I used to be an Archeologist. Until the small town of xxxxxx in Oregon made me swiftly change jobs. Unable to look at bones or any sort of historical art piece without questioning it’s true origin.
Me and my colleague Damien were called to analyse and date some objects curated by a man named Mr Bardot. He had a museum about three hours from the centre of the town, very peculiar I thought, why would anyone drive three hours to a museum situated in the middle of nowhere? Anyway he was paying good money, and perhaps he had items that we’d never seen before, our curiosity could not resist.
The grand museum was situated on a hill, it looked more like a manor, with no sign indicating that it was in fact a museum. The walls covered in moss. As we stepped out of the car the smell of dampness hit you, but it was pleasant, like the smell after it had rained. The ground beneath was gravel, but I’m not sure it was gravel, as every time I took another step it felt as if bits were breaking and snapping under my feet. Like popping candy. Anyway Mr Bardot exited the large wooden door situated in the centre of the manor, an eccentric man, black moustache curled at the end, a top hat and purple blazer, a Willy wonka type look.
‘Greetings, come inside, we’ll worry about your luggage later’ he said.
Damien and I entered the building, a museum it was. But one for his personal enjoyment. Like a palace. Red carpets, walls completely covered with all manner of paintings and taxidermy. There was barely any space left to walk. With shelves and other odd spectacles upon the floor and a grand staircase leading up to what I presume was the bedrooms.
‘Dinner is served my wonderful guests’
Before we had a chance to digest the amount of stuff this man had, we were called to dinner. A beef stew. However the meat was tough and rather pale. But I’m not entirely sure this man owned a fridge. So the meat could have very well just have gone off despite not tasting of much.
We tried to make conversation with the man during dinner, but for some reason he would not answer our questions. Perhaps we were being rude and interrupting his dinner. But I could have sworn that I saw him shed a tear while eating it.
He ushered us up to our bedrooms quickly as if his social battery had all but run out for the evening. Me and Damien were exhausted from driving so we went to sleep. A painting of a curious creature staring at me as I tried to sleep. A rather disturbing painting to say at the least. A sort of cat? With some sort of liquid pouring out from its eyes, eyes that had an incredible shine to them and weren’t really what I would call cat eyes.
The next morning we were given our first task. Dating some bones that Mr Bardot said were from a Tasmanian tiger, an animal that went extinct in the 1930s. We got our equipment out, to date the bones, and most of them were around 100 years old as we’d expect. However one was only 21 years old. I thought that it must have been our equipment. Which meant the other bones could have been analysed wrong. Seeing as this was a job and we were being paid I had to send Damien back to the city to fetch new equipment.
While he was gone I had nothing better to do than admire the art that Mr Bardot had, one being a taxidermist horse, ever so strange. The mane was not like a normal mane, slightly coarse to the touch as you might expect. But it had a shine and an incredibly soft texture, I assumed it might be synthetic. But what he said next made me question where exactly did he get the mane from?
I brushed it off originally as living practically in isolation must mess with your head. ‘Could I just take a small clipping of your hair dear? Won’t be much but it’s ever so beautiful’ he said to me.
I’m not sure anyone ever came to this museum, but if they did I’m not sure they ever left…