It was midnight. He had left me here, in the basement, with instructions to finish the display before tomorrow’s opening. At The Mütter, my tasks were never-ending. Each piece required painstaking placement and anchoring invisible to the naked eye. I pushed my fists into my low back. Creaking and popping, I stretched, seeking to ease muscles stiffened by too many hours spent hunched at my table.
On the stairs leading to freedom, a familiar inky mist gathered and swirled. He always appeared during full moon nights, when the lunar glow highlighted his smoky silhouette.
“Good to see you, my friend. I have missed you,” I smiled as his shape shimmered and solidified.
“Yes, Emmet has me working late, again. The man is cruel beyond imagining.”
Admiring my progress, I listened as the bones created their own story. A cold wind whispered, and his voice crackled with the smell of autumn leaves. I toyed with the germ he planted. His plan to relieve the thousand tortures Emmet heaped upon me.
“You are right, I could work on him. Make him understand.”
My companion patted my shoulder, and his courage flowed through me.
“The opening gala is tomorrow night.”
He leaned toward me, and the seedling grew, producing a perfectly formed, black rose.
“I could lure him with a cask of Amontillado. We have a wall of bones, and as part of the permanent installation, they would lie undisturbed for years.”
A faint jingling of bells kissed my ears.
“In pace requiescat.”
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer