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Frankly, he had had worse days, but not many came close.
It had started off well enough, first day at the new job. Night guard at a maritime museum had few draws except for the pay, but Styles wasn’t particularly picky when it came to a paycheck, and walking around a few dark hallways full of old relics and trinkets wasn’t a bad way to get one. Although, in his cursory tour of the place, those mannequins seemed damned creepy even in the light.
Next to the main desk at the museum, hung a heavy metal ship's bell in a glass case. He had thought it was a replica, it seemed in such nice condition, but the previous night guard, who was guiding him through the rounds shortly after close, informed him that it was the real deal: dredged up from a shipwreck off the coast of Brest. The Atlantic had tossed and battered the ship in a storm like a vindictive toddler with a rubber duck in the tub, and, once bored of her fun, sunk the vessel with all 86 souls aboard.
He had asked the most logical question that any human presented with a mysterious possibly haunted bell would ask.
“Right. Can I ring it?”
“Sure, If you want to rouse them from their eternal slumber.” The man laughed. “In all seriousness, no. It- it would be bad for the long term condition of the thing.” His face grew more solemn as he added, “I learned the hard way, you can’t- well, as they say, you can’t unring a bell.”
The man had brightened up quickly, but it was a strange thing he’d said, and Styles couldn’t help but linger on those words, when he had been left to his first shift alone in the museum.
Frankly, he should have taken the warning more seriously.
Isn’t the whole point of a museum to foster human curiosity? To support the natural exploratory instinct of the human species, to encourage academic and intellectual inquiry? He saw the school groups before his interview, he internalized the mission statement (against his will and deliberate apathy, might he add. Does the night guard really need to understand the intellectual foundation of this fine institution, or does he just need to know what key goes to what lock?). It was frankly in the spirit of the thing to ring the supposedly haunted bell on his first day solo on the night shift.
He had never been much of a learner in school- he skirted by with barely passing marks, with much more interest in, well, frankly, anything else than academics. Here’s why though, vindication in its highest form: Does pursuing the question of “What happens when you ring the ships bell rumored to be haunted” lead to a.) the reasonable answer of “Of course nothing happens” or b.) “The museum comes to life”?
The museum comes to life.
Why wouldn’t it?
His education with Napoleonic history quickly became far more hands on than even the sign outside boasted. He had already successfully talked down French bayonets sticking out of far too eager paintings, been shot at with cannonballs the size of spitwads in the miniature hall, and mentally composed a solid argument for his immediate pay-raise, along with a less flowery 2-week becoming a not-even-2-days-on-the-job notice.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Style hissed over the cell, thankful that he hadn’t carelessly deleted this number.
“I did warn you,” At least his predecessor had the decency to sound abashed.
“You said some cryptic horseshit about consequences and whatnot” said Styles. “I would’ve expected something more along the lines of, ‘Hey make sure you’ve checked up on your life insurance, this place becomes a warzone at night.’”
“It's painted wax and plastic, you’ll be fine. Though.” Pause. “Have they found the guillotine yet?”
“The bloody what.”
“You know what, you should be fine, you’ll be fine. It all ends at 6, you’ll hear the bell if you aren’t looking at the clock. Just- lock them up in their respective rooms, they can’t do too much. I’m boarding my flight.”
“No- no, you don’t get to leave me while you fly off to who knows where-” Styles shouted to the uncaring hang up tone.
Brilliant. Keep doing the thing he was doing. What a wealth of information the man was. The 6:00 actually was useful, he just had to manage the situation for-
Styles stared daggers into the clock, 12:51, hoping it too had gained sentience and felt his anger.
…
A sign beside the next doorway said ‘Uniforms’, and Styles was dismayed to see the room of life sized mannequins, with their uncanny painted faces, who had haunted him even before they had been granted the ability to move. He took great joy in shutting the gate and would only feel safe once they had been locked away.
His hand reached to his side, and pawed at empty air.
“Bloody hell?” He looked down- there was a distinctive lack of jangling at the motion- and realized the loop of keys stowed at his side had vanished. “Where the-“
“Missing keys?” Said the mannequin closest to the door- an English officer by his scarlet coat and fancy horse. Styles jumped when he spoke up, his instincts having not quite grasped that nothing in this museum was simply a mannequin. He had a suspicion the man was laughing at him, but any amusement was kept veiled under tight lips.
“New night guard, this was bound to happen. Old one caught onto his tricks, he usually has to be a bit more crafty than just grabbing the keys and running.” Styles had no desire to respond to this condescension, at least not with any words he would repeat near his mum, but damn it if this man wasn’t deserving. Damn it if this man knew something he didn’t
“What’re- who’re you talking about?”
“Côtard. Frenchman. Has some ridiculous notion of crossing the Channel. Hasn’t managed to cross the front door yet, though if you don’t hurry he might actually make it this time.”
“Christ,” he swore under his breath. Although it wasn’t directly in the job description, Styles was fairly certain that exhibits autonomously removing themselves from the museum weren't exactly smiled on. He turned the way he came. “Right. Stay. I mean, don’t let anyone else out. Christ.” Then he ran.
If museum property destroyed itself, would they make him pay for it? Or would he be arrested for destruction of museum property? He doubted he could convince the cops the exhibit did it to itself. How far could this Côtard get? He was a little concerned that this mannequin had gotten close enough to snatch the keychain without him noticing.
His worst imaginings however, all came for naught, when he finally caught up wheezing and panting with Côtard- of course the mannequin was unperturbed, Styles fumed, it didn’t need to breathe! He did, however, seem to be having his own struggle with the door- he had identified the correct key, but seemed unable to properly unlock the door, desperately jiggling the lock back and forth and attempting to shake the door near off its hinges.
“Are you aware ‘ow difficult it is, to manage this unruly keychain with a single arm?” Côtard whipped around and hissed, before assuming a relaxed pose. He knew he had lost. Indeed the mannequin was missing an arm, though whether the empty sleeve was a deliberate choice to convey the effects of war or an unfortunate mishap had happened in the Uniform hall he couldn’t say.
“Stuff it,” Styles snatched the keys from the bolt without a second thought, and without any delicacy shoved them deep inside his jacket. With the immediate threat of Côtards escape gone, he was already exhausted considering the prospect of having to fix this door if he wanted to leave at the end of his shift. One thing at a time, and he grabbed Côtard’s arm and rather forcefully began to escort him back to his exhibit. He thought it couldn’t get much worse, but passing back through the miniature hall he was interrupted with a recognizable yell.
“Sloppy work, Styles,” called from below. He had already met the miniature behind that voice, but even though he knew to look down it still took him a moment to find the man himself, standing atop a small table stocked with paper guides. Mr. Bush had clearly been left behind when Styles had locked away the minis on their glass cases at hour two of this hellish shift. “You should have never let him get this far.”
“I’ll have you know I had it all under control” Style snipped back, taking the keys to unlock the nearest display, not caring enough to check if it was even the correct one. God knows what Bush might’ve gone up to in that time if he were inclined to do much more than scold Styles. “Get back inside.”
“And I imagine you had some part to play, in this,” Côtard, evidently, was just as irritated with the Hotspur’s first lieutenant, whose audacity far outpaced his stature.
“Only doing my duty, Major.” Bold words from a man not even a hand’s length tall. Bush had no more part in stopping the Major than Styles, whose career prospects had been only saved by a sticky door.
“Mister Bush,” Côtard said, carefully annunciating each sound. “One of these days, I’m going to pick up the Hotspur, throw it on the ground, and crush it into matchwood beneath my feet- ideally with you still inside.”
“You haven’t managed it yet, I doubt you ever will,” said Bush. “She may be a bit small, but I don’t doubt her cannons could blast a pretty hole in that head of yours.”
“Right, the both of you are doing none of that,” Styles groaned, picking up the paper guide and shooing him into the case the way one disposes of particularly nasty spiders outside. Of course these two, who were problematic enough individually, would combine forces to make his night more miserable. Thankfully, after separating the two, Côtard was surprisingly cooperative when it came to being escorted back to his display stand.
He even tipped his hat as Styles stepped back, and held out his arm as if to shake hands.
“Oh no no, nice try, I’m not going near you,” Styles said. “I’m not repeating this.”
“I’m grateful that you won’t be making this easy for me,” said Côtard, far too cheerily after a resounding defeat, leading Styles to pat over his jacket just to be sure and relax when he felt the clutter of metal in the inside pocket.
“Careful, Monsieur night guard, now I know where they are hiding next time.” And Styles could only be offended that these hooligan exhibits didn’t even know his name.
“Styles, if you please,” He folded his arms. “Right, at least I have that Mr. Bush on my side” In an enemy of my enemy sort of way, but he’d take any help he could get.
Côtard had some choice words he mumbled under his breath as Styles walked away. “Dull, overbearing, unintelligent buffoon. He is on no-one’s side besides that Hornblower, and his droll England.”
Styles fared no better for the rest of the night- one nightmare after another. Keeping the exhibits confined to their own space, they still managed to cause chaos. Thankfully he managed to stop the worst of it, by persuading a few soldiers that perhaps indoor artillery exercises would be a bit overkill before the entire museum was shelled to oblivion.
What had started this whole mess became the most beautiful sound when at 6:00 the peeling sound of the ship’s bell in the morning light, and the museum quite literally froze. The silence was overwhelmingly beautiful. The jammed door was not.
“Stupid door,” Styles twisted the key in vain. “You’re supposed to be on my side. You were on my side.” He was about to bang the door in frustration, when he spotted the small door and ceiling latches. No- that’d be too easy, he wasn’t such an idiot that he’d forget to check the-
The door neatly swung open, without so much as a squeak from the hinges.
Strange it was, that only the bottom latch had been set.