CHAPTER 3
THE CURATOR
The museum is a magnet for the grotesque and is equally mesmerising, drawing in curious minds from all corners of the globe.
It’s lined with a collection of over four thousand wax moulages displayed in glass showcases along the walls of a large, rectangular hall.
Each vitrine holds disfigured faces, telltale scars of syphilis, and skin marred by the violent artistry of rare diseases - ulcerated flesh frozen in time.
They’re wax models, carefully sculpted and painstakingly painted to mimic the real thing so convincingly that visitors shudder at the sight.
But not all of them are wax. Every now and then, I slip in a genuine artefact, a specimen that was once pulsing with life.
The difference is imperceptible to most. To the casual observer, they’re just another wax piece in a collection of horrors.
Yet, I know. And perhaps a few others do too – the ones with sharp eyes, the ones that linger a second too long.
The vitrines command attention, suffering enclosed in glass. Yet, this man remained unbothered, untouched by the eerie allure of the macabre. No, his focus is on me. His stance was too casual to be natural; his gaze never flinched towards the vitrines.
He’s here for something else. And that made me smile.
I close up the museum thinking of him. A man in his fifties perhaps - though time has been kind to him.
Soft hands. A sharp suit, tailored with the kind of precision that suggests he never settles for less.
The watch on his wrist - understated luxury.
The cut of his jacket – Italian. Expensive.
It doesn’t whisper. It screams. He’s witty too - his words slipping into conversation like a well-played card.
Mafia, for sure.
Mob boss? No... But he’s not an underdog either.
What does he want with me?
He doesn’t belong here. Not in my world of frozen smiles and glassy stares.
Not among my waxen congregation I’ve shaped with my own hands.
And yet – there he stands, too close to Antoine Monet; Corsican blood, Parisian charm.
Monet was an enforcer for a shadowy syndicate that operated beneath the surface of France’s glittering facade.
Extortion, disappearances, political pressure.
Antoine didn’t follow orders, he made examples, that was until he wound up on my table and had his skin surgically removed and integrated into a piece for the museum.
If this lone wolf is mafia, I imagine him lifting a finger, pointing it at Antoine with precision, and saying – softly, almost kindly – ‘You didn’t get the eyes right.’ And right at that moment I wouldn’t know whether to feel flattered or afraid.
The problem with someone watching me is that it makes hunting inconvenient.
Not impossible, but frustrating. He would be like an itch just out of reach.
I need to move. Work faster. Adjust. Because my hunger doesn’t care about other parties.
It doesn’t wait for the perfect moment; it will just gnaw, relentlessly, demanding, until the need to kill becomes so unbearable that mistakes are made.
This man has just become a nuisance that will end up becoming collateral damage and that would be such a shame, because he’s not half bad looking.
Distractions can be dangerous.
I turn to look to the museum, watching the last stragglers shuffle out into the night, oblivious to the secrets concealed within these walls. With one last glance, I check for the handsome stranger.
Nothing.
He’s vanished, dissolving into the city like a whisper I might’ve imagined.
Maybe I’m just paranoid. I climb into my car, the engine purring to life.
The street lights flicker, but my thoughts wander.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as the road unfurls before me.
It’s dark, and the streetlights flicker like faulty neurons.
My bats are waiting – my little winged beasts - their hunger a far more reliable constant than the erratic whims of men.
Speaking of men. He’s lingering in my mind like a persistent itch.
Sharp suit. Sharper words. A man who doesn’t just wander in to admire grotesque medical oddities, no.
I signal to turn down a road, though here, there’s no one around to appreciate my adherence to traffic laws.
Once I leave the city, the roads turn quiet, so I speed up.
After all, my bats have no regard for legality, only for food, for blood.
There’s a peculiar thrill of having something – someone – to dissect. A fresh point of intrigue, a distraction from the routine monotony of feeding my bats. It’s exhilarating – really. My thoughts coil around the possibility like a predator scenting fresh prey. Not that he’s prey – not yet, anyway.
I’d have to find him first.
But he’s something, something that doesn’t belong in the life of Marguerite Dubois.
He walked into my carefully, curated world and left behind a ripple.
It’s rare for something or someone to pique my interest beyond skin and flesh.
Rarer still that someone might invite themselves into my space where my mind likes to linger.
How careless of him.
How fun for me.
I have a new toy.