Ossuary of the Living Dead
By
George Larson
Time, it was all about time. One thing I’ve noticed about retirement is time, too much with each passing year. More and more time to fill the voids of my life, with no relief in sight and with no one to spend the time. Yes, that was my lot in life, and I brought it on myself. Guilty as charged as they say. I wasn’t exactly a recluse, but wasn’t a social animal either, far from it. I was turning 80 years old soon and with each passing month, rarely did I feel the joi de vivre experienced in my younger years. My humdrum life was the best one now. My life was in a deep rut, and I couldn’t seem to pull out of the funk I felt most days. I wasn’t sure, but I was mildly depressed. I had too much time on my hands and nowhere to spend it wisely.
Much of my day now consisted of reading. That was how I spent most of my time. With my coffee, I scanned magazines and newspapers for anything which piqued my interest, my curiosity. Occasionally, I’d come across articles and adverts which caught my attention. Today was one of those days. It was an advertisement in the Chicago Sun Times that caused me to read the blurb a couple of times. This one was unbelievable and funny at the same time. It was a swindle or at least an exaggeration. I chuckled at the text in big, bold letters:
WELCOME TO THE OSSUARY OF THE LIVING DEAD. PRIVATE TOURS AVAILABLE. COME SEE WHAT YOU WON’T BELIEVE! CALL NOW: ________.
The term Ossuary of the Living Dead was at best a misnomer, or to be precise an oxymoron, if you will. How could the two words, living and dead, be a true statement? It couldn’t be with the juxtaposition of those meanings. What was being described was a charnel house of all things, right smack dab in the city! Maybe it was an advert for an odditorium of the weird and unusual. If so, it could lift me out of the dysthymia which now ruled my life. No, this was some sort of scam for the gullible and nothing more. I filled my coffee cup for my second shot of caffeine and read on. It was just another day of reading meaningless crap; sorry, I meant to say pap.
A couple of days later, the advert still stuck in my mind. I couldn’t shake it from my thoughts. I was intrigued about the possibilities. What in the hell was an ossuary for the living dead anyway? It had to be a gaffed exhibit of some sort, a bright lure for the rubes of our city. I picked up the phone and dialed the number listed. Okay, I was going to be a rube too but had to see the exhibit or museum or whatever. The pull was just too great. Maybe I was simply being a bit obsessive with my macabre thoughts. But there was no harm in checking out the place. In this case, my need to get out of the house trumped my boring, never-ending routine. It was time, something I had too much of it seemed.
My call was immediately answered by a man with a gruff, gravelly voice, perhaps a lifelong smoker. He spoke with a slight accent but couldn’t be sure where he originally hailed from. After exchanging the usual, banal pleasantries, he said his name was Jonathan, the proprietor of the ossuary. He commented he was delighted with my call since business had been slow since it opened about a month ago. My antennae went up. So, this was a brand-new venture and not a well established one. That was a red flag, but I let him drone on a bit before hanging up. That was the least I could do to satisfy my morbid curiosity. But I wasn’t about to be suckered into an obvious sham.
Jonathan explained the museum, yes, that’s what he called it, had operated for many years in Eastern Europe before recently moving to the states. Ah, his accent, I thought. He said it was a business decision to look for what he described as “greener pastures.” I assumed the business wasn’t doing too well in Europe and Jonathan decided to come to American to earn bigger bucks. At least that was my cynical interpretation. He went on to say the museum hadn’t started charging admission. And I’d called at a most opportune time. He offered a reservation on- the-spot and I accepted but still was wary about being ripped off. I assumed I was just a worrywart and little more. But, regardless, he wouldn’t get a dime out of me. If he were playing me, he’d be out of luck.
It was appointment time as I drove my 14-year-old Mazda to the site of the ossuary. It was the middle of Chicago’s winter with the overcast, freezing weather clinging over the city like a dark pall. It was just another miserable day in the neighborhood, snickering at my own word play. I was getting close to the address Jonathan provided, and every block seemed worse, more rundown, than the next. The Southside was once a vibrant, thriving area with many factories dotting the landscape, but no more. Large swaths of open space with a few dilapidated houses and shops now were the order of the day. The whole scene was depressing as the blight became more evident. Then I saw it, the museum, the Ossuary of the Living Dead. It was situated by itself on a block where other buildings had been demolished long ago. The street was deserted so I had no problem finding a parking space for my rust bucket of a car. Like me, my car was old and cranky. I owned nothing passable for new because it was tough living on a fixed income. As to my crankiness, that was just something I had to live with. But time would tell how my visit would go. Yet, I looked forward to it with almost gleeful anticipation and excitement. It had been many years since I felt my younger self.
I was greeted at the door by someone dressed in a black suit, black tie and black shoes. Except for his face, hands and shirt, he was all black from tip to toe. He resembled a mortician in those respects; someone certainly fitted to the role as proprietor of an ossuary. He introduced himself as Jonathan and welcomed me to his establishment. I mumbled something in return, but still on guard about being duped!
I glanced around the vestibule and took in the sights, first noticing the many funerary urns placed about the interior entryway. They held ferns and flowers of diverse types and descriptions but yielded no fragrance whatsoever. They were faux creations likely made of plastic. But I really hoped the rest of the museum was authentic. Otherwise, I’d wasted my time.
The vestibule’s interior was dimly lit to create an appropriate ambience, to stay with the overall theme of the museum, eerie and spooky. There was a musty odor permeating the entire room as well, causing me to sneeze and nose to run. It didn’t seem to bother Jonathan though. He continued along a short, narrow hallway to a much larger room which contained the exhibits or so he claimed. I still didn’t trust him.
I entered the room. It was semicircular in shape and contained eight exhibits. The lighting was the same as the vestibule, dismally dim. The furnishings were few. Only a settee and a couple of high-back chairs were present. The remainder of the display room consisted solely of the exhibits. Jonathan took great pains to explain the history of each one. I suspected he was in his element. Before he started his spiel, I noticed each exhibit secured behind a plexiglass panel encased in dark wood. Lamps provided in each of the ersatz containers for better illumination. The exhibits were easily viewed from where I was standing. But Jonathan wanted me to step forward. “Come, Mr. Mr., ahh ……..……”
“Josh, you can call me Josh.” I wasn’t going to give the guy my real last name for fear of being sucked into some nefarious ploy for money. There was no way that was going to happen. “Fine, Mr. Josh, please come closer to the cabinets so you can get a good look at what’s inside each.” I did as he instructed, standing directly in front of what was labeled #1.
“Good, good, yes what you are viewing is the fetus with the attached umbilical cord of the unborn son of Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France.”
I could clearly see the purported fetus swaying ever so slightly in the cabinet. Air bubbles rose from the tank of water to add dramatic effect, I supposed.
“This specimen was obtained from one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting following the stillbirth. It has been well preserved in formaldehyde ever since.”
I wasn’t so sure about the claim. More likely it was a replica made from synthetic rubber. These gaffed tricks were commonly used in carnivals and called “Bouncing Babies” by the hucksters.
“Next, see the partial skeleton of Sir Walter Raleigh, the English courtier and explorer during Queen Elizabeth’s’ reign. You can easily see the sword mark on his right leg bone inflicted during a battle with the Spaniards during his search for El Dorado in the 16th century.”
I wasn’t convinced in the slightest. But still didn’t voice my suspicions about the exhibits.
“Here are the desiccated remains of Pocahontas. We keep them in a hermetically sealed chamber to greatly slow down the degradation process. The remains will last another 45 years or so under these conditions.”
Sure Jonathan. I’d have enough. It was more bullshit or hooey if you like. At this point, I didn’t bother to ask whether a DNA test had been done on remains of her body. Jonathan’s reply would be another fib.
I was not only cynical of all the exhibits, but thoroughly skeptical as well. It was a ruse, phony baloney, and nothing more than an outright fraud. I should have had my head examined for ever believing such stuff could be real. But it was all fake. And I intended to tell Jonathan the same when he finished with the Pocahontas yarn. I’d just wasted a couple of hours of my precious time.
“Jonathan, how can you even talk about such nonsense with a straight face? I was angry about being snookered in such an obvious way. Truthfully, I was downright pissed.
“Mr. Josh, what are you talking about? I didn’t charge you admission so what’s your loss? I don’t understand. Our exhibits were very entertaining.” Jonathan evenly replied to my little outburst.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. All the displays in the cabinets are faked. That’s the plain and simple truth of the matter. If I paid for admittance to the museum, I would now be crying fraud. I came here to see something unusual, even unique. But what I got instead was a bunch of hokum, just old carnival knockoffs. Most of all, you wasted my time and that’s an unforgivable sin in my book.” Jonathan quickly responded to my dressing down of him and the museum.
“I must apologize if I have deceived you with my little show. It wasn’t my intent to defraud. When we spoke on the phone you mentioned you wanted to visit my museum as a regular customer or so I thought. I didn’t realize you were interested in more, much more, as my special guest. Very well, I will show you much of what brought you here. Please follow me.”
With that, Jonathan pointed to a set of double wood doors in the corner of the room. He deftly pulled a large skeleton key from his trouser pocket and inserted it in the keyhole and turned it with a sharp click. A skeleton key, how apropos of the circumstances, I mused. Another narrow, short passageway and we were there. Jonathan practiced good security by locking the door behind us.
Jonathan parted the curtain, and as I adjusted to the bright lights of the new room, I stifled a scream. It was forming in the back of my mouth but swallowed it down at the last moment. I was shocked to the core by the scene in front of me! What in God’s name was I seeing before my eyes? I couldn’t believe the sights and smells before me. It was too grotesque and bizarre for me to believe. I panicked and turned to the door, but it was locked. And I was trapped along with the poor souls appearing before me.
“This is what you came to see. Am I correct Mr. Josh?” Jonathan laughingly spoke. I paid no attention to the question as my mind was reeling. I thought I might be losing my sanity. Maybe I was having a bad dream and I’d awaken, simply thinking I suffered a nightmare. But my dream was not to be.
There were several large cages, but not for animals, but for humans instead. Three cages were occupied by emaciated people with their hands manacled above their heads. Their feet barely touched the floor. Two were in obvious pain, crying out in grunts or gibberish, much too weak to even give a full-throated scream. The third, a female, limply hung from the top of the cage like a rag doll. I supposed she was dead, bless her soul.
Given their physical appearances, they had been starved to death, a slow painful way to die. Each had fouled their cages with urine and feces so the stench emanating from them was almost overwhelming. Regardless, my heart went out to all of them in that instant. How could this be, how could this happen? I wondered.
“Oh, Mr. Josh, don’t fret over these poor humans. They serve a higher purpose. Their flesh will satisfy the hunger of my extended family. They are ravenous bunch whose appetites are never sated. Don’t worry, nothing will go to waste. My people from Eastern Europe have hearty appetites. The meat will be delicately carved from their bodies to be stored and consumed later. Their bodies will be carefully deboned so we don’t waste a scrap of meat. Then their bones will be boiled and bleached; finally becoming part of our collection of skeletons in the other room. I’ll have to think up good names and storylines for them, but it shouldn’t be difficult since you people are terribly gullible. Meet the Johnston family, father, mother, and daughter. Like you, they insisted on seeing more, experiencing more macabre sights than available in the other room. Their wishes came true, my new friend.”
“So, what or who are you?” I slowly asked. “Eastern Europe suggests some connection to Dracula.” Jonathan laughed at my silly question. “No, my people are nothing of the sort. Dracula or other names are simply figures your Western books, magazines and films have turned into blood sucking vampires. But Vlad the Impaler, better known as Prince Vlad Terpes, was a real person who is still idolized in Romania for saving his people from the Turks. But you gave me an idea. I‘ll make one of Johnston’s skeletons into the blood sucking fiend. I thank you Josh for the suggestion.”
“My people are of gypsy origin or Roma to be politically correct. We have roamed throughout Europe for more than a thousand years. Often, we were shunned and persecuted for our beliefs and culture. And that’s when our feeding off human flesh started, with the plagues and other starvations of the past. Then fresh meat was a necessity for our people’s sustenance, our survival. Now it is a delicacy. Over time, we grew accustomed to cannibalism and still savor the delicious, human taste.”
I had gotten over my urge to scream but now I was fighting the bile gathering in my throat. I was going to vomit my guts any second. Then it finally dawned on me. I’d been badly gypped! How I could have been so stupid amazed me. I was to be Jonathan’s next victim or family meal. They were the same.
I knew screaming would do me no good because of the thick walls of the museum. Moreover, there was no one outside the building to hear them. So, what to do? My options were severely limited now.
“So, Josh, you know your fate. Look at the cages and see your destiny. I don’t josh around and will enjoy watching you die.” He punned poorly. “Perhaps soon you will be our guest at dinner.”
He then transformed, dissembling himself in front of my eyes. He was no longer a well-dressed older gentleman but a creature from my wildest nightmares! His face and head now resembled the Nosferatu character I remembered from my youth. He lied about his true nature. He or its mouth opened, and a red tongue flicked out like a serpent, showing long canines and sharp teeth. The hands, my god, were now little more than long fingers, gnarled and more animal than human in appearance. Claw-like, that was the word that best described them. He then menacingly approached me. I quickly ran to the door, but it was an effort with little use, now trapped with this truly hideous monstrosity!
Yes, locked in a room deep inside the museum with no other choice but to fight. Fighting with all the vigor I could muster. Being almost eighty my chances of succeeding were zero to none. Yet that was my only way out of this predicament of my own making. Most definitely, time was not on my side.
I feebly reached out to it, putting my hands around the stunted neck. With every ounce of strength, I squeezed and squeezed until I was no longer able to do so. That’s when I felt the sharp needles plunge into my neck. I fell back to the floor and knew well it had sedated me with a syringe. No, I was wrong. Maybe it was the feeling of its canines biting into my flesh. I was immobile, but my mind was still working. My last thought before passing out was this.
My life had finally run out of time.
George Larson retired as a special agent from the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State. He has written eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) in addition to fifteen short horror stories. He holds a BA degree in English (Nom Cum Laude).
By
George Larson
Time, it was all about time. One thing I’ve noticed about retirement is time, too much with each passing year. More and more time to fill the voids of my life, with no relief in sight and with no one to spend the time. Yes, that was my lot in life, and I brought it on myself. Guilty as charged as they say. I wasn’t exactly a recluse, but wasn’t a social animal either, far from it. I was turning 80 years old soon and with each passing month, rarely did I feel the joi de vivre experienced in my younger years. My humdrum life was the best one now. My life was in a deep rut, and I couldn’t seem to pull out of the funk I felt most days. I wasn’t sure, but I was mildly depressed. I had too much time on my hands and nowhere to spend it wisely.
Much of my day now consisted of reading. That was how I spent most of my time. With my coffee, I scanned magazines and newspapers for anything which piqued my interest, my curiosity. Occasionally, I’d come across articles and adverts which caught my attention. Today was one of those days. It was an advertisement in the Chicago Sun Times that caused me to read the blurb a couple of times. This one was unbelievable and funny at the same time. It was a swindle or at least an exaggeration. I chuckled at the text in big, bold letters:
WELCOME TO THE OSSUARY OF THE LIVING DEAD. PRIVATE TOURS AVAILABLE. COME SEE WHAT YOU WON’T BELIEVE! CALL NOW: ________.
The term Ossuary of the Living Dead was at best a misnomer, or to be precise an oxymoron, if you will. How could the two words, living and dead, be a true statement? It couldn’t be with the juxtaposition of those meanings. What was being described was a charnel house of all things, right smack dab in the city! Maybe it was an advert for an odditorium of the weird and unusual. If so, it could lift me out of the dysthymia which now ruled my life. No, this was some sort of scam for the gullible and nothing more. I filled my coffee cup for my second shot of caffeine and read on. It was just another day of reading meaningless crap; sorry, I meant to say pap.
A couple of days later, the advert still stuck in my mind. I couldn’t shake it from my thoughts. I was intrigued about the possibilities. What in the hell was an ossuary for the living dead anyway? It had to be a gaffed exhibit of some sort, a bright lure for the rubes of our city. I picked up the phone and dialed the number listed. Okay, I was going to be a rube too but had to see the exhibit or museum or whatever. The pull was just too great. Maybe I was simply being a bit obsessive with my macabre thoughts. But there was no harm in checking out the place. In this case, my need to get out of the house trumped my boring, never-ending routine. It was time, something I had too much of it seemed.
My call was immediately answered by a man with a gruff, gravelly voice, perhaps a lifelong smoker. He spoke with a slight accent but couldn’t be sure where he originally hailed from. After exchanging the usual, banal pleasantries, he said his name was Jonathan, the proprietor of the ossuary. He commented he was delighted with my call since business had been slow since it opened about a month ago. My antennae went up. So, this was a brand-new venture and not a well established one. That was a red flag, but I let him drone on a bit before hanging up. That was the least I could do to satisfy my morbid curiosity. But I wasn’t about to be suckered into an obvious sham.
Jonathan explained the museum, yes, that’s what he called it, had operated for many years in Eastern Europe before recently moving to the states. Ah, his accent, I thought. He said it was a business decision to look for what he described as “greener pastures.” I assumed the business wasn’t doing too well in Europe and Jonathan decided to come to American to earn bigger bucks. At least that was my cynical interpretation. He went on to say the museum hadn’t started charging admission. And I’d called at a most opportune time. He offered a reservation on- the-spot and I accepted but still was wary about being ripped off. I assumed I was just a worrywart and little more. But, regardless, he wouldn’t get a dime out of me. If he were playing me, he’d be out of luck.
It was appointment time as I drove my 14-year-old Mazda to the site of the ossuary. It was the middle of Chicago’s winter with the overcast, freezing weather clinging over the city like a dark pall. It was just another miserable day in the neighborhood, snickering at my own word play. I was getting close to the address Jonathan provided, and every block seemed worse, more rundown, than the next. The Southside was once a vibrant, thriving area with many factories dotting the landscape, but no more. Large swaths of open space with a few dilapidated houses and shops now were the order of the day. The whole scene was depressing as the blight became more evident. Then I saw it, the museum, the Ossuary of the Living Dead. It was situated by itself on a block where other buildings had been demolished long ago. The street was deserted so I had no problem finding a parking space for my rust bucket of a car. Like me, my car was old and cranky. I owned nothing passable for new because it was tough living on a fixed income. As to my crankiness, that was just something I had to live with. But time would tell how my visit would go. Yet, I looked forward to it with almost gleeful anticipation and excitement. It had been many years since I felt my younger self.
I was greeted at the door by someone dressed in a black suit, black tie and black shoes. Except for his face, hands and shirt, he was all black from tip to toe. He resembled a mortician in those respects; someone certainly fitted to the role as proprietor of an ossuary. He introduced himself as Jonathan and welcomed me to his establishment. I mumbled something in return, but still on guard about being duped!
I glanced around the vestibule and took in the sights, first noticing the many funerary urns placed about the interior entryway. They held ferns and flowers of diverse types and descriptions but yielded no fragrance whatsoever. They were faux creations likely made of plastic. But I really hoped the rest of the museum was authentic. Otherwise, I’d wasted my time.
The vestibule’s interior was dimly lit to create an appropriate ambience, to stay with the overall theme of the museum, eerie and spooky. There was a musty odor permeating the entire room as well, causing me to sneeze and nose to run. It didn’t seem to bother Jonathan though. He continued along a short, narrow hallway to a much larger room which contained the exhibits or so he claimed. I still didn’t trust him.
I entered the room. It was semicircular in shape and contained eight exhibits. The lighting was the same as the vestibule, dismally dim. The furnishings were few. Only a settee and a couple of high-back chairs were present. The remainder of the display room consisted solely of the exhibits. Jonathan took great pains to explain the history of each one. I suspected he was in his element. Before he started his spiel, I noticed each exhibit secured behind a plexiglass panel encased in dark wood. Lamps provided in each of the ersatz containers for better illumination. The exhibits were easily viewed from where I was standing. But Jonathan wanted me to step forward. “Come, Mr. Mr., ahh ……..……”
“Josh, you can call me Josh.” I wasn’t going to give the guy my real last name for fear of being sucked into some nefarious ploy for money. There was no way that was going to happen. “Fine, Mr. Josh, please come closer to the cabinets so you can get a good look at what’s inside each.” I did as he instructed, standing directly in front of what was labeled #1.
“Good, good, yes what you are viewing is the fetus with the attached umbilical cord of the unborn son of Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France.”
I could clearly see the purported fetus swaying ever so slightly in the cabinet. Air bubbles rose from the tank of water to add dramatic effect, I supposed.
“This specimen was obtained from one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting following the stillbirth. It has been well preserved in formaldehyde ever since.”
I wasn’t so sure about the claim. More likely it was a replica made from synthetic rubber. These gaffed tricks were commonly used in carnivals and called “Bouncing Babies” by the hucksters.
“Next, see the partial skeleton of Sir Walter Raleigh, the English courtier and explorer during Queen Elizabeth’s’ reign. You can easily see the sword mark on his right leg bone inflicted during a battle with the Spaniards during his search for El Dorado in the 16th century.”
I wasn’t convinced in the slightest. But still didn’t voice my suspicions about the exhibits.
“Here are the desiccated remains of Pocahontas. We keep them in a hermetically sealed chamber to greatly slow down the degradation process. The remains will last another 45 years or so under these conditions.”
Sure Jonathan. I’d have enough. It was more bullshit or hooey if you like. At this point, I didn’t bother to ask whether a DNA test had been done on remains of her body. Jonathan’s reply would be another fib.
I was not only cynical of all the exhibits, but thoroughly skeptical as well. It was a ruse, phony baloney, and nothing more than an outright fraud. I should have had my head examined for ever believing such stuff could be real. But it was all fake. And I intended to tell Jonathan the same when he finished with the Pocahontas yarn. I’d just wasted a couple of hours of my precious time.
“Jonathan, how can you even talk about such nonsense with a straight face? I was angry about being snookered in such an obvious way. Truthfully, I was downright pissed.
“Mr. Josh, what are you talking about? I didn’t charge you admission so what’s your loss? I don’t understand. Our exhibits were very entertaining.” Jonathan evenly replied to my little outburst.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. All the displays in the cabinets are faked. That’s the plain and simple truth of the matter. If I paid for admittance to the museum, I would now be crying fraud. I came here to see something unusual, even unique. But what I got instead was a bunch of hokum, just old carnival knockoffs. Most of all, you wasted my time and that’s an unforgivable sin in my book.” Jonathan quickly responded to my dressing down of him and the museum.
“I must apologize if I have deceived you with my little show. It wasn’t my intent to defraud. When we spoke on the phone you mentioned you wanted to visit my museum as a regular customer or so I thought. I didn’t realize you were interested in more, much more, as my special guest. Very well, I will show you much of what brought you here. Please follow me.”
With that, Jonathan pointed to a set of double wood doors in the corner of the room. He deftly pulled a large skeleton key from his trouser pocket and inserted it in the keyhole and turned it with a sharp click. A skeleton key, how apropos of the circumstances, I mused. Another narrow, short passageway and we were there. Jonathan practiced good security by locking the door behind us.
Jonathan parted the curtain, and as I adjusted to the bright lights of the new room, I stifled a scream. It was forming in the back of my mouth but swallowed it down at the last moment. I was shocked to the core by the scene in front of me! What in God’s name was I seeing before my eyes? I couldn’t believe the sights and smells before me. It was too grotesque and bizarre for me to believe. I panicked and turned to the door, but it was locked. And I was trapped along with the poor souls appearing before me.
“This is what you came to see. Am I correct Mr. Josh?” Jonathan laughingly spoke. I paid no attention to the question as my mind was reeling. I thought I might be losing my sanity. Maybe I was having a bad dream and I’d awaken, simply thinking I suffered a nightmare. But my dream was not to be.
There were several large cages, but not for animals, but for humans instead. Three cages were occupied by emaciated people with their hands manacled above their heads. Their feet barely touched the floor. Two were in obvious pain, crying out in grunts or gibberish, much too weak to even give a full-throated scream. The third, a female, limply hung from the top of the cage like a rag doll. I supposed she was dead, bless her soul.
Given their physical appearances, they had been starved to death, a slow painful way to die. Each had fouled their cages with urine and feces so the stench emanating from them was almost overwhelming. Regardless, my heart went out to all of them in that instant. How could this be, how could this happen? I wondered.
“Oh, Mr. Josh, don’t fret over these poor humans. They serve a higher purpose. Their flesh will satisfy the hunger of my extended family. They are ravenous bunch whose appetites are never sated. Don’t worry, nothing will go to waste. My people from Eastern Europe have hearty appetites. The meat will be delicately carved from their bodies to be stored and consumed later. Their bodies will be carefully deboned so we don’t waste a scrap of meat. Then their bones will be boiled and bleached; finally becoming part of our collection of skeletons in the other room. I’ll have to think up good names and storylines for them, but it shouldn’t be difficult since you people are terribly gullible. Meet the Johnston family, father, mother, and daughter. Like you, they insisted on seeing more, experiencing more macabre sights than available in the other room. Their wishes came true, my new friend.”
“So, what or who are you?” I slowly asked. “Eastern Europe suggests some connection to Dracula.” Jonathan laughed at my silly question. “No, my people are nothing of the sort. Dracula or other names are simply figures your Western books, magazines and films have turned into blood sucking vampires. But Vlad the Impaler, better known as Prince Vlad Terpes, was a real person who is still idolized in Romania for saving his people from the Turks. But you gave me an idea. I‘ll make one of Johnston’s skeletons into the blood sucking fiend. I thank you Josh for the suggestion.”
“My people are of gypsy origin or Roma to be politically correct. We have roamed throughout Europe for more than a thousand years. Often, we were shunned and persecuted for our beliefs and culture. And that’s when our feeding off human flesh started, with the plagues and other starvations of the past. Then fresh meat was a necessity for our people’s sustenance, our survival. Now it is a delicacy. Over time, we grew accustomed to cannibalism and still savor the delicious, human taste.”
I had gotten over my urge to scream but now I was fighting the bile gathering in my throat. I was going to vomit my guts any second. Then it finally dawned on me. I’d been badly gypped! How I could have been so stupid amazed me. I was to be Jonathan’s next victim or family meal. They were the same.
I knew screaming would do me no good because of the thick walls of the museum. Moreover, there was no one outside the building to hear them. So, what to do? My options were severely limited now.
“So, Josh, you know your fate. Look at the cages and see your destiny. I don’t josh around and will enjoy watching you die.” He punned poorly. “Perhaps soon you will be our guest at dinner.”
He then transformed, dissembling himself in front of my eyes. He was no longer a well-dressed older gentleman but a creature from my wildest nightmares! His face and head now resembled the Nosferatu character I remembered from my youth. He lied about his true nature. He or its mouth opened, and a red tongue flicked out like a serpent, showing long canines and sharp teeth. The hands, my god, were now little more than long fingers, gnarled and more animal than human in appearance. Claw-like, that was the word that best described them. He then menacingly approached me. I quickly ran to the door, but it was an effort with little use, now trapped with this truly hideous monstrosity!
Yes, locked in a room deep inside the museum with no other choice but to fight. Fighting with all the vigor I could muster. Being almost eighty my chances of succeeding were zero to none. Yet that was my only way out of this predicament of my own making. Most definitely, time was not on my side.
I feebly reached out to it, putting my hands around the stunted neck. With every ounce of strength, I squeezed and squeezed until I was no longer able to do so. That’s when I felt the sharp needles plunge into my neck. I fell back to the floor and knew well it had sedated me with a syringe. No, I was wrong. Maybe it was the feeling of its canines biting into my flesh. I was immobile, but my mind was still working. My last thought before passing out was this.
My life had finally run out of time.
George Larson retired as a special agent from the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State. He has written eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) in addition to fifteen short horror stories. He holds a BA degree in English (Nom Cum Laude).
