The museum

With the flashlight trembling in my hand, I entered that dark room. There he stood, a sinister figure on his back with a rope around his neck, ready to be hanged. The rope hung from a beam that swayed mournfully.

-Hey, -I managed to articulate in a trembling voice, -who are you?

But the man did not answer. He remained motionless, head down, while the rope creaked with an eerie sound.

Slowly I approached him and as I was about to touch him, he turned sharply. His eyes were two dark wells and a demonic grimace was drawn on his face.

-You're trapped here too...just like me,” he croaked in a cavernous voice.

I recoiled in horror, stumbling and falling to the ground as the apparition vanished before my eyes. I ran in panic through the corridors, until something stopped me in my tracks.

The walls were covered with old photographs of prisoners and guards. And at the end, a picture I had never seen before.

It was an old black and white portrait of a security guard staring into the camera. That guard...was me. But it wasn't possible, the photo was worn, as if it had been there for decades.

I reached out to touch it and then I understood with terrifying clarity: I was never the guard. I am not. I'm just another ghost, a soul condemned to eternally wander these damned corridors of the museum.