Ryan couldn’t believe his luck. He’d finally landed his dream job—working at the Museum of Natural History. It wasn’t a full-time gig or anything like that; he was a paid intern for the Fall semester. His hourly wage would just barely cover his train fare, but, hey, he had his foot in the door of the greatest scientific institution in the world—that’s all that mattered.
There weren’t many job opportunities for anthropology majors who decided to forgo graduate school and a Ph.D. Luckily, the Museum was looking for interns to shoulder the grunt work that the curators were too busy to deal with. Ryan had leapt at the chance.
Now he was making his way down a stuffy, poorly lit corridor with Michelle, his supervisor in the anthropology lab. She was about Ryan’s age—mid-twenties, maybe slightly older, with curly chestnut hair and skin the color of creamed coffee. There was a slight musical lilt to her voice, and she had an easy-going, perky disposition. Ryan had taken a liking to her immediately. As they walked, Michelle was giving him the ten-cent tour.
“We’re located in one of the oldest sections of the Museum,” she said, gesturing to the chipping paint on the walls and the cracked, green floor tiles. “This area hasn’t been renovated in a looong time.”
Michelle made a right turn and lead him down another dim hallway lined with aged specimen cases. Ryan wondered what lay behind their sturdy doors.
“Pretty much every bone in the human body is represented in these cabinets,” Michelle continued, “except for skulls. That’s where we’re headed now—the cranial collection, or what we like to call The Skull Room.”
They came to a set of heavy-looking double doors. Michelle held up her ID badge to the electronic lock and, after a high-pitched tone, pulled open one of the doors with visible effort.
“Here we are!”
Ryan walked into a large, somber space with a high ceiling of about two stories. The flooring was the same faded and cracked green tiles as the hallway. Directly ahead, was a metal desk piled high with unsorted papers and various oddments.
“That’s where the collections manager usually works,” said Michelle. “Normally he’d supervise you, but he’s out sick. I don’t think it should be a problem if we get you started in the meantime.”
The left-hand wall was lined with windows, and heavy blinds cast an eerie, twilight gloom. On the right were rows of metal shelving similar to library stacks. A rickety-looking spiral staircase led to a second floor, like a loft, that housed more stacks. The shelves were lined with unremarkable, brown cardboard boxes, about the width of a shoebox but deeper. Each box was marked with a catalog number scratched in red pencil.
Michelle took one of the boxes and placed it on a workbench. The cardboard was covered in a thick layer of dust. She stifled a sneeze and gingerly removed the lid. Reaching inside with both hands, she removed—a human skull.
Ryan shivered involuntarily.
Memento mori.
The words flashed through his mind. Latin for “Remember, you will die.” He’d read somewhere that Medieval monks used the phrase as a kind of mantra to contemplate their own mortality. Some even kept human skulls on their desks as an ever-present reminder of the inevitability of death.
Michelle seemed unperturbed. “There are thousands of skulls like this one in our collection,” she said. “Your job over the next few weeks will be to create a complete inventory of all of them. I have some paper and a clipboard for you here. Note the specimen number and the geographical locality where the skull was collected. Also, you should write a brief description of the condition of each specimen—that can get interesting. Not all of our crania are as handsome as this guy here,” she said, hefting the skull in her hands and grinning. “He seems to be in pretty good shape, but there are a lot of others in very poor condition.”
“Where did all these skulls come from?” Ryan asked, sweeping his gaze about the room with mingled wonder and unease.
“Most were collected by Museum anthropologists over the decades,” Michelle answered. “Back a hundred years ago, ethnologists and archaeologists were, shall we say, much less scrupulous about where and how they sourced their specimens. As you’ll see, many of these crania come from indigenous populations all over the world, from here in North America and elsewhere—Africa, Asia, the Pacific islands. In those days, anthropology was little better than grave robbing! Gross, I know. There are also many other specimens that were donated to the museum by some eccentric Victorian aristocrat whose hobby was collecting skulls! Not the whole skeleton—just the skulls. Weird, right? Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. No rush, by the way. It’s not like the skulls are going anywhere! Text me if you need anything.”
Ryan thanked her as she left the room and closed the double doors with a heavy and ominous thud.
Memento mori.
The words slithered through his brain again. He shook his head and took a deep breath of the dank, stuffy air, hoping to clear his mind. The room had an uncanny feeling. Ryan had the inexplicable sensation that someone or something was watching him.
But there was no one. Perhaps he was simply just creeped out by all these skulls. After all, they used to be living, breathing people. . . .
Memento mori.
Ryan shuddered.
“I know what I need,” he said aloud, “some music to distract me.” He took out his smartphone, brought up his favorite playlist, and got to work.
An hour passed as Ryan inventoried dozens and dozens of skulls. The work was dull and monotonous.
Suddenly he began to notice discrepancies between the information he was recording on his notepad and the actual specimen data. Small errors now could lead to big complications later. He closed his music app. He couldn’t afford to get sloppy on the first day of his internship.
He also noticed the battery life on his outdated smartphone was already running low. He’d left the charger in his backpack in Michelle’s office. He thought briefly of going back for it, but instead put the phone back in his pocket.
Ryan peered curiously at the next skull. This one came from South America and was an odd shape. It was elongated, almost conical, like one of those hokey “alien skulls” from conspiracy documentaries on the History Channel. This person had undergone cranial deformation in their youth. An infant’s skull bones take a long time to fully fuse and some cultures use head wrappings to mold the cranium to a particular shape.
Memento mori.
Ryan whirled around—he could have sworn he heard a whispered voice from somewhere in the room.
“Hello?” No one answered.
Certain he was imagining things, Ryan reproached himself and returned to his task with a shake of his head.
Another hour passed. Ryan began to come across skulls that were in incredibly poor condition. Several were broken or smashed completely. Many were missing most of their teeth. Others were coated in rough patches of sediment and thin, stringy roots, almost as if they had been freshly disinterred from their graves. . . .
Memento mori.
There it was again! A voice—Ryan was sure of it this time.
“Hello?!” he called out. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
He searched up and down the aisles but found no one. On a hunch, he carefully ascended the old spiral staircase to check to the second floor. Again, Ryan found nothing but row upon row of the mute dead.
“You’re losing it,” he said.
After all, this old building must make all kinds of odd sounds that get amplified by the acoustic properties of a big, quiet room like this.
“I was certain I heard a voice. . . .”
The condition of the specimens continued to deteriorate. A few were grimy to the touch. Ryan wasn’t sure what the substance was, but it was probably organic. Maybe even all that remained of human flesh . . .
He was repulsed by that idea and nearly retched. He looked at his hands. His fingertips were dusted with the black, sticky matter.
“Blech! I should have worn gloves.”
Memento mori.
The voice again! No, he had to be imagining things. It was this place—and all these skulls! He was letting the emptiness and the silence and the presence of death cloud his mind. He stomped over to a small washbasin on the far side of the room and scrubbed his hands clean. He again felt the uncanny sense of watchfulness. He spun around and glared around the room.
No! How could he allow himself to be scared silly by a room of old skulls! What would Michelle think if she found out?
Ryan defiantly grabbed another specimen box. He appeared to have found some of the collection donated by the eccentric Victorian. Many of these skulls had rare pathologies, or were decorated in some bizarre way. Several had been painted with abstract designs that resembled tribal tattoos or had been etched or inscribed with characters in diverse languages.
As Ryan worked, he kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing there. He tried desperately to concentrate on his task, but the unsettling feeling only grew worse. Disturbing thoughts about his own death began to worm their way into his mind and he found it nearly impossible to focus on anything else.
Memento mori.
Remember, you will die.
This time Ryan couldn’t be sure whether the words had come from his own mind or came from somewhere nearby in the room. He began to tremble uncontrollably. Was it getting colder? Or was that too a product of his overactive imagination? He took several long, slow breaths and tried in vain to calm his thoughts. At least he stopped shaking.
The next box was heavier than many of the others. As he carried it to the workbench, he felt as if a hollow pit of depression and despair was threatening to consume him.
Memento mori.
“STOP IT!” Ryan nearly dropped the skull box as looked frantically around the room for the source of the whispering voice. Again, no one. He was alone. . . with thousands and thousands of skulls.
He had to see this through. He wouldn’t disappoint Michelle. The rest of his career was at stake here!
Ryan stared at the box for sometime, minutes maybe. The room seemed to grow deathly quiet. Slowly, with a reluctance he didn’t entirely understand, he removed the lid . . . .
Memento mori.
There were the words, written in a flowing archaic script in bright red ink across the broad forehead of a leering skull.
Memento mori.
Ryan gasped and stumbled back a pace or two, nearly tripping over a metal folding chair. He struggled to breathe.
Memento mori. Memento mori. Memento mori.
Murmuring voices seemed to come from all around him now. Did a shadow just duck into that corner? He raced to the spot. Of course, there was no one.
Memento mori. Memento mori. Memento mori. MEMENTO MORI.
The voices seemed to be growing louder. Ryan bolted for the door, his sneakers pounding over the faded green tiles. He grasped the door handle and turned.
Nothing—the door wouldn’t budge. He pulled, he pushed—but it was useless. He was locked inside the Skull Room!
Panic set in. Ryan desperately fished his phone out of his pocket. He could text Michelle. She could let him out.
MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO MORI.
He tried to wake his smartphone but, to his horror, a red battery symbol flashed across the screen before it went black. His phone was dead.
MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO MORI.
Ryan was panting like a hunted animal. His hands shivered violently. He could barely think. He knew only one thing—he was trapped in this horrible room, alone with the skulls. Would he be stuck here overnight? Would he die here?
MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO MORI. MEMENTO—
The door suddenly swung open, and Michelle stepped into the room.
“Hey! I thought I’d check in and see how—Oh my gosh, are you all right?”
Ryan was still trembling. He put his hand to his forehead and his palm came back damp and cold.
“I—I tried the door a minute ago. It—it wouldn’t open,” he stammered at last. “I tried to text you, but my phone died. I guess . . . I guess I had a little bit of a panic attack.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry,” Michelle said sympathetically. “I didn’t know this door locked from the inside. Hmmm . . . Well, I wouldn’t worry about any more excitement today. I was just coming to tell you—it’s almost five o’clock. You’ve been in here all afternoon!”
Ryan’s breathing was finally returning to normal and the shivering subsided. Should he tell her about the voices? Would she think he was a lunatic? “I . . . heard some strange noises in here too.”
Michelle nodded. “Yep, this old building makes creepy sounds from time to time. I bet the acoustic properties of this room could amplify them.”
“Right,” Ryan said, managing a weak imitation of a smile. It was a reasonable enough explanation, but yet. . .
As they left the skulls behind, Ryan wondered if he could endure another hour—another minute—in that room tomorrow
He shuffled like a sleepwalker to the elevator and exited at 77th Street. . .
At once the sights and sounds and smells of the city brought him back to the realm of the living. The skyscrapers cast long, dark shadows as evening deepened.
The voices in the Skull Room now seemed so unreal. Did he imagine it? Or was he given a message from the other side? How could he ever find peace again. . .?
Peace.
Memento mori—Remember, you will die.
Ryan stopped in his tracks. He knew now beyond a shadow of any doubt what he had to do. In the deepening shadows of twilight, he bowed his head in silence.
. . . And may the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.