The Lord of Misrule

38 -- Stones Moved by Wind

Godric had a patrol immediately after this, though he delayed until Ada returned to the records room. And as he walked this patrol, he thought, casting his light about and moving with no great hurry. At first, he was mad at her—at Ada. Then the world. Then he was sad. And then finally, he was wondering whether she was right. Had he been easy on himself—comfortable, if not happy?

She left on her own less than an hour later.

The first bang came an hour after that. From the far below—by the front door. It carried like a cannon blast and Durst flinched. Dropped the phone though he knew the cause—his heart pounding in unsteady rhythm.

The second noise came before he even had time to stoop and grab the phone. It blasted out louder than he'd ever heard it down in the first-floor hall—a cannonball punching straight through the museum wall.

Near to where the second came and yet louder than all three—the cannon exploded. A terrible noise that seemed as though it ought to have been heard from Eddies place. From the pubs that lined the streets down the hill. Carried with it a shattering like something hitting the ground and breaking into pieces—a boulder dropped from heaven—fired from a volcano and landing beneath his feet.

Durst merely breathed and stared at the door behind him. He turned then to face the cameras and cycled through with tremulous fingers—the halls were empty—but he stopped and stared at something on the first floor. By god there was something to be seen!

"What?" said Durst, he leaned closer.

It was the passage behind where the Grand Hall ran. A door to one of the adjacent galleries stood open, and a shattered statue lay toppled on the floorboards and rug, spilling out into the hall.

"How...?" began Durst. He grabbed his flashlight and jogged down the stairs quick as he could.

Not only had the disturbances come in a faster than usual sequence—and infinitely louder—but they'd affected the museum tangibly. Already his brain was working for possible explanations. Found none.

The room where the rubble spilled was small, within it several statues stood on pedestals. Egg-white walls and ceiling bore shielded lights directed at each statue to leave a long and impressive shadow on the patron.

Absolutely was out of place save for an single empty pedestal—the furthest from the door in fact—and Durst stared at this.

Shattered white marble pieces of a Roman soldier scattered before the door and out into the hallway. The head travelled furthest to stare with the grimace of combat at Durst when he'd stepped off the stairs. The once upraised sword next to this—pointing at him. The statue must've traveled ten feet or more and then shattered for it remains to lay where they now did. Durst turned to examine the room carefully—peeking behind statues—nothing and nobody. He was about to run through the museum on a frantic patrol when something beat him to it.

Running feet charged across the roof above. Godric was off like a shot, but it was quickly apparent to him that something was off about this too. Sometimes it sounded as though there was but one leg hopping about on a single foot, and sometimes several steps came all at once as though a troop of men stamped along. But Durst did not let this sway him—his mind was too jumbled for that—thoughts unclear—and he burst into the hall.

Nothing was there. But this did not surprise Durst.

He searched every room—still nothing. Checked the stairs—the elevator shaft even—still nothing. The cameras agreed with this assessment, but he checked the remainder of the museum anyway and then double checked the cameras after that. The only thing captured on them was the door to the statue room drifting open—a slow movement over nearly ten minutes before the first noise and before statue pieces came flooding out into the hallway like water. The pieces skidded with odd languor despite the rapidity of the noise, moving across the rug like a gently rolled basketball.

Durst sat and watched this several times over, his fingers tapping against the desk. And though the loudest and most abrupt surprises of the museum's caprices were past, there was a still something lingering.

The smell from Mary's office.

Durst caught whiffs of it passing by in the staff hall, and by the time he guessed at the source and checked it, he found nothing. Only a dreadful corpse stink that seemed to cling among the books and reliquary. Shaking his head, Durst relocked the office, and wrote Mary a memo to check all her office for anything that might've gone off.

After that he picked up the phone, sighed, and prepared to wake MacLeod as he dialled.

First the report, and then six weeks notice. Yes. It was time. Maybe Ada was right—enough was enough—had to move on. The mystery of the noises that had once entranced him vanished—oh where had those nights gone? Terror enough to enthral, but nothing more.

Something else—something new—fed and fuelled this now. More than peeking around a darkened corner, it now stepped out on tiptoes to tap at his shoulder. Or rather to crush him under collapsing marble.

Time to leave this place—though not for six weeks. Looked at the book of astronomy essays as the phone dialled—he could follow those well-enough. And had he ever actually tried to do the math? He'd done well enough at math in school when he was actually trying. Maybe he'd just assumed it was beyond his ability by default.

MacLeod picked up, clear, alert and concerned—the man knew such a call had few reasons to occur—and so Durst began with the statue.

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 950 words.

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