Peter Tork wandered around the empty corridors of the art museum, gazing with respectful wonder at the paintings that dappled the walls, each lit by its own soft yellow light. Mr. Nathanson, the curator, was the father of the girl Davy was dating, so he knew Peter by association and was only too happy to allow the shy blond to stay after the museum had closed.
“It’s no problem, Peter,” he’d said. “I know you’re not a thief.”
Peter stopped by a floor-length Titian, his eyes scanning the hideous rendering of a satyr being flayed alive by the sun god Apollo. “The Flaying of Marsyas,” the small brass plate by the painting read. Although repelled by the image, Peter found himself unable to look away.
“Do you ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” he asked Marsyas with a grin, because the satyr seeming to be looking right at him.
A cold prickle touched the back of his neck and he whirled. There was no one there, of course, but Peter could have sworn he’d heard breathing.
He turned back to the Titian, but Marsyas’s small smile—even in the midst of his agony—had turned to a leer, and the gaze which was once understanding was now threatening, and Peter felt the sudden urge to run, to run anywhere, and fast.
Even though he was wearing moccasins his footsteps were entirely too loud, pounding in his ears as he headed for the exit, his mind now focused not on art but on getting out as quickly as possible. He didn’t turn around—he was far too frightened of what he might find behind him.
Now he knew he was being followed. He could hear the footsteps behind him, and he broke out into a run, knowing that if he could just make it to the street he’d be okay—there were people outside, and he’d be safe amongst people.
As he reached the double doors at the end of the long corridor he saw that the stairs led down to the first floor, which was undergoing some extensive renovation. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought as he hurtled down the stairs, hoping that the doors at the bottom of the stairwell weren’t locked. They were inner doors so they shouldn’t be, but with all the construction going on there was no way to tell.
He punched his way through the doors—they weren’t locked after all—their sharp metallic clack ringing in his ears. His moccasins skidded on the dusty floor, nearly sending him into the scaffolding nearby.
“Oh no!” he cried, hearing the pounding footsteps behind him. He ran, blindly sprinting down the dark hallway. Halfway to the bright red EXIT sign a pair of hands seized his shirt, long fingernails digging painfully into his shoulders. He shrieked, tearing away from the hands, and ran even faster. A short flight of stairs stood between him and freedom, and he slowed so that he wouldn’t go tumbling down them.
It turned out to be a mistake. Something hard struck him between the shoulder blades with a hollow metallic clang, and he slammed into the concrete steps, rolling head over heels to the bottom.
The dark figure paused at the top of the stairs, then descended, dropping the aluminum stepladder on top of Peter’s still body before slipping out the back door, inserting a length of pipe between the door and the jamb before disappearing into the night.
~*~
Several miles away, Davy Jones had fallen into a shallow sleep on the couch. He saw Peter, happily whiling away the time at the museum, and a small smile appeared on Davy’s slumbering lips. He knew how much Peter loved the museum. He watched as Peter bent slightly to study an enormous macabre painting, his tawny brows drawing together in a combination of revulsion and fascination. The dream was so real that Davy could hear Peter’s quiet breathing. His pleasure, however, quickly turned to horror when quite against his will, he began chasing Peter down the corridor.
Wait, that wasn’t right. Peter was Davy’s friend; why would he be chasing him? He tried to call out Peter’s name, to tell him “Wait! It’s me, Davy!” but the words wouldn’t come. He watched in stunned disbelief as Peter began to run, terrified. Davy followed, unable to control the pursuit and unable to stop.
He followed Peter down a dark, narrow flight of steps, chasing him into a dim, cluttered corridor on the first floor. Now Davy was beginning to panic, thrashing in his sleep in a futile attempt to stop. The vision, however, continued, culminating in a vicious blow to Peter’s back that sent the blond hurtling down a flight of steps. He could hear the dull thud of Peter’s body as it fell before the image slowly moved, resolving into a pair of hands holding an aluminum stepladder.
Davy awoke with a howl, sitting upright, every muscle in his body locked. He stared, wild-eyed, around the pad. “It wasn’t me,” he said.
Wasn’t me?? he thought. Jones, you’re goin’ nuts! It was just a dream! A really bad, sick, twisted dream!
But it had been so real. He could still hear Peter’s high-pitched cry as he’d fallen. With a surge of panic Davy leaped to his feet and ran to the bedroom he shared with Peter, hoping that Peter had slipped in while he was napping. Micky and Mike were out—Micky on a date and Mike doing whatever Mike did when he was out by himself. Davy had atypically remained home, wandering around in abject boredom before falling asleep on the couch.
“Peter! Peter, you in there!?” he called, switching on the light. It only took him three seconds to see that Peter was not there.
Although his rational mind was telling him it was only a dream, the instinct that Davy ignored most of the time spurred him on, chasing him out the door and into the night, in the direction of the museum.
On to Chapter Two
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