I work at a private museum for the rich and famous. Don’t bring your kids here.

This week, I found myself alone in the ocean exhibition room.

The anglerfish circled endlessly in the abyss of its murky tank, searching for an exit it would never find. It met me at the glass interface of its pressurized prison, bumping its luminescent fishing lure against the glass. It grinned at me with thin white pencils. Hello, little guy.

I found myself staying a while in our deep-sea exhibition, watching the creature as he bathed and flicked around in his own little cube of the world. He could never know why he was in the museum, nor who put him there. Instead, he swam. He swam and swam and hoped that just one day the glass would crack. Just an inch.

Luckily, feeding the shaggy frogfish didn’t take long. The yellow fish knocked away clouds of dust along the bottom of its tank as it scurried along on its leglike fins with the awkward gait of a geriatric golden retriever. It was hard to keep happy in this ghoulish museum, but that room always made me smile.

Upstairs I went before working through some paperwork for a few hours. I’m not sure at what point I mistakenly fell into a catnap at my desk, but I soon paid the price in nightmares.

“Am I pretty, daddy?” A deep, muffled voice.

Blowflies sprawled across her face that was framed with golden hair, black winged spots covered her eyes and mouth.

“Am I pretty?”

She didn’t sound like Sophia. The face of my dead daughter, nothing more. It must have been hard for her to speak; flies coated her throat like popping candy - bursting and buzzing as she spoke.

“Daddy? Did you doze off again?” She giggled in a voice that was not her own.

Flies crawled around her face aimlessly, whirring, buzzing.

Buzzing until I swat one crawling up my arm.

I woke up groaning with a jolt, my wrist pink where I slapped myself awake; the monstrous foyer of the museum still clapping with an echo.

My paperwork sprawled everywhere across my table, stressing me again just as easily as it had put me to sleep. Lists of last week’s casualties, notes on tonight’s guests, complaints - all forms of boring. Paper unstuck itself from my arm and fluttered to the ground floor from my reception desk one floor up. The ocean exhibition and the unconscious escapism that naps brought me was my only liberation from the museum. Though, that was a time before sleep brought nightmares.

When I went to check my watch, I noticed I hadn’t smacked a fly after all. A glass butterfly had become mere bits of translucent wing that coated my fingers like glitter. I rubbed my hands and the clear fragments floated gracefully down the marble stairs in a breeze like tiny mosquitos or dust specks, sparkling in the beams of moonlight that trickled in through the glass ceiling. For a moment, I wish it had stung me and taken me to a better place. At least then I couldn’t dream of blowflies coming out of my dead daughter’s mouth.

Ron and Jill and the rest of the maintenance staff had packed up and left, the bustling noise was gone; there was no more work to be done except wait for more wealthy, deplorable people to arrive. I was alone again - the only staff member in the museum, and I let my mind freely slip into a different time. A time before I was the tour guide.

It was time to open shop. I combed my hair, pulled my shirt collar free from my waistcoat, shined my shoes. Down the marble staircase I went, tapping down the steps through the butterfly dust like headlights in fog.

The clock struck six o’clock: the museum was now open for the evening, and only for the rich folk waiting outside. I pulled the large door open, it groaned and echoed in the museum’s enormous foyer.

Seven aristocrats haughtily strode inside: three men and four women clad in fancy dresses and coats. One man took a while to come up the front steps and into the museum carrying his wooden cane.

“The tour will start immediately – there is a coat rack to yo-“ I trailed off.

A girl - maybe eight or nine, came quietly through the door in a teeny black suit. Her unsure gaze scanned the foyer top to bottom, her eyes large glossy globes.

She shouldn’t be here - I didn’t see her on the register. I thought. She won’t survive here.

Kneeling, I spoke: “Hello, miss.”

The girl shyly leaned from behind the frame of the front door; her skin turning as pale as the ivory marble flooring. This must have been the first child to set foot in this God forsaken place, and for good reason.

“Which of these people are your parents?” I tried hard to keep up a warm smile.

Nothing. She simply glared at me with two shiny eyes under a blonde curtain of hair.

“She doesn’t speak, sonny.” The man with the wooden cane cleared his throat. “Didn’t speak the whole ride here. Won’t speak now.”

“Doesn’t respond to anything at all, really.” One beak-nosed snobby woman put her coat on the rack. “Probably deaf.”

I stood thinking for a while: my face contemplating, changing in the light. Looking around at the billionaires in the foyer, they already looked ready to sink their teeth into the exhibitions, or worse. Bringing her along with the rest of the group on the museum tour was simply not an option.

Fortunately for her, it was a requirement for me to understand the basics of at least twenty languages to allow for appropriate interaction with the museum’s guests. This included sign language, but my understanding tended to be rather broken – I could usually only make out the main words. Kneeling again, I spoke to her with my hands.

The girl gestured back to me that mommy and daddy and had sent her on a visit to the museum as they were called away for a business trip in Dubai.

"How was the flight?" I gestured.

"Good. The big-nosed woman was very annoying." She giggled and gestured that I didn’t need to do hand signs, she could read my lips.

I liked her already - my smile didn’t need much effort anymore, it came naturally. Though, I was still stuck with a child in an unforgiving place – she was a rabbit running in an open field under the shadow of the museum’s eagle-clawed exhibitions. Worse, the unsated bloodlust and curiosity of the wealthy and free.

That’s when I remembered a clause in my employment agreement: Conduct one tour every open evening.

Gesturing wide and confidently, I stood up and winged a way for the girl’s safety. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen.” I exclaimed. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, this evening’s tours have been cancelled.”

Groans from the crowd.

The tour-clause in my contract never stated how many people I needed to bring with me.

“Oh, my. We just got here!” A man bellowed.

“Do not fret, the museum is all yours to explore.” I extended one arm to point them towards the deep-sea exhibition. “Please don’t wake the anglerfish.”

Tapping and screeching sounded against the floor as the crowd disappeared down the halls. Starlight beamed through the windows, lighting up the girl’s face. She beamed straight back with excitement.

“Now the tour can begin in peace!”

Peace was a lie, however. Unsupervised, the crowd would soon find some way or another to demonstrate that they were worse behaved than the kid standing before me. A demonstration that would likely involve death.

“What do you like to do?”

"Drawing," she signed.

“I know just the thing.”

Many minutes passed that evening as me and the girl began exploring the museum. Her name was Rosie, and she was very nervous about all the scary exhibitions. At the intersection between the art and music showcase between another hallway leading to a locked door, we halted.

"What is down there?" She pointed a tiny finger down the dark hall. "That room with the metal door. What’s in there, guide?"

“I know the museum from back to front.” I spoke. “But I have to say, I’ve never been in there. Tightly sealed shut. No key.”

"Oh, okay." She gave a sulking nod.

Yeah, I know the feeling.

I swiftly smiled to cheer her up as I ushered her into the art and music space. It was like nothing she had ever seen before - her bright eyes could have lit up a candle.

The towering walls and ceiling of the art exhibition were flowing waves of sand that changed and hissed as they rolled. One moment, the walls painted a shifting mural of “Starry Night”, waves of blue and yellow sand curling and shifting from one famous artwork to another. The wall to our left painted “The Scream”. She spread her fingers into the sand waterfall, it flowed between her digits like she had pinched salt.

"It’s so beautiful!" She gestured, her mouth agape at the ceiling.

I tapped her on the shoulder so she could read my lips. “We don’t just house paintings here, take a look at these.”

Leaning one hand against a small glass cabinet, we gazed in. Two brightly colored shoes were sat upon an ivory silk sheet, iridescent against the changing colorful backdrop of the sandy walls. They gleamed bright enough to show their true crystalline translucency. Beneath the glass cabinet: THE CLUMSY DANCERS.

She wasn’t truly impressed until I heartily slapped the cabinet.

The knocking suddenly turned the empty shoes alive, tapping and dancing upon the silk beneath them. One dance changed to another; another became a twirl. They gracefully ended their tango with the famous moonwalk shuffle.

"Wow, what are these?" She pressed her hands against the glass. If she were any closer, they might have kicked her.

“Well, some people might have a good voice. A fantastic, fantastic singing voice.” I took out my satin cloth and began polishing the glass as I spoke. “Some people have the rhythm for soulful moves. These shoes right here: They bridge the gap.”

She was glaring at me with wide eyes. Listening with them, too, pulling the weight of ears that couldn’t hear.

“They were developed sometime between the sixties and seventies. Helped push the dancing-inept singers into superstardom by giving them a dancing edge, too.”

I gestured her on to the next display against one sand waterfall. For a moment I caught a sparkle in her eye, her hair and bright grin reminded me of my dearly departed daughter, filling me with a long-forgotten warmth. I bet I’m having more fun than you are right now, Rosie.

She took a seat. "What’s this, guide?"

Upon the table before her, a small white pen lay over a graphite and ash speckled stone tablet. When I pointed to the thin edges of the black plate, she caught the stretched golden placard that said BALLPOINT STONE. Her head twisted around at me, eagerly waiting.

“Go ahead, you’ll see.” I nodded and she turned back around. Her hand grabbed the pen, it met the plate with a blocky tap.

Abruptly, the wall of sand bloomed a pale white, save for tiny imperfections of dotted peach-colored sand that gave it the impression of an art canvas, rather than plain paper.

As her hand swirled upon the plate, blotches of black sand circles formed and swirled against the wall’s coarse current.

“Draw something, Rosie.” I spoke. “The plate knows what you will draw and will guide you.”

Unsure at first, she shook the back of her golden head a few times. An eight-year-old perfectionist. In that moment I smirked when I pictured her rolling up her suit sleeves to get the work done right. I laughed when she really did it.

“Is that me?” I let out, staring at the sand wall. A man with brown hair emerged on the moving canvas, dressed in an absolutely dashing maroon waistcoat. Must be me.

The drawing was a bit beyond an eight-year-old’s range of skill, we had the pen and plate to thank for that. Though, she was doing a beautiful job showing off.

“Wow!” I said. “That looks great, Rosie.” She had all my attention when she began drawing another figure. “Who’s that beside me now?”

In the sand of the towering wall before me, a gawky shape appeared that bloomed big black blobs. It looked familiar, yet terrifying. Diabolical sharp nails protruded from its lanky black arms.

“Rosie?”

Nothing. She kept scribbling away tirelessly at the plate.

The thing loomed over my figure on the drawing on the wall, the sand flowing, the creature looming, looming, looming. It was a sickening animation. One ghoulish jaw hung free over its disgusting long neck.

“Rosie!”

It engulfed my head, thin pencillike teeth cut through my childishly drawn throat, red sand suddenly coughing and spitting out of the wall and onto the museum floor, staining Rosie’s shirt like bloody rain.

“Rosie!” I grabbed her by the arm. “What the hell are you drawing?”

She glared up at me with glossy eyes like she was about to cry. "It wasn’t me," she signed.

I lifted her from the seat and plopped her upon the floor that was littered with speckles of red sand.

She turned to the wall and pointed at her depiction of me. "See, that’s you."

My heart was racing. Did the museum make her draw this?

"And," Her shaky arm slowly drifted to the black figure.

"That’s mister sleepy."

I felt sick. I had tried so hard to pull her away from the mayhem, but the museum had bitten back.

“Come with me.” I said sternly, and she took my hand.

Off we went quickly, downstairs to the indoor forest exhibition. I had to keep her safe, no more misadventures. As we left, Mr. Sleepy turned his head and stared at me with his vacant, horrifying sandy eye sockets. I didn’t tell her that.

We saw a few distant visitors along the way to the forest room. They roared with laughter, screamed. I ushered her along with me, holding her hand tight.

For a while, things were much calmer in the forest room. I explained to the girl that it was partly an aviary and reassured her the birds still got sunlight through the glass ceiling when it was daytime.

Though, this evening only moonlight beamed through into the museum’s indoor forest. Rosie and I startled a few birds crunching the bark upon the ground as we delved deeper.

"Quiet, Rosie." I gestured this time.

"Yes, we have to be quiet."

I pointed to a display next to us that was wedged between two well-trimmed trees. It was dark, but we managed to make out the shape of a person inside.

"That tree looks like a man." She gestured.

“That’s because it is.” Her eyes lit up as I whispered, still clenching my hand tightly. “An experiment gone wrong; we house it here so it can sleep. He’s not human, not anymore. Feasts through his roots or anyone stupid enough to get close to him.”

Nothing could be heard in the dark indoor forest, only that of the crunching of leaves as she moved to press her nose against the glass with a screech.

“Rosie,” I whispered. “Don’t make too much noise.”

"What’s his name?"

“No name,” I gently pulled her away from the exhibit. “Though, some guests call it the slumber ghoul. He’s relatively harmless. Though, one of our poor janitors fell asleep in here during one of these long evenings. Never woke up.”

Her hand tightened around mine.

“They say he eats you through your dreams.” I whispered. “And if you’re really tired, you don’t even have to be asleep to feel it happening.”

That was all I had to say – she pulled my arm in a hurry towards the door. Sorry for scaring you, Rosie.

We had almost made it to the back door when a couple of blue butterflies fluttered and landed on her hair. She had almost lifted one onto my finger when leaves crunched behind us.

One of the deplorable rich people had found us. He was scrambling around in the dark, reaching out with hands unable to see. His hand met the cabinet that housed the tree-man, the idiot sounded a loud honk as his fingers slid across the glass.

Without warning, he smashed the glass, cackling as he ran out of the forest aviary and back to the halls.

Rosie tried to free from my hand’s grip, breaking into a sprint to no avail.

"It’s okay, Rosie. The back door, let’s go."

We jogged quickly through the trees, crunching bark and waking birds as we went, running, running.

The door to the aviary sounded a clack. Somebody was locking us in.

I jimmied the rusted doorknob at the back to no avail. The door first clicked then bumped with no groan as it stubbed to a sudden shut. It widened little enough that I swore I wouldn’t be able to even fit a few fingers in the gap.

"Mister sleepy."

"Mister sleepy is coming."

“Something’s in the way.” I grunted.

Suddenly, the girl drummed a few fist-hammers on her my leg.

She kept hammering on the side of my leg. Rosie pouted a worried face to the artificial tree line before rummaging her face into one of my black pantlegs away from something horrible.

Yonder the trees, it towered with flesh irregular and charred-black like an ashen log. Its mouth hung unhinged, wide open and ghoulish, its eyes a vacant white. It was watching us.

“Rosie-“ I held the girl by her shoulders. “Rosie. It’s okay, he can’t get us.”

The girl looked up with glossy eyes.

"Monster." She gestured.

“It cannot touch us if we are well slept.” I spoke. “Stay awake, okay?” I gave her a warm look, but it was quickly cracking.

"Mister sleepy."

We shared a gaze for as long as she could muster before her eyes met the ground.

“Rosie. I want you to stay calm when you answer my question, okay?” I had to balance my gaze between her and the thing in the trees.

Rosie sniffled, then nodded.

“Did you sleep much on the flight to the museum?”

My eyes darted to movement behind us. Blackened stumps where legs should be slogged under the ghoul, moving weighted like an unrooted oak. Every slow step it took made its torso contort with a sickening crack as if its bones had snapped and twisted. Its mouth had since widened enough that it could fit Rosie’s beautiful, ripened head inside.

“Rosie. Did you sleep?”

Crack.

“Rosie.”

Crack. Crack.

Like a fever dream, I saw blowflies crawling over her eyelids and her mouth, just like my dead daughter Sophia. Am I pretty, daddy?

I snapped out of it. “Rosie, please!” I boomed, shaking her.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

I had to get her out. I couldn’t lose her. Not again.

I shot up from my knees, launching her onto my shoulders and bolted towards the other door. Her head bounced around for a while I ran, but when I steadied, we made out the ghoul. It was looming close, a mere twenty paces away. Its torso flailed with a disjointed crack in directions perpendicular to its body.

“Hold on!” I announced as I held Rosie to my chest. I extended a leg and launched a kick into the door. Curses under my breath could not drown out the sickening sound behind me. All I could think of was that I had to get Rose out, and that its steps sounded like boot meeting snail.

“Get in!” I said, and her shoes popped on the ground.

This time, I held my kick as one shoe planted against the door. I could not open it wide enough for myself but pressing the door with my boot made it groan wide for her to enter. For a split-second, I worried about the rich people through the door and in the halls too. One long, unending nightmare.

I finally broke through.

The rich people who had been blocking the door shut went sprawling like cockroaches under a bright light. They cackled maniacally as they ran through the halls.

“Almost got you!” One of the rich men laughed as he went around a bend, his voice becoming distant as he ran.

They couldn’t keep getting away with this. They couldn’t keep tormenting me and the museum for sickening entertainment.

“Wait here.” I told Rosie. She was a ball on the ground, shaking and sobbing.

I shot up on two legs in a rush and gave chase.

The rich prick ran and ran, his hands screeching against the walls of the tight corridor, our museum’s greenhouses on either side.

You almost killed Rosie.

Sprinting, I had almost caught up with him. He was in arm's reach.

Stop running.

His leg caught itself beneath one foolish stride. He went tumbling into one wall before pushing off of it and into another, smashing the glass and halfway tumbling into the greenhouse.

Spectacles had come away from his face, blood drained and trickled towards his scalp as he hung over shards of the broken window. Starlight flooded in from the greenhouse and blanketed his face in a greenish hue.

“Help me…” He coarsely pleaded. One arm reached up at me, wanting to be pulled away from the glass into safety.

Inside, Holly – our greenhouse Venus flytrap with a mouth to fit a man – twisted and loomed in the evening light. She was a ginormous, beautiful plant. Hungry, too.

The man’s head tilted backward and set eyes on the plant. He wriggled and wormed, trying to free from the glass that stuck through him.

I reached one hand outward to lift him, then stopped myself.

Rosie’s smile glowed in my mind like hot steel. My daughter, Sophia, had that same smile. A smile he wanted to take away.

My arm retracted.

“Lift me out of here!” He croaked. “Hurry!”

I glared at him unblinkingly. Then it was over.

With one swift swoop Holly swallowed his torso, green hairy fingers from her lips snugly tightened around his body like mossy bandages.

My employment contract has been broken. And I shall be punished.

Globules of thick slime dripped from the flytrap’s lips, arms and legs burst out of her mouth as she chomped.

When I returned to Rosie, I held her hand tighter than I had the entire evening. I held and held her hand all night until it was time for her ride to pick her up from the museum’s courtyard.

Broken glass and escaped exhibitions tended to be the majority of the damage, and for a few hours I swept.

When everyone had left, all that was left for me to do was sit at my reception table and wait for sunrise. My contract had been broken – I had let a guest die at my hand. They were always all despicable, I suppose, but that one had to die.

Rosie’s warmth that had gripped me so tightly dissipated hours after the museum turned quiet. Everything was cold again.

I miss my daughter. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you like Rosie.

There would be more rich guests to torment me next week, and there was no escape. I thought about the ocean exhibition I visited earlier in the evening. The anglerfish and I are one and the same.

I love you, Sophia.

Slumped at my table, I lay broken and bruised. I rested my head upon folded arms, ready to let sleep come to me.

I hope I don’t dream of you, my girl. I don’t want to see the blowflies again.

For a while, nothing.

Then, something quite curious.

For the first time in fifteen years, the museum’s phone rang.