Lady, please.

“Just a disguise,” I replied.

“Alright, I’ll be right back, I just need to get a few things.” She walked through an entrance way that led into the museum.

Avalon returned, and two more people entered the same way that I had. They were wearing, of all things, mismatched Hawaiian shirts. The question “Where did they get them?” applied in a couple of ways to their outfit. For starters, we were in the North Atlantic, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this style of shirts sold in any retail store. The question also applied because they were bright and hideous. It was a tropical-shirt train wreck.

They claimed to be tourists, but didn’t say from where. Which struck me as odd. Visitors don’t normally embrace the word tourist and generally just say where they’re from. Or at the very least say they are from out of town. And why would a tourist to New Carissimi, Pennsylvania, spend any time in this museum? It wasn’t anywhere remotely near any of the city’s more familiar historical attractions.

They were so out of place that, for a moment, I considered whether they might be some agents from the cult Mrs. Camelot had mentioned. But nothing about them was physically threatening or even remotely creepy. They were just the kind of people who wore their tourism with pride. The only thing they could threaten was a good time.

During Avalon’s tour, they forgot to turn off their flashes, turned them off when asked, and then turned them back on when they needed enough light to take a picture.

To be fair, the little light in the museum was directed at the small installations. But it seemed inadequate. After the first time I looked closer at one only to discover the detail was hideous, I decided it was best to view the art from a distance. It all reminded me of Mrs. Camelot’s occult-themed dress. This was all show.

The couple asked Avalon a question in a soft voice and then spoke to each other as if they were giving a speech in an auditorium without a microphone. Avalon and I exchanged curious glances at their behavior, but that was all the communication I had with her during the tour, which the couple dragged out to a full forty-five minutes.

Afterward, the loud couple showed no sign of leaving, even toured the museum a second time just to torture me. Each one went into a different room but didn’t let the walls stop them from carrying on their conversation.

Back at the front desk, I hovered over some brochures that didn’t deserve the amount of time I had devoted to them.

“Got something on your mind?” Avalon asked in a tone I hadn’t heard in a while. Her interest in what I was thinking seemed genuine.

“I do. The other two just make it hard to concentrate.”

“That’s the point.”

“Sorry?”

“They’re performance artists.”

“What?”

The noise from the couple quieted down.

“It’s how many of us experience modern society. It’s loud both in volume and color; overwhelming and distracting. Making us feel like a fraction of ourselves. Or who we could be. In contrast, the darkness is silent. Not always peaceful, but quiet enough for us to know ourselves, if only for a short time. Even when there is something unsettling or potentially horrific in the darkness with us.”

The couple, or rather the performance artists, had gone silent and disappeared.

“I’ve never heard art explained that way before.”

“It’s not everyone’s explanation. Just mine. Would you like to take the tour again, without the distraction?”

“Pretty risky stunt. What if I had left after the tour?”

“Well, I guess they’d have to fire me and there would be no one to give tours.”

I took her up on the offer for a quieter tour, feeling full with curiosity to the point where I forgot why I had scheduled the tour in the first place. This time around, I wasn’t bothered when I examined the art more closely. It was all so powerful and expressive. In terms of the paranormal, it was all still just for show, but as art, Avalon had me convinced that it was authentic.

Our conversation during the tour was playful, and if I were a younger man I would have assumed she was interested in me. Been down that road before and saw no reason to relive it.

After the tour, I said good-bye and was almost out the door when I started thinking about the rest of my day. Which is when I realized what I should have been doing with the earlier. I walked back inside and approached the small antique desk again.

“Looking for a third tour?” she asked with a dose of pride and sarcasm.

“No, I’m afraid I was distracted. First by the performance artists, then by your tour. But I haven’t been straightforward with you.”

Her posture became slightly defensive and her smile got ready to call for help. Her hand dropped below the desk, possibly resting a finger on a panic button.

This shift in behavior made it clear something traumatic had happened to this woman. Whether it was supernatural or not was unknown. But I had to proceed with caution.

I said as calmly as I could, “I was hired by Mrs. Camelot.”

She rolled her eyes and relaxed her posture. She waved down my voice, as her eyes shifted to assess whether I had been overheard in the empty museum.

“People here don’t know she’s my grandmother, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

She probably had a reputation and was afraid any connection to high society would ruin it. “Well, this is awkward,” was all I could say, but added, “She hired me to talk to you about awkward stuff.”

“You said awkward twice.”

“I did. And it’s going to be that kinda conversation unless I can ask you questions more directly. Would you be more comfortable talking somewhere else?”

Her apartment would be ideal. A quick glance at someone’s home is probably all I would need to know if they’ve been caught up in the paranormal. Most people anyway.

“Meet me here at six and then we can settle whatever she thinks needs settling.”