Hi again, it’s me: the idiot who unleashed an ultra-violent ghost from a supply closet at work. Thank you for your kind comments and words of advice on my last post. I really appreciate your help.
Now that the thrumming in my head has died down a bit and I can look at a light source without wanting to die, I’ve been able to return to both of my jobs. That’s gone about as well as you would expect. My siblings urged me to call the museum and quit on the spot, and to be honest I was tempted. Theoretically, it would be much safer for the three of us if I never set foot in that building again - and it would save me a hell of a lot in medical bills. But I was still riding the high of not getting fired for breaking protocol, and besides, if I never returned I could never get answers about what had attacked me.
So last night, I drafted a note to my manager Jada covering every conceivable sin I had committed. I apologized for opening the supply closet. I apologized for unleashing the ghost. I apologized for wrongfully blaming her, assuming that she had pushed me to the ground when it had really been the ghost. I apologized for potentially traumatizing her when she saw my body flung against the wall. I apologized for not coming back to work for days afterward, leaving her to coordinate schedules and lead tour groups by herself. And then for good measure, I apologized for the length of the note.
This morning, I stuffed a cellophane bag with my brother’s homemade loukoumia and tied it shut with a ribbon. The apology ran on a loop in my head, in case writing it down hadn’t been enough. I was going to make things right with Jada. I was going to solve the most mundane, approachable problem in my life.
And then, maybe, I could take on the ghost.
___________
My plan was simple: I was more or less going to ambush Jada outside of her office, give her the candy, and babble apologies at her until my lips bled. That should’ve been easy, since her schedule was fairly predictable. She usually strolled into work about ten minutes late with a caramel macchiato in hand, so at the moment I had roughly fifteen minutes to kill. I absentmindedly opened my locker and sank back into my usual routine, keeping an eye on the office doorway in case hell had frozen over that day and Jada decided to show up early.
And in doing so, I came face to face with my own terrible habit of taking things for granted. Because when I reached into my locker, still looking over at the office door, the last thing I expected was for my hand to brush up against unfamiliar fabric. I recoiled. Somebody’s jacket was hanging inside, with what looked to be a small hand-held radio sticking out of the pocket. I was studying the radio, resisting the urge to touch it, when I heard someone come up behind me.
“Are you Iphis?” That voice certainly wasn’t Jada’s. I turned around to see a man around my age, eyeing me with a strange mix of annoyance and trepidation. I must’ve looked back at him the same way.
Words weren’t coming to me. I nodded my head.
“I’m T-Bone,” he said. “Mind telling me what you’re doing in my locker?”
I marvelled at my luck. Before my shift even started, I had managed to piss off a six-foot-something stranger with a name fit for a rabid guard dog. Not to mention that my locker had been given away to the newest hire, which didn’t bode well for my continued employment.
“Listen, man, I’m sorry. Last time I was here this was m-“
“It’s fine. Jada warned me about…” He waved his hand, vaguely gesturing to all of me. “…this. You and I should debrief after training. Meet me in the 18th century gallery at 10.”
And then he walked away.
___________
I didn’t talk to Jada before work. By the time she walked into the safety training, fashionably late with her coffee in hand, we were already five slides deep in a PowerPoint on ghost-related protocol.
Ironically, despite being the only one who’d been attacked by the ghost, I was taking this training the least seriously. Jada, who often tapped her nails loudly against the desk and occasionally snored during trainings, was unusually rapt. The new guy was even taking notes. But I just couldn’t bring myself to care that, because all ghosts were once human, employees should refrain from pigeonholing this complex being as “evil.” The official stance of the museum seemed to be that a morally neutral ghost had left a morally neutral dent in the wall with my morally neutral skull. It took all of my self-restraint not to get up and leave.
Or maybe my skull wasn’t morally neutral after all. The next instruction was to avoid known “ghost agitators” who were known to endanger themselves and others by violating policy. Employees could only talk to ghost agitators about work-related topics, and only for as long as strictly necessary to do their jobs. Otherwise they should be left alone. If a ghost agitator approached a good and rule-abiding member of the staff and attempted to start a non-work-related conversation, the appropriate response was to walk away and report the behavior to a manager.
So apparently, the morally neutral ghost had left a morally neutral dent in the wall with my morally depraved skull. Good to know.
The rest of ghost training was fine, if uneventful. Apparently they had learned in my absence that the ghost responded positively to offerings. Staff members were encouraged to bring various bits and bobs from home, so that the museum could figure out what kind of offering the ghost liked most without paying for anything themselves.
Oh, and on the bright side, the museum now had a second fire extinguisher. This one would be kept behind the admissions desk, right next to the jumble of fraying, flammable wires that they refused to reconfigure.
Small victories.
__________
T-Bone arrived at the 18th century gallery closer to 10:05 than 10. He had evidently swung by the employee lounge after training, because he was holding the small radio from his locker. I glanced through the doorway, wary of any visitors or staff who might wander in. Out of all the potential meeting places, T-Bone admittedly did a good job choosing one. The 18th century gallery was a decently sized room tucked away on the second floor, with only one entrance and a thick carpet that muffled sound. If we positioned ourselves right behind the secrétaire cabinet, no one would even know we were there.
But for both of our sakes, I wasn’t willing to take that chance.
It had been easy to be cynical when I was sitting in training, listening to higher-ups blab on about how the not-evil-just-violent ghost liked receiving presents. But here on the museum floor, it was hard not to think of the last time I had broken protocol. I could be putting myself in danger. I could be putting T-Bone in danger. Whatever he wanted to “debrief” about, it wasn’t worth either of our jobs - or our safety.
“Listen,” I whispered. “We really can’t be doing this. You remember that whole ghost agitator thing from the training?”
He nodded.
“They were talking about me.”
That was the first time I saw him smile. He exhaled through his teeth, and it took a moment for me to register that he was laughing at me.
“Yeah, I know they were talking about you.” He wasn’t whispering. “I’m pretty sure I’m the exception to the rule though, ‘cause-“
Apparently he wasn’t willing to bet on that, because his mouth snapped shut the moment he heard footsteps echo down the hallway. We stopped breathing. He watched the door. I watched him. The footsteps grew louder, but no one appeared in the doorway. And then they tapered off, and we were left with silence.
Everything was still.
Except for a bronze candlestick that was now careening towards us. That was decidedly not still.
“Get down!” I yelled, but I was too late. T-Bone whirled around just in time to get bashed in the forehead. He doubled over, clutching his head in pain.
Crouching low, I led him behind the secrétaire cabinet. That shielded us on one side, but not from the silver teapot that was now hurdling across the room. I stood to catch it, yelping in pain as it slipped between my hands and collided with my ribs.
“Are you crazy?” He dove out of the way as the drawers of the cabinet shot out towards his head. “You should’ve ducked!”
“It’s an original Revere!” I shouted back, regaining my grip and clutching the teapot to my chest. “This thing is worth more than my life!”
Clearly, the ghost had tired of using one projectile at a time. I watched in horror as it flung pewter plates around with abandon. So this is what the ghost was capable of - an entire gallery reduced to chaos. Either it was getting stronger, or it had been holding back before.
The air was thick with books and pocket watches. I tried to orient myself, but the constant thump-thump-thump of projectiles hitting carpet clouded out every thought in my brain.
A wooden chair narrowly missed my head. I threw myself to the floor and started to crawl.
As I squinted through the onslaught of objects and motion and noise, an unexpected sound caught my ear: radio static. I turned my head, taking a book to the temple in the process, and saw T-Bone yelling into his handheld radio.
“Clearly you want to communicate,” he goaded. “So come on! Use your words!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demanded, halfway to the exit. “Let’s get outta here before we both die!”
“You go,” he called back before turning his attention to the radio. “Is this the best you got? Come on, say something! I know you’re here! What do you want with this museum?”
I had half a mind to leave him there before my eye caught a particularly shiny piece of metal, still housed behind a thin pane of glass. I sighed. This moron was going to get me killed.
I turned my body around and army crawled back towards him, tugging at the leg of his pants as he wailed, “Say something! Just one word! Tell me what’s going on!”
Upon gaining his attention, I jerked my thumb towards the display cabinet where we kept the rest of the silver - including an impressive collection of knives, kept as sharp as the day they were made.
It was only a matter of time.
He seemed to get the point, pocketing the radio and joining me on my escape. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Over the clanging and thumping and hisshisshiss of the radio static, we heard the shrill creak of old metal being pushed. We froze as the secrétaire cabinet came crashing down right where T-Bone had been, splintering apart with an ugly crack.
We had to keep moving.
After what seemed like forever, the burning carpet gave way to blessedly cool tile beneath my forearms. We had crossed the threshold into the hallway. I sprang to my feet and slammed the door to the gallery. There was one final thud behind the door as everything dropped. Without a target, the ghost immediately retreated and left its mess behind. And then the only noise was radio static, still pouring out of the device in T-Bone’s pocket.
And then, to my horror, two pairs of footsteps came running.
__________
As we subsequently learned from the relative safety of Jada’s office, the initial footsteps we’d heard were hers. She had realized that someone was conversing with a ghost agitator and had immediately set off to find backup, knowing that things might turn ugly at any second. Thankfully, Jada’s boss Marilyn, head of the Visitor Experience team, had been doing her bi-weekly rounds through the galleries and heard the commotion. Jada had heard her coming and filled her in on what was happening, and they both raced to our rescue (a few moments too late, but who was counting?).
By Jada’s telling of events, the attack must have lasted a minute at the most. And maybe that was true. But in the thick of everything, it had seemed so much longer than that.
And this conversation seemed longer still, drawn out by my queasy anticipation. Finally, after Jada had thoroughly extolled her own heroics to us, Marilyn asked the question that I had dreaded from the start: “Iphis, did you knowingly instigate a conversation that put your coworker in danger?”
“I can explain.”
That voice wasn’t mine.
I could hardly believe it. T-Bone was a perfect stranger, whose locker I had broken into and whose life I had endangered within hours of meeting him. And now, though given the opportunity to pawn the blame off on me, he was willingly admitting that his actions had led to the destruction of an entire room of the museum.
Either he was some sort of self-sacrificing idealist, or he was an idiot. Probably both.
“If you want answers, I have to observe the ghost in action and get corroborating reports from others who have.” He continued, “I didn’t expect things to get violent so quickly. I’m sorry about the damage. It won’t happen again.”
“You won’t have the chance to do it again,” Jada confirmed.
But Marilyn, to the surprise of everyone in the room, shushed her.
“I think it’s fair to say,” she placated, “that we’re all a bit out of our depth when it comes to this - even a professional such as yourself. And don’t worry about the damage. Iphis has caused their fair share of property damage too, haven’t you?”
I wanted to remind her that I had “caused” that damage by being slammed into the wall until my brain bruised. Instead, I bit my tongue and nodded.
It was ultimately decided that T-Bone and I weren’t responsible for the damage, with Marilyn doing all of the deciding. Jada sat there in silence, seething, until the impromptu meeting was dismissed.
But that wasn’t right, was it?
Marilyn seemed so gung-ho about having some sort of ghost expert at the museum. Why weren’t she and Jada on the same page about that? Why was Jada acting so petulant, even for her?
And why could we hold this meeting at all? Wasn’t I blackballed from all conversation? Did the ghost really care whether we were discussing work? Why were my equals put in danger just by talking to me, but my superiors weren’t?
None of it was adding up.
After the meeting concluded I doubled back to Jada’s office, this time with the cellophane bag in hand. Whatever was going on, it would be better to have her on my side. I slid the bag across her desk, where she was still pouting over the outcome of the meeting.
“It’s a peace offering,” I said. The words “apology gift” didn’t ring true anymore, and the note stayed tucked away in my pocket.
She reached into the bag and took one between her thumb and forefinger with what I would generously call an abundance of caution. “It’s food, right?”
“Yeah, it’s like a really tender gummy candy.” I gestured to the caramel macchiato on her desk. “We give them out at the café, ‘cause people like to have a sweet treat with their coffee. And since you go out for coffee every day, I figured you might like some too.”“So you got me knock-off gummies from the free sample jar?” She must have seen my face drop, because next thing I knew she was out from behind the desk, snaking an arm around my shoulders. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Jeez, you gotta learn to take a joke. I’m sure the gummy things are great.”
I mentioned before that Jada says I’m the perfect height for hugs. What she means is that my head comes up to her chest, and usually she likes to hold me there for quite some time. I normally hate these hugs, but as I felt her press my head against her chest, all I could feel was a cold rush of relief.
At least something was back to normal.
___________
So, that’s where everything stands. I’m still reeling from the fact that I almost got the newly-hired ghost expert killed within hours of meeting him, but maybe that’s just my life now. At least, for the time being, Jada is on my side.
I’m off to work a closing shift at the kafeneio, which should be fun with a plethora of new bruises and two concerned siblings hounding me to quit my other job. And who knows? Maybe they’re onto something.
If anyone could tell me how to stop messing up and endangering the people around me, I’d really appreciate that. I feel like I keep digging myself deeper into this hole, and at this point I’m not sure if I can get out.