The paranormal museum resided in what had obviously once been a bowling alley, vast and echoing. Beatrix shouldered through the glass doors into a wide, red-carpeted space, and bought a ticket at a circus-style ticket booth. She descended a short flight of stairs and into a mazelike structure. Walls covered in Ouija boards. Glass-covered displays of alchemical tomes. Full-sized spirit cabinets from the Victorian era. Why hadn’t she visited this place before? It didn’t have the usual paranormal jump scares. This was history, real history and art. She walked into a wide space with charcoal-painted walls covered in surrealist oil paintings. Adjusting her glasses, she read one of the wall placards. Veil of Descent Oil on canvas, Date Unknown, by T. In this haunting work, T depicts a luminous figure poised at the threshold of a ruined temple, one hand lifting a translucent veil while the other contends with descending shadows. The painting contrasts the golden ladder of inner ascent with the pull of inverted symbols and watchful darkness below. Viewers often report a palpable sense of the thinning veils between worlds — a visual meditation on the eternal struggle between transformation and the forces that seek to keep humanity bound to material dominion. She retraced her steps to the entrance. The young man at the ticket counter looked up from his paperback—a lurid sci-fi novel, its cover a spacesuited blond with gravity-defying curves. “Looking for the bathroom?” “The curator. I have an appointment.” “Uh... Okay. Who should I say is, uh, here?” “My name is Beatrix Marzanna.” She handed him her card. “His web address was on an abstract I found.” “Just a sec.” He disappeared from behind the ticket counter. Five minutes later, a mousy, middle-aged man emerged into the hall. He straightened his bow tie and stopped short, staring at Beatrix. His watery eyes blinked behind thick, coke-bottle glasses. “Ms. Marzanna?” “Yes, I’m—” “This—this way, please.” He turned and retreated down a hallway.
Beatrix followed him into an office choked with Victorian dolls, spirit trumpets, and tattered books on spiritualism, folklore, and ghost hunting. He pulled out a chair for her, then sat behind his wooden desk. “I’m Herb Linden, curator of the San Benedetto Paranormal Museum,” he said. “Are you here for your painting?” She blinked. “I... I’m sorry, do we know each other?” “No. I recognized you from the painting.” “What painting? I’m sorry, there’s been some confusion. I’m here about this abstract.” She handed him the printout she had made of it. He glanced at the paper. “Ah. What about it?” “Your website is on it,” she repeated, exasperated. “Do you know anything about this Brotherhood?” “Only the usual rumors.” “Which are?” The curator blinked from behind his thick glasses. “They’re a black lodge—some say the original black lodge, speculation I suspect they encourage.” “But what are they? Some sort of secret society of dark magicians?” “Yes.” “And that’s it? That’s all you can tell me?” “It’s a secret society.” He rose and walked to a stack of paintings leaning against one cinderblock wall. Flipping through them, he lifted one free and turned, displaying a deep blue painting. She gripped the edge of the desk for balance. It was a painting of her. In her office. A crow at the skylight. But that was impossible. That had only happened yesterday. “Our Executive Director felt uneasy about it,” Herb said, “given the instructions.” “What instructions?” she managed to croak out. In answer, he set the painting atop his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to her.
This collection is for the San Benedetto Paranormal Museum to use as it wishes, with one exception: The Shadowed Correspondent, Oil on Canvas, 2025. It depicts an older woman at her desk looking toward a skylight, where a dark avian watcher perches. Phantom envelopes swirl around her, reminiscent of Madame Blavatsky and her spectral mail. This work belongs to the subject of the painting. When she comes, please give it to her. –T. “Since the painting technically didn’t belong to the museum,” Herb said, “our executive director felt we shouldn’t put it on display.” She swayed in her chair. It wasn’t possible. But there it was. The painting was undoubtedly her, right down to the magpie feathers behind her keyboard. “Are you alright?” the little man asked. “I—yes. The artist, who is T?” “You don’t know?” His face creased with disappointment. “No.” But the letter... Could he be T from her esoteric chat group? Herb braced his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “I believe the T stands for Tom.” “Tom who?” “That’s the question. There’s a fascinating book called The Mysteries of Tarot—we sell it in the gift shop—by a Tarot reader, Hyperion Night. His editor was a mystic referred to as Tom, who signed his editorial notes on Mr. Night’s manuscript only as T.” “Was this Tom an artist?” “The book doesn’t say. However, we know from the book that his father is one of the wealthiest men in America and that his father was murdered.” “Good heavens, not—” “Yes.” He nodded. “And we know that Tom was an artist. These paintings appear to be an evolution from his earlier style.” “But didn’t he disappear back in 2023? I heard Tom was dead.” Herb sat back in his executive chair, and it squeaked beneath his small frame. “Presumed dead.” And if he had his father’s wealth, that Tom may well have been able to hide himself from the authorities. “May I have a closer look at the painting?” Beatrix nodded toward it. “You may have it. It’s yours, after all.” He rose and handed it to her.
Beatrix studied it. It was her. She hadn’t imagined it. She felt slightly ill. “You should visit our past exhibits page,” Herb said, handing her a brochure. “I think you’ll find it of interest. And now, if you’ll excuse me...” It was a dismissal, and she took the painting to her car. Once it was safely loaded in the back, she pulled out her phone. Beatrix set her reading glasses on her nose and returned to the museum website.