gift shop desk at artists' retreat

"The Doom Statues" - Chapter 38

By jasonmcgathey | Jason McGathey | 9 Sep 2024


Though receiving almost no traffic apart from the Saturday tours, Grace is tasked with keeping an eye on the gift shop, and at least drifting though it a couple of times a day. She’s sitting alone in here now, having recently spotted some middle-aged woman who apparently lives nearby, driving up the lane for a visit. After ringing up this snoopy, busybody type, Grace decided to keep hanging out in here. And this is how they find her, with an office chair pulled out into the sales floor, facing the door, flipping through a magazine and blowing on her freshly painted nails.

“I love that blouse! That’s frickin awesome!” Emily tells her, regarding this satiny, short sleeved shirt, a button up affair, which is a shiny grayish-blue, depending upon how the light strikes it, and otherwise covered with this identical repeating print of gold colored owls. Just the basic outline of this owl, really, wide eyes and all.

“Thanks,” she shrugs, though smiling, “it’s from The Collection, of course.”

“Hmm. Maybe I gave up on The Collection too soon,” Emily muses.

“So, what, you’re just chillin in here by yourself? Isn’t this extremely dull?”

Shrugging only her left shoulder this time, seated still and clutching the magazine with her right hand, Grace tells him, “eh, I kind of like it, actually. Peaceful. But…yeah, so anyway, what brings you guys down here?”

Without getting into a ton of specifics, Jeremy explains his theory about a possible hidden room. She doesn’t appear too impressed, only sort of nodding once before returning her attention to turning some of the glossy, full color pages in her fashion mag. Except as Jeremy and Emily are soon behind the front counter, pawing around, a clicking sound rings out behind them. They whip around to see Grace, at the door, having just bolted it.

“Are you seriously locking the door? I love it,” Jeremy says, grinning.

“Yeah…I don’t know why, but it seems important for some reason. If we find what you think we will.”

Even with all three of them on the case, however, touching every object and surface they can find behind the counter, underneath, on it, in front of it, and prying with fingers along that wall, nothing is found. Every minute or two, they continue hearing shotgun blasts across the property, meaning Clay hasn’t yet lost interest in his newfound art project. Then Jeremy and Emily are in the office, which, though painted a cheerful seafoam green color, and well illuminated by a window on the back wall, is about the least spooky room on site. Still, it’s just crammed with just enough junk to make this search a valid exercise. Jeremy has squeezed in behind the heavily cluttered desk and is playing with various drawers, feeling underneath every available surface, when Grace lets out a delighted squeal, at the same instant as this sharp slamming sound rings out.

“Well, you guys might not believe this, but…I found it!” she calls to them, and they are on her in the next instant.

“What! You’re kidding!” Emily gasps.

“Where’d you find it?” Jeremy asks, though he, like Emily, is already in motion, moving past a kneeling Grace to inspect this secret chamber.

“It’s right here,” Grace demonstrates, both hands cupped around one wooden support beam on the inside of the counter. “My hand just brushed it accidentally, and I felt it give the tiniest bit. It kind of sticks, but…,” she demonstrates, if you yank down on it, that door slides open, like, really fast.”

“It’s on some kind of track…,” Jeremy notes, inspecting the manner in which the door shot open, tucking itself inside another section of wall. He was within minutes of announcing a change of plan, and running off to find a sledgehammer or something, though this is without question better.

He estimates that the room is maybe ten feet wide and fifteen deep. A concrete floor, and, judging from the suddenly muffled sounds of Clay’s shotgun blasts, the walls are well insulated. The lack of any windows in here certainly helps in this regard, as he turns to his phone yet again for illumination. Still, Emily notes that there are a couple lamps, and a mini refrigerator that’s sitting unplugged, with at least three wall outlets she can see, so the power must work, or at least once did. To demonstrate, she glides over, and flips on a lamp, feels an instant soothing sensation wash over her within its warm glow.

She already loves it here. Maybe not quite as fascinated by this as she is that underground tunnel, but she could be, given enough time. There’s a thin queen-sized mattress on this gray metal, vaguely military looking bed in a corner, and a small table, with two chairs, and also, perhaps most importantly, an old-fashioned wood burning stove, with its hinged front door and a surface up top for cooking. A curved pipe feeding into, clearly, the chimney nobody questioned, because there’s a fireplace nobody uses — which is in fact mostly blocked by the desk — in that bright, cramped matchbox of an office.

In the room’s front corner, there’s even a tiny stall, a single wall projecting outward, with a flimsy wooden door that is currently flung open. Within it, a tiny sink and a toilet. So this just about covers all the essentials, it would seem. Because along the remaining front wall, four levels of metal shelving are jammed with rice, bags of beans, peanut jars, honey, and even a bottle of rum, another of whiskey. Alongside other essentials such as match boxes, light bulbs, candles, various cups, plates, and silverware items, a heavy looking hunting jacket, and some blankets.

Jeremy, inspecting the door area, observes there’s a string on it, for pulling the door shut, and then a series of deadbolts on this side, to prevent opening from the secret gift shop lever. He tests these features out now, locking them in, then strolls over to knock every so often on all four walls.

The girls watch him without comment, as he nods and inspects this space, observes that it’s for all intents a sturdily built, above ground bunker. He doesn’t want to spook them by questioning aloud the reasons why someone might build such a space — although it’s possible they are thinking such anyway. Instead, however, all he offers is, “Grace is right. Don’t ask me why, but I feel like we need to keep this a secret.”

“Totally,” she agrees.

“Do you think Harry knows?” Emily wonders, her smile dropping to more of a concerned grimace. “I feel like we should at least tell him.”

Jeremy’s holding his head in his hands, attempting to sort out what this means, against the backdrop of everything they’ve already learned. On one hand, this is mighty weird, just like numerous other occurrences, but on the flipside, nothing bad has really happened here. They’ve had one disgruntled chef walk off her job and that’s about the extent of it.

“He would be about the last person I would tell,” Jeremy states. “I’m not saying I don’t trust the guy, or whatever. I’m still…reasonably sure he’s cool and everything. But somebody felt the need to build this for some reason. And we’re the ones actually living here. It just might come in handy.”

“What, you mean, like you might need a sanctuary?” Grace says, punctuating this question with her standard nervous, nearly quivering smile.

“Yeah, but, seriously? Like I’m not gonna tell my sister about this? Or Kay? Come on!” Emily says.

“No, Grace is right, Emily,” Jeremy insists, “I think we need to keep a lid on this, as a potential hideout. With everyone. It seems important. Can I get you to agree to this?”

Emily kneads her hands together for a few seconds, making a conflicted, tortured expression. Then the defiance sinks from her face and she reluctantly concedes, “okay. Fine.”

They’ve no sooner wrapped up this conversation before a pounding sounds out at the front door, however. Which calls into question a whole other dilemma, considering someone could surely see this secret passage sliding open, if a person were looking in through either the door or the front window. Jeremy concludes they will need to get some curtains up, and most likely something tall to sit atop the counter as well, obstructing the view.

As they discuss what to do in sharp whispers, it’s eventually determined that if unlatching the door bolts from here on the inside, they should be able to slide the door open a smidgen with their fingers, affording a quick look around before exiting. The shortest among them, Grace does so, peeking out to observe she can in fact see Denise outside now, with her back turned to the building, as she looks out over the front of the property. Most likely searching for them, all three agree. After a quick consensus, Grace sneaks out of the room, followed by the other two. And in playing with the support beam under the counter again, they are able to slam the secret passage all the way shut once more.

“What are you guys doing in there? Having a threesome? Why was the door locked?” Denise questions, when they finally fling the front one open.

“That’s probably my fault,” Emily replies, without hesitation, “I was the last one in. Probably just a reflex thing.”

Though Denise nods, apparently buying it, Jeremy is studying her face in its entirety, and concludes he must be the only one to wonder what brings her here. Because aside from the jokes, and grilling them, she’s otherwise wearing the mischievous grin and raised eyebrows of somebody who’s just dying to tell them some unbelievable news.

“So? What is it? Spill the beans,” he urges, “I can tell you’re just dying to blab about something.”

“Yes,” Denise replies, and her grin widens, her eyebrows shoot up even higher as she rubs her hands together and relates, “so, okay, the tunnel?”

“Yeah?”

“We ran out of yarn.”

“What do you mean you ran out of yarn?”

“I mean we used up all the rolls. All twenty-four of them.”

“Get out of here!” Emily says, spellbound and incredulous at once.

“Okay,” Jeremy nods his head, then asks, “so how long is it?”

“We have no idea. It keeps going after that.”

 

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jasonmcgathey
jasonmcgathey

I am a professional writer with 8 published books under my belt. And many other unpublished ones, in various stages of disarray.


Jason McGathey
Jason McGathey

Semi-Coherent Musings - from one of the leading masters of this questionable art form!

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