Repository
By
Kathryn Tennison
Everything is pristine and polished here. I feel remarkably out of place. I must look it, too, because the woman behind the reception desk narrows her eyes when she glances up.
“May I help you?” she asks with a stitched-in-place smile.
“I have an appointment with Leon – Mr. Koch, I mean.”
Obviously she doubts this, but she picks up the phone anyway, her long, pointed nails clicking against the buttons. Moments later, Leon strides around a corner, black dress-shoes silent on the marble floor, arms outstretched to receive me. I'm almost afraid to touch him – like I'll sully his expensive suit – but he doesn't give me a choice. I bury my nose in his shoulder and inhale his musky scent.
“Good to see you, Jana,” he says, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come with me.”
He nods at the receptionist as we pass, and I know she watches me until I round the corner.
Leon’s office is just like him – at first glance, elegant and civilized; upon closer inspection, not quite so tame. His current attire might scream 'museum director', but his long gray hair and goatee, not to mention the scar under his left eye, tell a different story.
“Sit,” he says, indicating a chair on one side of the sleek mahogany desk. Then he sits on the other side, beneath the skull of a bear that I know for a fact he shot himself. “I won't ask how you are, because I have a pretty good idea. Instead, I'll say I'm glad you're taking the job.”
“Thanks for offering it to me.”
“I think this will work out well, yeah? You've always preferred the company of animals.”
Usually live ones, I want to say. Or at least, ones that start out alive.
“And besides,” Leon continues. “I need someone I can trust. We had many issues with the previous cleaners. They stole prey.”
“They what?”
“Several prey animals went missing from exhibits – mice, shrews, etcetera. The cleaners claimed they had nothing to do with it, but the animals disappeared overnight, so who else could've done it?”
“Those seem like strange things to steal.”
Leon shrugs. “Maybe they didn't want to deal with transporting something larger, like a tiger. Anyway, I know we don't have to worry about theft with you. It will be…”
He trails off as he realizes I’m not listening, and he follows my gaze to the framed photo on the wall. It’s of Leon and my father, smiling and posing over an enormous sixteen-point Red stag. My father is so young and so alive, especially next to the sagging deer with the trickle of blood on its snout.
“That was taken before you were born,” Leon says, his expression softening. “But even back then, your father spoke of teaching his children to hunt. ‘I want them to be strong’, he said. ‘I want them to survive’.”
I clear my throat and turn away from the photo. “How about you tell me the details of the job?”
#
I can feel the eyes of the receptionist and the docents on me as I meander through the atrium, killing time until the museum closes. I know I'm basically indistinguishable from the Neanderthal display at this point. I haven't brushed my hair in a few days. My olive-green coat is tattered, and my black sneakers are riddled with holes. If they hadn't seen me with Leon, they would've assumed I wandered in off the street. They might still assume that.
Finally, the museum closes, and I'm alone. The security guard won’t be there for an hour, which doesn't bother me. I put my coat in my employee locker and step into gray coveralls. I'm supposed to start in the lobby and work my way to the back, but instead I go straight to the nocturnal animals exhibit.
The glassy eyes of the jaguars and wolves and bush babies don't bother me nearly as much as the human eyes that were on me earlier. The area is dim, and my feet make no noise as they carry me automatically to the biggest display. The African lion is posed in a muddy field with tall grass. I suppose it’s meant to be majestic, but up close, the mane is like a threadbare carpet.
Panthera leo
Donated by: Anonymous
I run a finger over the small brass plaque, lingering on the word 'Anonymous'. My father donated this specimen ten years ago. He was so proud showing the lion to me. I was proud too, believing, in my twelve-year-old naiveté, that my father had wrestled the beast with his bare hands. Then, when I was thirteen, he taught me shoot, and I realized that it was easy. With a gun in your hands, the most fearsome creature becomes nothing more than a target.
Of course, even with a gun, it’s possible for an animal to get the better of you, as my father ultimately discovered.
The lion’s glassy golden eyes seem to say: he deserved it; he finally got what was coming to him for what he did to me and to many others.
Before I can stop myself, I reach toward the lion’s face and gasp as its bared, yellowed fang slices my finger. Blood trails across my palm. The lion’s tooth is stained red. I stand there for a moment, letting the pain wash over me. As much as it hurts, I know that this is nothing compared to what my father suffered as his flesh and tendons and veins were ripped out like weeds from a garden.
Stop,” I command myself, pushing the thought away. “Just stop.”
After washing and bandaging the finger, I actually get to work, putting on headphones so I won’t have to endure my thoughts anymore. The room directly past the atrium is painted pure white, with stark black letters on the wall:
NO LIFE WITHOUT DEATH
The words are stuck in my brain the whole time I clean, yet they make no sense until I see the diorama of the pig’s carcass. My hand instinctively covers my nose, even though the carcass is encased in glass. I lean closer, grimacing at the squirming maggots and the parasites that have fed off the pig’s stripped-bare innards.
Life created from death.
Suddenly, I yank my headphones off, sure that I heard something. I listen intently and turn all the way around. Nothing. I put the headphones back on and turn up the volume, eager to get out of the life and death room.
Next is an exhibit of mountain goats and bearded vultures with their wicked talons spread. There’s also a haggard St. Bernard with a barrel around its neck. According to the plaque, he saved a dozen lives during an avalanche. His reward was to be stuffed and posed for all eternity, his skin stretched over polyurethane and his eyes replaced with glass.
“Good boy,” I mutter, and for a moment I’m sure his tail almost wags.
A few minutes later, a noise makes me whip my headphones off. This time, I’m absolutely certain I heard it. I step into the hallway. There are decorative paw prints on the marble floor leading away to the right. At least, I think they’re decorative until I realize my foot is smudging one.
“Seriously?” I groan, squatting and running a finger through what appears to be mud.
It was probably those kids I saw leaving the museum earlier, laughing and shoving each other. Irritated, I wheel the mop and bucket over, and I’m about to start wiping away the mud when the lights go out.
The mop falls to the floor with a clatter that echoes around the entire building and reverberates through my skull.
“Damn it.”
I grope in my pocket for my phone only to realize it’s nearly dead. Even worse, the charger is in my locker. I don’t even have enough battery to use the flashlight for more than a few seconds.
“The fuse box,” I say, not sure why I’m whispering. “Most likely in the basement. I can find that.”
I make my way down the hall, stopping to examine each door, with no luck. The corridor curves, and I’m forced to pass through another exhibit, this one of Asian bears and wildcats. I’ve almost reached the other side when I hear a swish behind me, like rustling clothes. Most people might turn and call “Hello?” But my father taught that it’s better to see than to be seen. I flatten myself against the wall and stare around.
The red light of the exit sign glints off the glassy animal eyes. I wait a full minute, and nothing happens. I tell myself I’m being paranoid. I’ve been on plenty of night hunts, and I’m well aware of the eye tricks and mind tricks that take place in the dark.
When I get to the other hall, I move faster, holding my arms out at my sides as guides. My hand brushes against warm fur and I recoil, wiping my hand on my coveralls.
It’s a natural history museum, I remind myself. There are animals everywhere.
But the fur was so warm…and so close.
I push ahead, though I’m not entirely sure where I am now. I’ve forgotten about the basement and only want to return to the break room, even if I just hole up in there until morning or until I get my nerve back. There are no more noises behind me, and yet there’s a feeling of something there. I’ve witnessed it many times on hunts – the prey suddenly sensing the predator. Of course, usually I am the predator.
I’m convinced I’m going in circles until I spot the nocturnal animals exhibit where my father’s lion is. I hurry inside, relieved to be in a familiar area. There’s the fake tree where a jaguar lurks. There’s the wolves’ lair, and on the other side of it is the grassy savannah with the lion, mouth wide in a silent roar.
Only the lion isn’t there.
The strangest thing is that I don’t doubt for a moment that this is real. It’s not a prank played on the fresh meat. It’s not a mind trick. Ever since my father was killed, I’ve felt watched, like the bad luck that got him is coming for me, too. Now all I can think is – finally.
I stand very still, trying to breathe slowly and quietly, knowing it won’t make any difference. It can smell me. It can hear me. It is made for the darkness, and I am nothing but a blundering mouse. Behind me – that swish again, almost inaudible. Soft paws on waxed marble.
On that last hunting trip, my father and I talked of going to Africa to hunt big game.
“What if a predator spots you?” I asked, my voice small in the dark woods. “How do you get away?”
“Show no fear,” he said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Face your opponent, and make yourself bigger than them.”
Reaching one trembling hand into my pocket, I grip my phone and turn on the flashlight, knowing I have mere seconds. I stand tall, raise the phone, and spin. The light glints off glassy golden eyes. I catch a glimpse of one reddened fang before the phone dies and I’m left in darkness once more.
Previously published by Alien Buddha Press.
Kathryn Tennison received her MFA in creative writing from Butler University in Indianapolis. She lives in Arkansas with her husband, two cats, and one enormous dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys judging characters in horror movies for making decisions that she would probably make herself in the moment. Her work has been published by Bag of Bones Press, Timber Ghost Press, and more. Her debut novel, “Molting”, was released in December 2025 by Uncomfortably Dark Horror. Follow her on Instagram or Bluesky: @acaffeinatedkat.
By
Kathryn Tennison
Everything is pristine and polished here. I feel remarkably out of place. I must look it, too, because the woman behind the reception desk narrows her eyes when she glances up.
“May I help you?” she asks with a stitched-in-place smile.
“I have an appointment with Leon – Mr. Koch, I mean.”
Obviously she doubts this, but she picks up the phone anyway, her long, pointed nails clicking against the buttons. Moments later, Leon strides around a corner, black dress-shoes silent on the marble floor, arms outstretched to receive me. I'm almost afraid to touch him – like I'll sully his expensive suit – but he doesn't give me a choice. I bury my nose in his shoulder and inhale his musky scent.
“Good to see you, Jana,” he says, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come with me.”
He nods at the receptionist as we pass, and I know she watches me until I round the corner.
Leon’s office is just like him – at first glance, elegant and civilized; upon closer inspection, not quite so tame. His current attire might scream 'museum director', but his long gray hair and goatee, not to mention the scar under his left eye, tell a different story.
“Sit,” he says, indicating a chair on one side of the sleek mahogany desk. Then he sits on the other side, beneath the skull of a bear that I know for a fact he shot himself. “I won't ask how you are, because I have a pretty good idea. Instead, I'll say I'm glad you're taking the job.”
“Thanks for offering it to me.”
“I think this will work out well, yeah? You've always preferred the company of animals.”
Usually live ones, I want to say. Or at least, ones that start out alive.
“And besides,” Leon continues. “I need someone I can trust. We had many issues with the previous cleaners. They stole prey.”
“They what?”
“Several prey animals went missing from exhibits – mice, shrews, etcetera. The cleaners claimed they had nothing to do with it, but the animals disappeared overnight, so who else could've done it?”
“Those seem like strange things to steal.”
Leon shrugs. “Maybe they didn't want to deal with transporting something larger, like a tiger. Anyway, I know we don't have to worry about theft with you. It will be…”
He trails off as he realizes I’m not listening, and he follows my gaze to the framed photo on the wall. It’s of Leon and my father, smiling and posing over an enormous sixteen-point Red stag. My father is so young and so alive, especially next to the sagging deer with the trickle of blood on its snout.
“That was taken before you were born,” Leon says, his expression softening. “But even back then, your father spoke of teaching his children to hunt. ‘I want them to be strong’, he said. ‘I want them to survive’.”
I clear my throat and turn away from the photo. “How about you tell me the details of the job?”
#
I can feel the eyes of the receptionist and the docents on me as I meander through the atrium, killing time until the museum closes. I know I'm basically indistinguishable from the Neanderthal display at this point. I haven't brushed my hair in a few days. My olive-green coat is tattered, and my black sneakers are riddled with holes. If they hadn't seen me with Leon, they would've assumed I wandered in off the street. They might still assume that.
Finally, the museum closes, and I'm alone. The security guard won’t be there for an hour, which doesn't bother me. I put my coat in my employee locker and step into gray coveralls. I'm supposed to start in the lobby and work my way to the back, but instead I go straight to the nocturnal animals exhibit.
The glassy eyes of the jaguars and wolves and bush babies don't bother me nearly as much as the human eyes that were on me earlier. The area is dim, and my feet make no noise as they carry me automatically to the biggest display. The African lion is posed in a muddy field with tall grass. I suppose it’s meant to be majestic, but up close, the mane is like a threadbare carpet.
Panthera leo
Donated by: Anonymous
I run a finger over the small brass plaque, lingering on the word 'Anonymous'. My father donated this specimen ten years ago. He was so proud showing the lion to me. I was proud too, believing, in my twelve-year-old naiveté, that my father had wrestled the beast with his bare hands. Then, when I was thirteen, he taught me shoot, and I realized that it was easy. With a gun in your hands, the most fearsome creature becomes nothing more than a target.
Of course, even with a gun, it’s possible for an animal to get the better of you, as my father ultimately discovered.
The lion’s glassy golden eyes seem to say: he deserved it; he finally got what was coming to him for what he did to me and to many others.
Before I can stop myself, I reach toward the lion’s face and gasp as its bared, yellowed fang slices my finger. Blood trails across my palm. The lion’s tooth is stained red. I stand there for a moment, letting the pain wash over me. As much as it hurts, I know that this is nothing compared to what my father suffered as his flesh and tendons and veins were ripped out like weeds from a garden.
Stop,” I command myself, pushing the thought away. “Just stop.”
After washing and bandaging the finger, I actually get to work, putting on headphones so I won’t have to endure my thoughts anymore. The room directly past the atrium is painted pure white, with stark black letters on the wall:
NO LIFE WITHOUT DEATH
The words are stuck in my brain the whole time I clean, yet they make no sense until I see the diorama of the pig’s carcass. My hand instinctively covers my nose, even though the carcass is encased in glass. I lean closer, grimacing at the squirming maggots and the parasites that have fed off the pig’s stripped-bare innards.
Life created from death.
Suddenly, I yank my headphones off, sure that I heard something. I listen intently and turn all the way around. Nothing. I put the headphones back on and turn up the volume, eager to get out of the life and death room.
Next is an exhibit of mountain goats and bearded vultures with their wicked talons spread. There’s also a haggard St. Bernard with a barrel around its neck. According to the plaque, he saved a dozen lives during an avalanche. His reward was to be stuffed and posed for all eternity, his skin stretched over polyurethane and his eyes replaced with glass.
“Good boy,” I mutter, and for a moment I’m sure his tail almost wags.
A few minutes later, a noise makes me whip my headphones off. This time, I’m absolutely certain I heard it. I step into the hallway. There are decorative paw prints on the marble floor leading away to the right. At least, I think they’re decorative until I realize my foot is smudging one.
“Seriously?” I groan, squatting and running a finger through what appears to be mud.
It was probably those kids I saw leaving the museum earlier, laughing and shoving each other. Irritated, I wheel the mop and bucket over, and I’m about to start wiping away the mud when the lights go out.
The mop falls to the floor with a clatter that echoes around the entire building and reverberates through my skull.
“Damn it.”
I grope in my pocket for my phone only to realize it’s nearly dead. Even worse, the charger is in my locker. I don’t even have enough battery to use the flashlight for more than a few seconds.
“The fuse box,” I say, not sure why I’m whispering. “Most likely in the basement. I can find that.”
I make my way down the hall, stopping to examine each door, with no luck. The corridor curves, and I’m forced to pass through another exhibit, this one of Asian bears and wildcats. I’ve almost reached the other side when I hear a swish behind me, like rustling clothes. Most people might turn and call “Hello?” But my father taught that it’s better to see than to be seen. I flatten myself against the wall and stare around.
The red light of the exit sign glints off the glassy animal eyes. I wait a full minute, and nothing happens. I tell myself I’m being paranoid. I’ve been on plenty of night hunts, and I’m well aware of the eye tricks and mind tricks that take place in the dark.
When I get to the other hall, I move faster, holding my arms out at my sides as guides. My hand brushes against warm fur and I recoil, wiping my hand on my coveralls.
It’s a natural history museum, I remind myself. There are animals everywhere.
But the fur was so warm…and so close.
I push ahead, though I’m not entirely sure where I am now. I’ve forgotten about the basement and only want to return to the break room, even if I just hole up in there until morning or until I get my nerve back. There are no more noises behind me, and yet there’s a feeling of something there. I’ve witnessed it many times on hunts – the prey suddenly sensing the predator. Of course, usually I am the predator.
I’m convinced I’m going in circles until I spot the nocturnal animals exhibit where my father’s lion is. I hurry inside, relieved to be in a familiar area. There’s the fake tree where a jaguar lurks. There’s the wolves’ lair, and on the other side of it is the grassy savannah with the lion, mouth wide in a silent roar.
Only the lion isn’t there.
The strangest thing is that I don’t doubt for a moment that this is real. It’s not a prank played on the fresh meat. It’s not a mind trick. Ever since my father was killed, I’ve felt watched, like the bad luck that got him is coming for me, too. Now all I can think is – finally.
I stand very still, trying to breathe slowly and quietly, knowing it won’t make any difference. It can smell me. It can hear me. It is made for the darkness, and I am nothing but a blundering mouse. Behind me – that swish again, almost inaudible. Soft paws on waxed marble.
On that last hunting trip, my father and I talked of going to Africa to hunt big game.
“What if a predator spots you?” I asked, my voice small in the dark woods. “How do you get away?”
“Show no fear,” he said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Face your opponent, and make yourself bigger than them.”
Reaching one trembling hand into my pocket, I grip my phone and turn on the flashlight, knowing I have mere seconds. I stand tall, raise the phone, and spin. The light glints off glassy golden eyes. I catch a glimpse of one reddened fang before the phone dies and I’m left in darkness once more.
Previously published by Alien Buddha Press.
Kathryn Tennison received her MFA in creative writing from Butler University in Indianapolis. She lives in Arkansas with her husband, two cats, and one enormous dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys judging characters in horror movies for making decisions that she would probably make herself in the moment. Her work has been published by Bag of Bones Press, Timber Ghost Press, and more. Her debut novel, “Molting”, was released in December 2025 by Uncomfortably Dark Horror. Follow her on Instagram or Bluesky: @acaffeinatedkat.
