I went without hesitation. If I strolled by him on the street I would cringe at his aesthetic, but out in the woods, on that porch, he looked like a butterfly among cockroaches. I dashed to the cabin, traversing the stairs in a single bound, and stood in front of the door. I grimaced as the monsters continued storming the cabin in slow motion, but the curator seemed cool as a cucumber, so my mood followed suit. I looked at the door, and saw a brass nameplate bolted to the heavy wood, engraved with a simple title:
The man swung the door open and stepped to the side, motioning me through with an open palm. I obliged. Once inside, I looked around a...
Please subscribe to keep reading.