Feelin' The Spirit

by - October 26, 2015

If a cold breeze signifies a ghost, then te arctic must be really haunted.
Jarod Kintz from This Book Is NOT FOR SALE

 | Dress: Superstar | Tights: Primark | Hat: Vintage | Bag: Vintage | Shoes: Van Haren | Lipstick: Chanel Rouge Allure in #90 Pimpante |

Thomas rubbed his eyes once more. It's going to be a long night, he thought to himself as his colleague shuts the door. "Ready, old boy", he commented while stretching his arms into the air. "Yeah, yeah", his colleague answers, "Switching positions every half hour?". Thomas nodded. "Well, see you in a bit then". "Yeah, see you in a bit".

Thomas didn't mind doing night shifts, but as he was getting older it became harder for him to stay alert all of the time. And why should he? It's a bloody museum! You'll need quite some tools to get a painting in there, let alone out there. And, he thought to himself, with all those electronic devices -security cameras overviewing every angle of the building, alarms if you're standing just a tad bit too close to a painting, locks with personal keycards and passwords that changes every day- you'd think it's a bit too much adding a couple of security guards on the actual premises. Oh well, a job is a job. Besides, he overheard the curator the other day about a recent theft of a painting from another museum. "Better to be safe than sorry, I guess", he mumbled to himself.

"Everything's clear, over", he heard on his walkie-talkie. "Nothing here, over". "Switching positions in five, over". "Copy that". Thomas looked impatiently at his watch, five minutes of many more to come. Time always passed so much slower when on night shift. During the day he'd either run around like a mad man, enjoy some small talk with the regular visitors or keep an eye on a couple of rowdy youngsters. The day would be gone before anything really bad could happen. Some visitors can be so uncareful, he thought to himself while shaking his head. Backpacks are the number one enemy of paintings, not thiefs.

Thomas abruptly gets awakened by his thoughts by the flickering of the lights. He looked up and within notice all lights were out. In total darkness he tried to reach for his walkie-talkie. "What's going on, over". A silence overtook the darkness. "All lights are out, over". Still no sound from the other side. "Hello, somebody there?! All lights are out, over". The walkie-talkie made a screeching sound. Without any hesitation Thomas stood up from his chair and grabbed his torch. He shines through the room. Nothing there, he thought to himself. Once again he tried to lay contact with his colleagues, but all he could hear was noise. "So long for a boring night", he mumbles to himself. It probably was nothing. Old building, old wiring.

Following protocol, Thomas looked in his bag for his mobile phone to call his superior. While scavenging through his bag he heard a voice, whispering. "Hello? Somebody there?". Thomas shines his torch through the room. All the paintings were still neatly hanging on the walls. "Strange", he said out loud. While turning his head, he felt a hand touching his shoulder. Before he could look who was standing behind him, a face appeared before his eyes. A girl, dressed in white, was standing right in front of him. But as he blinked, she was gone. In a blaze he drops the torch and tries to catch it. Suddenly he felt a cold breathe besides his ear, the hands of the girl wrapped around his neck.

All the lights went on again. And, as if nothing had happened, a colleague of Thomas steps into the room. "Your five minutes are up", he said teasingly. Only to his horror to find bloodshot eyes staring back at him. The bloodshot eyes of Thomas. Before he could react to the situation, the lights flickered and he felt a sudden sharp pain in his back. He looks down and sees the end of a -what must be- sword sticking out of his tummy, a cold breathe next to his ear. Like a sack of potatoes he fell onto the floor, covering half of Thomas' body.

As the early sun rose, the police were already busy and most of all puzzled upon arrival at the scene of the crime. All five security guards of a small museum downtown were killed. All five in different ways, all five on the same night and all five within a short limit of time. A museum with security cameras overviewing every angle of the building and locks with personal keycards and passwords that changes every day, but no sign as to who did it and why they did it. All the paintings were still there, no alarm had gone off. "It must've been a ghost", one of the police officers joked. "Don't be ridiculous", the inspectotr answered, "ghost don't exist".


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