The event of a century appeared as fast as its sign: One Night Only. The building it overtook was small and falling apart, one of those on-again, off-again restaurants with six different names and just as many owners, making The Museum of Curses lucky number seven. The first—and only—tour started at 8:00 p.m. and went until Midnight. No pets or children allowed, and the easily scared need not apply. $6.66 to enter. Cash only.
Since I am neither child nor cat, I found myself near the front of the line around 7:30, standing under a stranger’s umbrella with three other people crowded beside us. The rain fell in a constant drizzle of cold, cheerless drops, but the light from our four phones kept our spirits high. Or at least amused. It was, after all, the event of a century.
“Can’t find anything about this place online,” a man to my left said. He was young and wiry, perhaps 25 or 26 with a wild mane of blonde hair. He looked like he belonged in a band. “Weird.”
“Spooky,” another would-be patron agreed, shivering with his hands in his pockets. His skin had a grey color to it, and water beaded off him in careful streams.
I nodded. The woman we were sharing the umbrella with did as well. Her face was hardened with wrinkles and age, but her eyes beamed with amusement. I put my phone away, eager to continue talking now that our silence had been broken, and almost jumped when it clinked against something foreign. Puzzled, I pulled out a small, wooden spoon. The wood was coarse and warped, like it was whittled by someone new to the craft.
“Huh,” I said to everyone.
“Why do you have a spoon?” the woman with the umbrella asked.
“I don’t know.” I looked around hoping someone would fess up to the joke, but all I saw were confused, wet people.
Without being told, everyone checked their own pockets, though I was the only one with a souvenir.
We talked the remaining half hour away. When it was time to enter, oily lights appeared behind the museum’s windows, and a small woman in dark clothing stepped out. Like most of us, she wore a hoodie, though unlike us, hers was black and embroidered with golden symbols. Black, dressy pants completed her uniform.
“None of you should come in,” she said, her voice a chirp, her face a glower. It was a good act. “This is not a place for mortals.”
I shrugged. The woman offered a polite clap. When none of us turned to leave, the actress sighed and said, “Tickets please.”
Our huddle of bodies formed a coherent line, and the actress-turned-clerk took our money, though she refused to make change. The grey man spent $10 to enter, and the woman with the umbrella $20. She grumbled, as did the rest of us, but we paid the fee one way or another.
“Here,” the actress said, handing me a ticket. Up close, her features were soft yet squished, her eyes large and her ears larger. Freckles dotted her cheeks.
“Thanks,” I said. Like the grey man, the ticket cost me $10. No one brought exact change.
She smiled, and as I walked by, I glanced over my shoulder. She was cute. She gave me half a wave, and it was then that I noticed she had a large, fleshy tail jutting from the waist of her pants. It fell to her upper calves and looked like it belonged on a rat. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I said nothing, but I think she saw me looking, because she made it curl around her leg. I’m not sure how she controlled it.
The lighting in the Museum of Curses was predictably dark, though the space appeared oddly huge. I had never been to any of the original six restaurants, but the building was small, barely capable of holding two dozen tables let alone winding, brick corridors or carefully marked doors. A silver chandelier hung above us, candlelight flickering at the shadows.
“I don’t know if I like this,” the older woman said, folding up her umbrella. She stowed it in her bag. “This is really weird.”
“I dunno,” the man who looked like he belonged in a band said. He was taking pictures with his phone. “It’s kinda cool. Like one of those escape rooms or something.”
We spent a few minutes gawking at the doors, reading the different plaques which promised themes like “Magic,” “Jewelry,” “Prosthetics,” “Places,” and “Mystics.” No one came to give us a tour, and the cute actress with the freckles didn’t make another appearance.
“Do you think she’s coming back?” I asked. I wanted to know her name.
“Who?”
“The lady that took our tickets.” I shrugged. “Never mind.”
The woman with the umbrella grinned, my cheeks flushed, and in the end, we opted for the closest door marked “Magic.” There were so few of us that splitting up seemed unnecessary. And though no one said it openly, it felt safer to stick together. The place was spooky.
The “Magic” door opened with an oily squeak, and we funneled into a dark room that truly did resemble a museum, albeit one with most of the lights off. Artwork—curses—sat on banisters or hung on walls, some encased in glass, others with velvet ropes around them. As soon as I stepped inside, something crunched beneath my feet.
I bent down and picked up another wooden spoon.
“I don’t get the joke,” I said. The spoon looked like the first one, though splintered down the middle. When no one offered to take it, I set it back.
We approached the first exhibit and gasped and cringed in equal measure. A large jar of perhaps ten gallons sat atop a marble banister and held dozens of severed, bloody hands. Crimson ooze pooled at the bottom, and despite most of the hands being gnarled and old, the blood was still wet.
“How is this a curse?” the band member asked. “It’s just kind of gross.”
“There’s a plaque,” the grey man said, pointing. “But I can’t read it.”
“You can’t?” the woman said. “I can.”
“It’s in like Chinese or something.”
The woman shook her head. “No. It’s in English.”
“Bullshit.”
I approached, leaned over, and read:
The cursed hand is cast aside
to wither and die every time
a new spell is cast in this life.
“That’s stupid,” the band member said. No one disagreed with him.
The grey man pulled out his phone and skimmed through it. His face puzzled as he looked between his phone and the plaque until he shrugged and visibly relaxed. “Don’t get it,” he said. “Phone has English, and that ain’t English.”
“It’s English,” the woman insisted.
“Bullshit.”
The next curse was similar to the first, a severed arm sitting on a long table. It looked goopy, almost melted, and its plaque said it contained no bones. Its fingers sagged to one side, like they would fall off if the skin wasn’t keeping them attached.
“Can’t believe you guys can read that writing,” the grey man said.
“Can’t believe this cost me $20,” the woman muttered.
The final two curses were a witch’s broom and a necromancer’s staff, both behind velvet ropes with, “No Touching!” signs next to them. The witch’s broom had a wooden spoon tucked into its bristles.
Bored, and a little unnerved, we left the Magic wing and returned to the main hallway. I spotted the actress pushing a cart into the room labeled, “Animals” and decided that should be our next destination. The older woman shook her head, and the band member nudged me in the ribs. They grey man grumbled that the room was probably filled with black cats.
“I like cats,” the band member said.
“Me too,” the woman agreed.
I pushed the door open and stepped on another wooden spoon. Inside, the lighting was once again dark, though instead of banisters and plaques, there stood a single cage made of bronze wires. The cage rested on a thick, oak table and was perhaps 5’ tall. Inside stood a large bird with a red-scab head and a hooked beak. A golden, square bell was strapped around its neck with a leather collar.
“That’s it?” the band member said. “It’s just a vulture.”
“Where’d that girl go?” I asked. The room was small, and I didn’t see any other doors. “I saw her walk in here.”
The woman chuckled. “Maybe she’s the real curse.”
“Ooooh!” the band member taunted. He waved his hands like a ghost.
The grey man marched over to the bird and stuck his finger into the cage, between the bars. The vulture looked at him with the fiercest, “you’re an idiot” face I’ve ever seen before squawking loud enough to raise the dead. Its voice was horrible, and the bell around its neck clanked and clattered like someone rummaging through a bag of nails.
“Says its bad luck,” the woman said. She grabbed the grey man and pulled him away from the bird. “He’s the angel of death. Also, his name is Risky.”
“Cute,” the band member said.
“Stupid,” the grey man said.
We left the exhibit, though not before I found another wooden spoon, and returned to the main hall. I checked my phone. The time read 10:00, and my heart skipped a beat because that wasn’t possible. We had only been in the Museum for perhaps 20 minutes.
I explained this to everyone, and they all voted we should leave at once. I agreed.
We headed for the door, and the grey man walked through first. As soon as he was out, he turned around and closed the door.
“What the hell?” I heard him shout from behind. “Why’d I just do that?”
“Because you’re rude?” the woman asked.
She reached for the knob and gave it a twist, but it wouldn’t open. The grey man tried from the other end, banging the door loudly against its frame. It wouldn’t budge.
“They can’t just lock us in here,” the band member said. “That’s like, I dunno, kidnapping or something.”
He kicked at the door, and half the candles in the chandelier went out. The woman let out a little scream, and I bent down to pick up yet another wooden spoon. This one felt hot to the touch.
“We should call the police,” I said, though the band member was one step ahead of me. He thumbed through his phone to make the call, and we waited for it to go through.
On the second ring, his phone died.
The woman tried next, and her phone repeated the process. Another candle burnt out. The shadows grew thick, and the brick corridors sighed a cold temperature. It was like being in a dungeon.
“I’ll get help,” the grey man shouted from the other side of the door. We could hear his footsteps as he ran off. It was the last time any of us would ever see him.
We waited for what felt like an hour, though my phone flashed 10:10. In an effort to do something, anything, the woman suggested we try another door. Because the Museum was once a restaurant, it had to have multiple exits for bringing in food and drink.
“Let’s try the ‘Places’ one,” I said.
The band member shook his head. “You see that girl go in there?”
I scowled, though part of me still hoped I’d run into her. I wanted to know what was going on. And what her name was.
I stepped through the door first and once again my foot landed on a wooden spoon. I kicked it aside. The woman entered next and immediately started screaming. Fear swallowed everyone. In truth, I wasn’t sure what to be afraid of; the room itself consisted of another dark hallway with candles to light its path. More doors marked the walls, each glinting with a gold plaque.
“Don’t you see it!” the woman shrieked. “It’s right there!”
I followed her gaze to an empty part of the hallway, and the band member marched forward. The woman only screamed all the louder.
“It’s right there!”
“There’s nothing there,” the band member said. He waved his hands around and kicked at the ground, sending clacking echoes up and down the hallway. “See?”
“It looks like a demon.” The woman shook, and I put an arm around her to steady her. I could hear her heartbeat.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “Let’s just find the back door, and everything will be alright.”
“Yeah,” the band member agreed. His face was white with fear, but he put on a smile for all our benefits. “It’s all smoke and mirrors. Like a movie set.”
The woman sobbed but nodded, and we set off down the hallway, the band member out front. When we hit the first door, he leaned over and read the plaque.
“Cursed House,” he said. “It doesn’t say what the curse is.”
“I can guess,” I said.
The woman shook and clutched at my hand. She looked sick. “It’s following us,” she hissed. “The demon.”
I looked over my shoulder but couldn’t see anything.
The door swung open without our help, and we stepped inside, hoping for a way out but knowing there wasn’t one. The Museum of Curses was its own curse.
Dungeon floor turned into choppy grass and dying weeds. A crescent moon hung in the sky, casting dim light onto an old, decrepit two-story house that wouldn’t fit in the small building if it were torn down and brought in piece by piece. It was half a mansion, though uncared for and covered in rot. Green mildew practically glowed in the strange light. A wolf howled in the distance.
“What is this?” the band member asked. He waved at the air again. “It can’t be real.”
“I bet it’s filled with wooden spoons,” I said.
There was another plaque in front of the house, affixed to a moldy piece of fence with rusted hinges, but we turned and left. The curse wasn’t important.
The next door was labeled, “Cursed Cave,” and we entered that to similar results. The ground changed from worn brick to gravel, and the candle-lit ceiling turned into a dark starscape. The moon, however, was different, no longer waning but waxing. A cave mouth the size of a semi truck sat before us, heaving and wheezing stale, misty air.
“Do you think they’re using mirrors?” the band member asked. “Like, is it a prop? A miniature?”
The woman shook her head. I could see her looking at something out of the corner of her eye. The demon. “It’s real,” she said. “I don’t think we’re in Milwaukee anymore.”
I walked to the plaque and read:
Unnamed Cave in northern Oregon
Find the gold and find the light
wander the dark and never sight
the clock is ticking, ticking right
then left and left and never life.
“It has to be a miniature,” the band member said. “Can’t fit a cave in this tiny building.”
I shook my head. “You can’t fit most of this Museum in this tiny building. I don’t get it.”
“What time is it?” the woman asked.
The band member checked his phone, but it was still broken. I checked mine and found another wooden spoon. “It’s 11:00. I think each exhibit takes an hour.”
“So we have one left,” the woman said. “And then the demon will go away?”
“Sounds like it,” the band member agreed.
We left the room, and the band member ran down to the next door. He laughed and hollered, “It says, ‘Haunted Planet coming soon.’”
“I believe it,” the woman whispered.
I did too.
The main corridor was darker when we returned, though not completely black. Two candles still flickered, and the shadows stabbed and thrust about the floor, almost like they were trying to kill us. The woman shook so hard I thought she might need a doctor, and the band member’s face grew pale, like he had just seen a ghost. Given we were just at a haunted house, he probably did.
Seven doors remained, though “Jewelry” and “Prosthetics” were closest. I wasn’t in the mood for either.
“I’m going to wait here,” I said. To punctuate the point, I sat on the ground. The shadows inched towards my hands, but when they touched them, nothing happened. They were just regular shadows.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the band member said. “We should stick together.”
The woman nodded. Tears glistened in her eyes, and sweat beaded her forehead. “Please,” she said. “Just pick a door, and we’ll go.”
I shook my head. “I’m sick of whatever game this place is playing.” I didn’t mean to shout the words, but I couldn’t help it. I was confused and scared, but mostly I was angry. I clenched my hands into fists and snapped another wooden spoon that hadn’t been there a moment before. “The place can’t make me scared if I sit in this spot and wait until midnight.”
The woman opened her mouth to argue but the band member stopped her with a curt, “Fine.” He marched to the door marked “Jewelry” and threw it open. I couldn’t see what was inside, but it was apparently interesting, because his face changed, and he leaned in closer for a better look. “Huh,” he said, his voice barely making it out the door.
“Here,” the woman said. She reached into her bag and pulled out her umbrella.
“What’s this for?”
“Protection?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was nice standing under it though. It felt safe.”
“Thanks.” I took the umbrella and opened it. She winced, because that was supposed to be bad luck, but we were already cursed. A little more couldn’t hurt. “The demon can’t get you under here,” I said. “Because it isn’t real.”
The woman smiled. “And no more wooden spoons.”
I nodded.
My nameless friends entered the next room, and the door shut with a thundering slam, like I was hearing them die. Another candle in the chandelier went out. I shivered, and the shadows attempted another round of stabbing. Time passed in starts and stops, my phone not making sense of the numbers or the surroundings. Eyes watched me from somewhere in the distance. As it turned out, the place could make me scared if I sat in this one spot and waited.
When the door opened, I stood, ready to apologize and rush us all to safety. Instead, the actress walked out. She looked back and forth, her beady eyes wide, her ears twitching underneath her black hoodie. Her rat tail swept out behind her, curling at the tip from some mechanism I still don’t understand.
“It’s you,” I said with a blush. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh,” she said. She reached into her front pocket and pulled out a golden watch on a golden chain. It looked like it might be older than everything in Milwaukee. Maybe even the entire state. “You still have 40 minutes left in the tour. It’ll go faster if you check out the exhibits.”
“What’s your name,” I asked.
She put her watch away and gave me a strange look, like I might not be real. Or maybe she wasn’t real.
“Triss,” she said. “Why?”
I shrugged. I wanted to tell her she was cute; I wanted to ask her what the fuck was going on. I am easily scared though, so instead I looked at the dusty, dungeon floor and said, “I just wanted to know your name.”
“It’ll go faster if you look at the exhibits,” she repeated.
She fumbled with something in her pockets, some ugly piece of bronze, or maybe flesh, and her tail flicked back and forth like a cat’s.
“Am I cursed?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. She wouldn’t meet my gaze. “We all are though.”
“I keep finding spoons.”
The actress—Triss—brushed a lock of hair underneath her hoodie and winced. “That’s a shame.” Her tail flicked. Her mouth almost curved into a grin. “I hope you don’t like soup.”
“I love soup.” I almost asked her if she wanted to go get soup.
“That’s too bad. It’ll be really hard to eat from here on out.”
“Oh.”
She stood in the middle of the darkening corridor clutching her darkening object, and I stood a few feet away, trying to find the right question. I wanted to leave. I wanted to rewind time to when I was safe. I wanted to know more about this museum. I wanted to know more about her.
Instead my phone ticked 11:30. Triss’s golden watch did too, because she looked at it, muttered a curse, and ran to the door marked “Animals.” Maybe it was time to feed the buzzard.
“Wait,” I shouted. My hands formed fists, and butterflies ruined my stomach. “What’s … what’s your curse?”
Triss laughed. Her voice sounded like music. “No one listens to me.”
She left, and two hours later, my clock struck 12:00. The older woman and band member fell out of the “Jewelry” room with a thousand stories on their lips, all of which entered one ear and left the other. It didn’t matter. They were done, and the tour was over. We were safe.
“Come here,” I said, and the woman stepped underneath my umbrella. The band member squeezed in beside us. “I think we can go home now.”
“I still see the demon,” the woman said.
I bent over and picked up a wooden spoon. “Huh.”
“Fuck,” the band member said. “I wonder what my curse is.”
We left through the front door, stepping out into the rain and the streets glistening with lamplight. The world felt clean, yet I felt dirty. The band member shivered. The woman sobbed. I looked over my shoulder, hoping for one more picture of Triss. She was cute. She was cursed, but so was everyone.
“You get her name?” the band member asked.
“Yup,” I said.
“She cursed too?”
I nodded. “But I think she lied to me. She said no one would believe her, but I do.”
The band member kicked at the ground. Sirens sounded in the distance, but not for us.
“Love is a curse,” the woman said. “A blessing too, but also a curse.” She glowered at a spot in the road. “The demon is still here.”
“I think I love you both,” I said. I blushed so hard I thought I might melt, but it was true. Something about this tour changed me. Cursed me. But it was true, and it still is. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” the woman said.
“Me either,” the band member said.
We shook hands then. We introduced each other.
His name is Jean-luc.
Her name is Emily.
My name is Alex.
Nonsense 