Whispers in the Dark
Perhaps the most unnerving thing to be heard were the whispers. At night, when the museum was at its most still, I could hear these low murmurs, indistinct words. At first, I thought it sounded like the wind blowing through the windows from outside or the faint hum of traffic from a few miles away, but this was not that. It was something inside the building itself—very low voices talking in hushed tones as if they were holding some sort of quiet conversation beyond my hearing.
One night, patrolling in the Greek and Roman exhibit, the whispers were louder. I stopped listening to try to make out what was said; the words themselves I couldn’t make out. The sound seemed to drift on the air, appearing to come from no particular direction. My skin prickled as I realized that I was completely alone in the museum-or, at least, I should have been.
I moved toward the sound, hoping to find its source, but the moment I crossed into the next room, the whispers stopped. Silence is much more troublesome than the voices. I was still, my heart thumping, straining to hear something – anything – but all I could hear was the oppressive silence of the abandoned museum.
