#gallu

Most of the boxes are filled with the decorations for the actual setup, and once you’re done making sure everything’s here, you’re also supposed to begin setting up the exhibition. Under no circumstances, though, are you allowed to go poking around the genuine artifacts. Still, you’re expected to place the plaques, the fakes, the pedestals, and the long, plastic boards covered in various information where they belong. You look over the diagram on a crumpled piece of paper, mouthing the lyrics of the accompanying music, and dig through the decorations until you find the one labeled ASHJ-123, then pin it in place.

Something thuds in the adjoining room.

Immediately, your anxiety spikes, but you try to calm yourself with some logic. One of the plaques probably fell down, or maybe a new security guard just bit the dust. You need to stop imagining the worst. Still, turning your music down just a bit, you step out to investigate. The area where you heard the noise is mostly finished, with the artifacts already out on display, the whole thing resembling a tomb. Props to the designers, too, because walking through during your late shifts always gives you this weird, eerie feeling, like you’re trespassing on sacred grounds.

As you near a corner, you see one of the coffins slightly ajar, which is odd. Indignation sparks inside your chest, because if someone is going around willy-nilly and touching the artifacts, you’re going to be the one who suffers for it. You aren’t even allowed to fix it, you don’t have the know-how or skill, so that means you’re going to have to report it immediately and hope it can wait until morning. Turning the camera app on, you lift your phone up, snapping a picture from three different sides, and send it to your manager with an angry huff.

More noises. You’re back on alert, phone gripped tightly in hand, and you predial 911, thumb hovering the call button. Along the wall, where a reconstructed archway is, there’s a warm, bluish glow, the cuneiform engraved in the stone pulsing with some kind of strange energy. Which… Okay, maybe the curator uncharacteristically wanted some special effects to spice things up? To make some sort of ‘appeal to the younger generation,’ as he has said before? You gulp, wondering what’s triggering it, if you’re alone, or maybe the crew is still here?

Someone steps out from behind a statue, and you scream.

In your hasty stress, though, instead of managing to hit the Call button with your shaking fingers, you end up dropping your phone onto the thinly carpeted floor. You try to pick it back up, eyes on whoever that is, trembling, hoping that the very tall, muscular, bearded man wearing- uh, you don’t know what those robes are- isn’t here to harm you. But you want that fucking phone in your hands just in case.

“Do not be afraid,” he says, voice remarkably calming, low, and soft, “I mean no harm to you.”

“So-sorry,” you gasp, trying to calm yourself, “I um- I thought I was alone.”

He nods once, then looks around the exhibit, his eyebrows scrunched and furrowed in concentration. Like he’s lost. His hair is long, dark, falling past his shoulders in perfectly crafted waves, his beard about the same length, perfectly coiled in long ringlets. It’s… definitely a look, that’s for sure, though you don’t know what exactly he’s going for. Six thousand years too late, maybe? Washed out Bible movie actor? Having a beard is one thing, but giving it those Shirly Temple curls is something else. Perhaps it’s some sort of new underground hipster trend you aren’t aware of.

Letting in a deep, calming breath, you rub your arms. “Are you lost? The museum is closed, you’re not supposed to be here.”

The man frowns, his eyes… weirdly glowing, you think, when he looks at you. “I wouldn’t be here unless I needed to be.”

Sass. Great. Instead of the cops, you’re already dialing up the number for the museum’s internal security. “No, really, if you don’t have a badge, you need to leave.”

Something tingles in the air, causing all your hair to stand on end. “I assure you,” the man says, calmly, “I would not be called to this place unless there was a task for me to accomplish.”

“Cool,” you say, hitting the call button and setting your phone to speaker mode, the wall behind you exploding before the security guard even has a chance to pick up. You didn’t even know that’s what happened until a few moments after, because your vision takes a moment to return, chunks of the exhibit spread out around the floor. There’s blood in your mouth, tiny pricks of heat pinch against your arms and back.

Shakily, you try to get your bearings, maybe to rise to your knees, and you notice the man is standing over you, facing something just over your shoulder, arms outstretched, eyes glowing with an intensity that sends shivers through your spine. Something cackles, loud, chittering, you don’t know what could make that sound, it’s like a wounded animal. Wheezing from the plaster dust, you reach over to where your phone fell, bringing back a horrifically cracked mess. Fuck. Frantically, with tears pricking the edges of your eyes, you tap on the screen and press the sleep button, but nothing happens.

The man steps around your body, you hear the sound of… smacking? Like cement against cement, the telltale crunch of something breaking vibrating through the space. You roll, flipping your body over, trying to scurry out of the line of fire. As you look around for a hiding spot, you finally catch a glimpse of what busted through the walls, and you gulp, because surely your eyes are playing tricks. This can’t be happening.

It’s like a shadow, black and shimmering, a thick, viscous fog devoid of any kind of color beyond to, glowing orbs on its seemingly fluid-like body, but then it splits in half, revealing a throbbing, drooling maw filled to the brink with needle-like teeth. And the man- the man is fighting it, arms glowing with some kind of warm, primordial energy that almost seems to match the color of his eyes? It’s like magma, orange, red, and yellow, oozing and melting together, and he’s wrapping the stuff around whatever that creature is like a lasso. It’s struggling, knocking over priceless fucking artifacts as it writhes, wriggles, and shrieks, your ears popping oddly against the desperate shrillness.

You don’t even have it in you to scream in fear, despite the fact you are deeply afraid, because you are currently focused on one thing: survival. There are no places for you to hide that you would trust not to get immediately smashed, so you’re focused solely on dodging the scuffle, your eyes focused on the fire alarm on the other side of the room, where the hallway that leads out of this dead end exhibit also is. With a careful gaze, you watch the fight, slowly picking your way around the chunks of wall plaster and brick, trying to call the least amount of attention to yourself as you do so.

Something swipes at the back of your head, leaving a thick, slimy trail in your hair. Already you’re planning on how long and hot the shower you’re going to take once you manage to get home, thousands of little, prickly snakes working their way through your nerves as you dodge another one of that thing’s tendrils. Gross, gross, gross, gross, you almost choke, stepping over a fallen pedestal, then make a run for the fire alarm, reaching out and pulling on the little lever harder than you need to.

Alarms start blaring, red flashing light pulsing at the ceiling. No water, though, this is a museum, after all, with priceless artifacts hung up against the walls, can you even imagine? But the sound seems to throw the creature off its rhythm, it folds in on itself and starts screaming, you have to cover your ears because you’re afraid you might go deaf. The man who might not be a man takes advantage of this little hiccup, smiting the creature with a bright, hot flash of energy bursting from his hands, and the damn thing melts, the screams fading into a muted sob, and you suddenly can’t help but feel pity for the little thing. It… it’s like it’s in pain.

You watch, sickly fascinated, as it folds in on itself, crumpling like a piece of thin paper, smaller, smaller, until it no longer seems to exist. There’s a soft, anticlimactic pop, and the shadow is gone, like it never existed. The only evidence that it had would be the, well, the leftover, decimated exhibit, pieces of priceless objects from thousands of years ago shattered and broken. You swallow, thickly, staring at the mess, and realize numbly that you’re probably going to be fired.

The man approaches where you stand, gasping and shaking with a jumble of emotions you don’t have time to place, and he reaches out his hand. Carefully, he looks over the area where that thing slimed you, a thick layer of black mucus clinging onto your skin for dear life. The messy thoughts in your head slowly manage to form a full sentence, and, gasping, you manage to choke out, “what was that thing?”

Sirens roar in the distance, but the man seems only mildly bothered by them, “a corrupted spirit. If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like that.”

Fear spikes through your system. “What?”

With a kind of calm that only works to annoy you, he says, “any living creature that the corrupted spirit marks are likely to become corrupt themselves. Come, my brothers and I should be able to cleanse you.”

“I’m sorry- go where? You’re over this already, there’s a layer of nervous sweat on your skin, and you’re afraid. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you.”

He lets out a huff of frustration, shaking his head. “Given the fact you aided in my victory- I am indebted to you. I must help your mortal health.”

The sirens grow closer. Rapidly, you shake your head, refusing the offer, downright suspicious of what it might mean. It’s just goop, you can probably get the damn stuff off with a bit of shampoo and hot water. Still, though, he’s insistent.

“It won’t happen overnight, but it will eventually overtake your heart and corrupt your spirit.” He holds his hand out. “You must accept my help if you would prefer remaining sane.”

You hear people calling your name, realizing dully that it must be the security guards. Numbly, you turn around, seeing their silhouettes in the stairway, running down with frantic desperation. You need to go to them, to tell them what happened- but you realize that no one is going to believe you. Letting in a soft, calming breath, you turn back to the man, brain trying to restart after being knocked around a few times. Even if what he says is true, can you really trust him to do as he claims? You can’t just run from a crime scene, that would make you suspect number one.

What reason would he have to lie, though? He just saved you from that thing, you don’t know how you would have managed to escape without those… fantastic… biceps. Rubbing your arms, you try to quickly weigh the pros and cons of following him, but someone grabs you, pulling you back from the mess, you can feel them looking over the bruises on your arm. Something solid pinches in your hand suddenly, and you look down, finding an unfamiliar coin in your palm. Slyly, you pocket the thing as you’re swarmed by a few rather concerned paramedics.

You get questioned by the police as someone bandages you, but you’re… well, unbelievably wary about telling the truth, so you forget to mention the presence of the man and the creature. Did you notice any odd smells? No. Did you see anyone? You heard noises and went to investigate. Do you know anyone who would do you harm? Not like this. Are you aware of any groups threatening the museum? No. It goes on like that for a while, and you have to put your information down so they can contact you as a witness to what they believe to be a terrorist attack.

A bomb, they decide, though they can’t seem to find any evidence beyond what appeared to be an actual explosion. Still, no shrapnel from a weapon, no traces of chemicals, and the wall clearly look like it was unceremoniously shoved through, rather than an evenly dispersed burst of energy. You can tell that one of the detectives think that you’re the one to do it, but of course, there’s no bomb, no evidence. Plus, you pulled the fire alarm, that’s a point in your basket.

The paramedics want you to get a once-over from a doctor, but you want to go home and shower. After you swear on your mom’s life that you’ll book an appointment shortly, after you reassure to your supervisor that you’re fine, you’re just tired, they book you an uber home, so you don’t have to drive. Once you get back, you go into a cleaning frenzy, stripping out of your dusty, plaster covered and slightly torn clothes, and spending about an hour in the shower, slightly hotter than you can tolerate, shampooing, reshampooing, conditioning, shampooing again.

You’re still shaking, even after wrapping yourself up in your biggest, fluffiest pampering towel, looking over your dirty clothes, trying to figure out what to do with them. A part of you wants to throw them away, forget the night, put the memories under lock and key, because it’s been a few hours and you’re not even sure if what you experienced was at all true, or if you imagined the entire thing in some sort of trauma-induced lucid dream. A glimmer flickers, the coin slipping out of your pocket, and you find yourself on the verge of crumbling.

Carefully, you pick it up, running your fingers over the golden inscription, biting your lower lip. This has to mean something, why else would it just… appear in your hand? You flick it against your thumb, sending it across the table, and then it disappears. Well, maybe it transforms, or summons, or you don’t fucking know, but the man is in your kitchen. The same man from the museum. In your kitchen. And you, you’re wearing nothing but a towel, so that’s just the cherry on top.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He breaks eye contact first.

“I’m going to get dressed,” you say as calmly as you turn around, heading back to the bathroom, clothes in hand. You gave yourself some time to think about… well, that, working to put your pajamas as slowly as possible. When you reemerge, you take a long, huffy, exhausted breath, placing your hands on the kitchen counter as you try to fight for words. Finally, all you can imagine saying is, “would you like some tea?”

“If you would be so inclined.” He doesn’t seem to know what you’re talking about but accepts out of politeness.

You don’t care about the actual tea, though, but you are definitely thankful for the mindless work. Two mugs. Two teabags. If he doesn’t know what tea is, he’s not going to have a preference, right? The water heats up, and you have to take a moment, staring at the clock on your microwave, to think. Turning around, you look back to him and ask what exactly is on your mind. “Why are you here?”

“You still need to be cleansed from the corrupted spirit.”

You suspected that might be the case. At least this way, you can think about it in the comfort of your own home, without the time tables of frantic paramedics rushing to get to your first.

“Can we do it here?” You ask, because you just got home, and you’d like to go to bed.

“If you’d like,” he says, nodding.

You hand him the mug of tea, not bothering to offer any honey or cream. “How long will it take?”

“A few months, by your calendar. Your soul must be wholly purified for there to be no remains, it takes… prayer, chants, rituals of cleansing.”

“Where will you be staying in the meantime?”

He seems caught off guard by the question and takes a moment to think it over.

With a sigh, you offer, “I guess you can stay with me. But,” you gesture in his general direction, “we’re going to have to modernize that look a bit, alright?” At his look of confusion, you elaborate with a sigh. “If you’re going to stay with me, anyone and everyone will notice you, you have a very strong presence, so I think it would be best if you try to… blend in a bit more.”

He offers a nod, “if that would make you happy, then I will allow you to… er, ‘modernize’ my appearance.”

Oh, you almost forgot. Drumming your fingers against the table, you ask, “what’s your name?”

“Sarakh, the Seventh son of Asag, my predecessor, Gallu of the Underworld, Slayer of those Corrupt, Salt of the-”

“Can I call you Sarakh?” You ask, almost overwhelmed by the amount of titles he has.

“If it pleases you,” he nods.