‘The Museum of Unnatural History and Mythic Science, Glasgow. Established 1923.’
As stated by the ornate, but neglected stone plaque that labels a similarly rundown building in a hidden corner of the West End. Despite its grandeur, the museum isn’t well known. It’s considered by most to be nothing more than an interesting footnote in Glaswegian history. However, if you were to search for it on the web you’d find it is a subject of discussion in many online supernatural communities, due to the nature of the research which made its home in the museum itself. Curious newcomers, ignorant of the discourse the museum has caused, are often greeted by a flood of arguments, conspiracies and dubious facts when they mention it. Everyone seems to have their own spin on the story of the museum, no opinion is dominant and after the heated discussions die down, most people pretend the questions were never asked.

I moved to Glasgow when I was ten years old. I was a proper country kid then; I hated the myriad of sounds and smells that plagued the city streets. The night was too bright and the stars too dim. There weren’t enough trees or fields to play in, or animals to feed grass to on the way to school. I missed my back garden, and being able to play outside with no shoes or socks on without having to fear cutting myself on broken glass or worse.

To be fair to my parents, the flat we moved into was chosen with my needs in mind. They made sure it was away from any main roads, it was on the ground floor so I didn’t have to worry about stamping around and they allowed pets, which meant we could bring our family dog, Lottie. Best of all, there was a garden. It was small and most of the space was taken up by rows of wheelie bins and a single water butt Mrs Carpenter used for her house plants, but there was also a sycamore which was good for climbing. Usually it was just me and Lottie who went out there, so I basically got it all to myself.

We’d been living there for about a month when, from atop the tree, I first saw the museum. I was instantly enthralled. It was made of a soot black sandstone and its towers and spires twisted and curled in on themselves as they reached towards the sky like branches of a tree desperate for light. It should’ve been visible from everywhere in Glasgow, but even a slight tilt of my head caused it to be obscured from my view, as if it was a shadow being absorbed into the grey sky.

That building was on my mind for the rest of the summer. I regularly climbed up to my spot in the tree to view it. I learned its secrets from afar. The best way I can describe it is like a kaleidoscope. No matter how hard I tried, every time I looked upon it, it displayed a different one of its many forms. Some of the changes were almost imperceptible, and if I held very still, I could almost see a clear image. However, most of the time I just enjoyed the warped shapes and patterns as the building rearranged itself before my eyes.

As the summer came to a close, I was suddenly saddled with a new responsibility that had been blissfully absent from my first few months in Glasgow; school. I had always been quite a gifted child, though I had problems focusing and hated the constraints that school put upon learning, so I was rather surprised to find myself excelling at everything. Even English which had previously been a weakness of mine. As a result, my teachers had little to say to my parents other than to gush about my uncanny brilliance. However, they did like to describe me with words like ‘distracted’ and ‘distant’, but I know what they really meant. They found me disturbing, perhaps even frightening, as did my parents. They feared my fixation with that ever shifting building that haunted my every waking thought.

It took me an embarrassing amount of time to notice the birds. I was so captivated by the building itself that I’d failed to spot them, perched on every outcropping and buttress the museum had to offer. There were birds of all kinds, from the smallest blue tits to buzzards and seagulls. Most of all though, there were crows. Huge ravens, like the ones that guard the Tower of London, to the common carrion crows. They were all there and they were all staring at me.

As I progressed into secondary school, I noticed more and more crows. They were everywhere, always staring, especially the carrions. Around this time, I also obtained a new interest in biology. Specifically dissection. The class had a nervous, tense feel when I walked in to see a large heart sitting on my teacher’s desk. I’d seen hearts before of course, it’s a cheap way of buying meat and so long as you aren’t too squeamish, there is little difference from other cuts. The lesson was surprisingly dull for a class with such an interesting subject, but it still sparked an interest which would push me further towards the museum.

The dissections we conducted at school were few and far between much to the relief of my classmates. However, this did lead me to begin my exploration of DIY dissections. I would collect all kinds of small creatures, mostly rats and frogs. I never killed them myself, but the fascination I felt as I watched a frog take its last few breaths as it shrivelled in the sun stuck with me. I did my research and learned how to preserve them. The perfect specimens I dissected.

Sometimes I had to remove organs. Occasionally I messed it up and a good sample was ruined, but it was never the ones I was sure were perfect, they always survived the process. I couldn’t tell you what made a specimen ‘perfect’, but after a few months I made fewer and fewer mistakes and I usually found what I was looking for, marking it with a blue highlighter. I left them pinned to cork boards, in a crude approximation of an entomologist’s butterfly and displayed them proudly in the back of my wardrobe. I was fully aware that should my parents discover my macabre hobby, I was likely going to lose some of the freedom I cherished so dearly.

Due to my biological studies, I spent less time out in my tree, staring at the building my parents could not see. This led to them leaving me alone more, since I was no longer exhibiting ‘strange behaviour’ as they liked to call it. Ironic perhaps, but it suited my needs well. I will admit to a feeling of relief that the museum had finally let me ignore it. I should’ve noticed that hundreds of eyes were still following my every move. Now with a renewed interest and anticipation.

I was fifteen when I finally saw the museum up close. I’d been walking Lottie through the streets near my home when she suddenly jerked the lead out of my hand. I ran after her, as she bolted down alleyways and through gaps between buildings. We both froze in place as we appeared before an ornate rusted metal gate leading to the derelict remains of the museum. I knew it in an instant, the building I’d been watching for the past five years. It was much more mundane than I’d expected it to be, though it was still beautiful in an eerie sort of way. The stonework was impressive and I found myself disappointed to find it in such a state of disrepair. The only sign that pointed towards its more ominous nature was the thin yellow fog that shrouded it in mystery, thickening towards the towers that I’d spent so long studying.

It was odd how I’d never taken the time to look for the museum before, or wondered what its purpose was. My eyes rested on a plaque, declaring it as:

‘The Museum of Unnatural History and Mythic Science, Glasgow. Established 1923.’
Now my obsession had a name.

My reverence was broken by the startled howl of Lottie from the museum’s courtyard, and the squawks of my crow companions as they pinned her to the ground. A swift, precise jab to the neck silenced her and the birds calmed, all their eyes turning to me once more. I dashed through the gate which now stood open. Lying a short distance from me was the corpse of my darling Lottie. Her body was such a perfect specimen, I couldn’t possibly let it go to waste. The crows supplied all the tools I needed to cut Lottie’s innards free. She looked so beautiful pinned and preserved on a cork board. Her heart neatly removed, her body ready for display.

I picked Lottie up as the largest of the crows led me into the museum. The crow was taller than I, and towered over me like the museum towered over Glasgow. The main doors opened into an enormous lobby. A crystal chandelier hung above my head, lighting the room with gas flames. The flickering of the lights made it difficult to read the words written above the many doors that lined the walls. But as we got closer, they became clearer and the crow led me through one labelled ‘Mundanus Canis’.

Inside were hundreds of dogs and wolves. Some were pinned to boards, spread open like Lottie, others were taxidermied, their glass eyes all pointed directly at the entrance. The crow took no notice of the exhibits and led me to an empty space on the wall. There was a small dusty metal panel labelled ‘Canem Sine Corde: Lottie, Glasgow, 2015’ and a nail on which to hang the board. I shuddered as I placed my beloved pet on the wall of that hallowed place, and for the first time since setting foot in there, I began to feel a sense of unease come over me. The crow didn’t seem to notice as she led me back out to the main lobby.

It’s hard to explain the smile of a bird, but that lobby was filled with hundreds of them. The museum had filled with crowds of feathered families, all examining exhibits and asking questions of the crow staff members. My guide motioned as if to give me a tour, and I could not refuse. Her awful smile turned quickly to something akin to joyous malice as she led me to the next room.

I followed her through room after room labelled ‘Mundanus Something’. Each was filled with hundreds of exhibits and specimens of the natural world. My fascination quickly overtook my caution, especially as we came to the room labelled, ‘Mundanus Anura (rana)’. This was the frog room, this was my speciality. Inside there were examples of my work, indicated by my signature blue highlights. According to this room, I’d found more perfect specimens of the mundane frogs than any other contributor to the museum. My crow guide enjoyed my enthusiasm and took special care to make sure I saw every frog and toad in minute detail. I’m not sure how long it took, time began to lose meaning as I was absorbed by the wonders of the museum.

But the mundane couldn’t hold a candle to the mythical. My guide showed me things that shouldn’t have been possible. Her raucous laughter at my wonder and ignorance echoed through the halls to the tune of quiet shushing from other patrons and staff. Some of the creatures were recognisable, kelpies, tanuki and centaurs, but others were utterly beyond my comprehension and were somewhat hidden by the yellow mist which I was quickly realising masked the ineffable.

My crow guide finally led me to a room I had been curious to visit, ‘Mundana et Fabulosa Corvus’. The room of mundane and mythic crows. Beyond the door was a much more modern room than I expected after the old Victorian feel to the rest of the building. Harsh LED lights burned my eyes as I looked upon statues of wax. Beyond the initial exhibition were the true corpses, each with a note expressing the consent of the cadavers. Older birds held back their chicks from entering that back room, fearing the effect it could have on them. It was then that my excitement really started to grow, for there was one other room I knew we’d missed.

‘Mundanus Hominidae’

The room was high in one of the towers. My guide showed me in, that terrifying smile back on her face. At first she showed me the exhibits as she had done in every other room previously. Each of the apes stood, their terror radiating back at me. The humans were worse, their fear was palpable and so very close. My body betrayed me as I noted a blank cork board, lying ready at the humans’ feet. Dread began to soak my back and tears covered my face. She took me to a window and pointed below. I could see my tree, my perch, where I sat staring up at this very spot. She bent down to my ear and whispered in a voice so close to human it was uncanny, “As the crow flies.”

Her eyes gleamed with humour, as if she’d told a joke which was simply beyond me. Not a second passed before her beak pierced my neck as it had done to my sweet Lottie. My body was pinned, cut wide open and examined closely by a crowd of hopeful crows. But with every slice, the excitement drained from them and their eyes finally turned away. My body was stuffed and presented next to the others of my kind, the cork board still blank by our feet. Waiting for the next potential perfect specimen.

Mike leans his head on his steering wheel, wracked with indecision.
“Go to Phoenix, Michael,” his boss had said, “They are expecting you in six hours.”

He couldn’t get to Phoenix that quickly even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. Usually, he’d just phone Lisette and let her know. She understands, his work is important to him, but not today. They both promised they’d be home early for Maya’s birthday, and he doesn’t plan to make a liar of them. Mike decisively puts his car into gear, he drives a stick shift, and sets off towards home. Home is a long drive from everywhere, that’s the point. When he and Lisette met, they bonded over fantasies. Lisette had this idea of living in a tiny idyllic house far from civilisation and the hustle and bustle of the cities. In truth, the long drives and isolation are draining. He tries to make it work, it was her dream after all, but it has turned into a bit of a nightmare. Maya likes the house though; she enjoys the wide open spaces and watching for interesting wildlife and vehicles. She’s a joyous child, filled with the spirit which life has sapped from her parents.

The first home they owned together was a tiny apartment in New York City. It was comfortable enough but certainly no place for a child. Maya would have hated the city with its strict rules and the constant feeling of being watched. Society would have kept her on a leash just like that which Mike and Lisette tried to escape.

Once he is out of town, Mike finds himself driving the long shapeless roads that cling to the landscape, maintained by the occasional vehicle. His hair waves in the wind as he opens the windows, allowing the heat of the sun to touch his skin. It threatens to sink below the horizon as he speeds along the dusty roads. Framed by the golden sky and mountainous silhouettes, he drives. The rays hit his car, the only reflective surface for miles around, it glows with bright orange light. It’s a strangely perfect picture, accented by an ominous cloud of grey smoke which begins to weave its way into the sky above.

Michael tries to ignore it, driving intrusive thoughts from his mind but soon enough he cannot deny the truth any longer. Flames lick the sky above, striving to rejoin the sun. He’s much too far away to feel the heat of the burning timber, but the sun’s own rays have suddenly become unfriendly, replacing warmth with scathing heat. The fire quickly consumes the fuel that allows it to live, stealing life from his family to fuel its short existence. Leaving nothing but charred remains in its wake. He climbs out of his car and looks down at his little house. It’s still a long distance away, usually it would be hardly visible, but it is highlighted by the flames. He feels weak, like he is suddenly very old. He remembers the last time he felt like this, when his dreams slowly slipped away from him.

When Mike was young, he had a spark. He was driven and motivated but also foolish. He had spent his college fund on a guitar and after years without a job, sleeping in his parents’ house, they finally kicked him out the door. For a few months, Mike’s spirit remained unbroken. He cruised from friend to friend. Each time he made up a new promise to ‘get his life back together’ and each time they believed him, some even tried to help him find jobs or other opportunities to get back on his feet. However, they all eventually caught him skipping an interview for a gig or spending grocery money on music magazines. It was only when he realised he had no one left to turn to, no one left to mooch off, that reality hit him, and his flame began to die.

He planned to sell his treasured guitar and get his life on track. He played for what he told himself would be one last time in a beautiful spot in a park in Downtown Cincinnati. It was there he met Lisette. She was lovely, dressed in a long floral summer dress despite the chilly September air. Her long hair was tied in what was once a severe bun, but it had come undone over the course of the day, giving her a friendly appearance. But what he remembers best from that moment was the sound of her voice. He’d been singing ‘A Horse with No Name’ when she’d just joined in. He was in awe of her confidence to sing with a stranger in a park. Together, they made music and those few moments reminded him of why he played at all. They shone brightly.

Once they finished, the flame died peacefully, and a sense of finality hung in the air. In that moment Mike was fully prepared for the next stage of his life, and had Lisette just walked away he probably would’ve let his dream rest, but she didn’t. Instead, she laughed from the sheer joy of the music, and the flame sprung back to life. They ate together that night and talked about a whole lot of nothing. He learned she was born in Tokyo to French parents and lived there her entire life. She came to America to learn better English and experience the open spaces promised by ‘Thelma and Louise’ and she found him, a failed musician, ready to give up and move on. They kissed as they left the restaurant and when Lisette found out he had nowhere to sleep that night, she invited him to her hotel room.

The next day, Lisette was to return to New York, where she was working. She took him back to his parents’ house and gave him a kiss on the cheek and her phone number before leaving. She also gave him the confidence to walk up his driveway and admit his mistakes to his parents. He was a new man. Lisette’s musical talents left him more inspired than ever, but the sense of responsibility that he had gained from his ordeal remained. From that day on he pulled his weight. He got a job; he got his GED. For the first time in his life, his parents were proud. And in the evenings, he played the guitar and spoke to Lisette over the phone. Fuelling the other’s fire with fantasies of fame and happiness.

Lisette isn’t here to save him this time.

Adrenaline fills Mike. He is sweating through his shirt, shaking as he climbs back into the car. His movements are frantic as he spins the car around and drives away from the house, towards Phoenix. The sun is gone but he feels like he is on fire as he floors the accelerator. After a short time, the energy subsides, and he feels cold and numb. He slows as he reaches across the car for the packet of cigarettes that he keeps by the passenger seat. Lisette had been horrified when she found out he smoked. Everything had seemed so perfect back then, so it was strange that it was the smoking incident that solidified their relationship.

Lisette invited him to New York to spend New Years together. It was the first time they had met since that very first day and they were both excited. Mike arrived in the afternoon of the 31st and they spent a lovely evening together until he took out a cigarette. They had been so comfortable with each other; he hadn’t even thought about the possibility she would be upset by it. But she was, and she ranted all through the ball drop about how smoking can destroy your health. Once she was finished, he laughed at her and drew on his cigarette. From that moment on, they both took the relationship more seriously. It had progressed from a romantic dream, something you would see in the movies or on the television, to a real thing and it changed everything. Mike moved in with Lisette a month later. They could no longer spend all their time thinking about music. They had bills to pay, work to do, responsibilities to not only themselves but to each other. They began what could be thought of as adult life.

And that was their life for years. They went to work, came home from work. Visited friends, had friends over. Sometimes he would cook, sometimes she would. More often they got takeout. They still played music in the evenings but gone were the days either of them imagined going professional. Every day, every day. No change but a slow dying of passion and love for existence.

But one evening their lives were thrown into turmoil once again when Lisette came home angry. She told him a tale of the catcallers and crowds, all too common in NYC. She cried into his shoulder, hopelessly asking for a way out. Mike hadn’t seen her suffering, hadn’t realised that life had been slowly beating her down. He didn’t know what to say, he’s never been good with words, so he took out his guitar and began to play. Lisette’s sobs slowly petered out as she swayed to the gentle music. His guitar will have burned along with everything else he owned, lonely and unplayed for many years, remaining only as a promise to revisit an old dream.

That night she had told him about her dream. She reminded him of the song he was singing the day they met and shared her vision of a desert home and he added to it, fanning the flames that her anger had brought back to life.

They married that spring. It was a small, simple ceremony, in a garden near that park in Cincinnati. Their parents paid, but it wasn’t expensive. He toiled over his vows for weeks before the wedding, but he was pleased with the way they turned out. He took her hands in his and told her, “When we met, I was on the verge of giving up. I was preparing for the monotony of adult life and if we’d never met, I’d probably be some big shot businessman who made their way up by stepping on others. Instead, you saved me from falling into the mould that society made for me by sharing your pain and your dreams, again and again, and I promise to help you make those dreams come true. I promise to help you find the place where you can be happy and I can’t wait to learn and grow with you along the way. I love you Lisette, with all my heart and soul and nothing in this life will ever change that.”

He remembers her expression as she listened, he knew she wasn’t going to stick to her script. She was good that way, able to improvise, make things up as she went along, “All you need is someone to keep the flames alive.”

A sudden feeling of unease seemed to emanate from the small assembly. Everyone was waiting for Lisette to continue but she didn’t. She had said all she had to say; she didn’t need to say anything more. It was then that she smiled, ending the spell that had been cast over the group and they kissed.

They worked hard. Tirelessly. They came home late into the night, and if they weren’t asleep, Lisette would describe what their new life would be like, as he listened while strumming his guitar. It was two months before the big move when they discovered Lisette was pregnant. It was an exciting moment for them both. They still moved as planned and for a few days it was amazing. Then Lisette’s new job fell through, they never said why but New York had filled her with cynicism and she assumed it was because of the pregnancy. She wanted to do something about it, but they didn’t have the money or energy to pursue any legal action. And so, he had to step up. He worked for them both, lengthy commutes, leaving the love of his life to suffer isolation as he tried to make enough to pay the medical bills which were piling up with every complication. He would speed home every night, he was always worried that something would happen to Lisette or the baby. Often Lisette was fast asleep when he returned, there was no time music in their house anymore and he regularly found himself reminiscing about their little apartment in New York, where everything was so close and safe.

Lisette had an emergency c-section, but it went smoothly and their daughter, Maya, was brought into the world.

Mike draws on his cigarette, then exhales, blowing the smoke into the night. He’s not sure how long it’s been. It doesn’t matter anyway. He taps the CD player, hoping to escape the silence. The old machine whirrs to life and it begins to play, ‘A Horse with No Name’. He instantly fumbles to stop it, but it’s too late. He relaxes back into his seat and hums along with the melody. The CD is a mix he and Lisette made together before their drive down from New York. They didn’t own much and decided they would move everything themselves. It took them three days. They slept in the car, curled up in the back, under the stars. Lisette loved every moment of it. She sung every song over the sound of the roaring wind. They would stop occasionally to admire the scenery around them. Mike had enjoyed it too, the novelty of it all. They didn’t know then what was to come. They had wanted to escape society, both the routine and the cuffs it forced onto people. How could they have known?

Lisette stopped the car at the foot of a small rocky hill, somewhere in Texas and insisted on climbing it. He had protested, there was no path, it was getting dark, but she’d pressed on, and he had to follow. The view from the top was a wondrous sight, in Lisette’s eyes it was worth it, Mike wanted to disagree, but the view was breathtaking. If that had been the only time Lisette had done something rash and potentially very dangerous, he wouldn’t have minded but over the next few years, she became more daring and reckless. He didn’t make his feelings known until she put Maya’s life on the line.

They shared responsibility for Maya’s care as soon as Lisette was strong enough to return to work. They had a lot of debts to pay off so they tried to work as much as they could. Still occasionally one of them got a day completely free to spend with Maya. When Maya was about three and a half, Mike got one of these days. He had been brainstorming what to do with her and decided to take her out to the park. He planned to take her for ice cream and a nice lunch in the town. Simple. After she’d tired herself out playing on the swings and the roundabout, he took her to a café.
“Having fun?” he asked as she took a large lick of ice cream.
“It’s a bit boring,” she told him, her attention still on the ice cream, “Mommy took me to the caves. That was more fun.”
“Which caves?” he asked.
“The ones near our house!” she said, “It was really dark. Mommy said that there’s a monster living in it.”
Maya’s words frightened Mike. He knew the caves she was talking about, when they first moved there he’d looked online to see if there were any tours inside, but to no avail. Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows caving is dangerous and to take a child, especially as young as Maya, is just stupid and irresponsible. They could’ve been killed. Mike did all he could to make the rest of the day nice for Maya, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what Lisette had done.

Lisette was coming home late that night, but he stayed awake, waiting for her. When she finally arrived, he confronted her about it. He was furious with her. He’d never felt so angry or betrayed in his entire life. But Lisette didn’t seem to care, she just stared at him as he tried to explain why it was so wrong. After he was finished, she laughed and said, “When was the last time you got your blood pumping Mike? When was the last time you felt the excitement you deserve? Come on, you don’t want to go back to how we used to be, do you?”

He recalls the chill her words sent through him. Truth was, he didn’t want to add ‘excitement’ to his life. Lisette’s idea of excitement seemed so childish now. He had a family, he had a steady job, and debts to pay. He was finally content with his life. Going through the motions no longer seemed like a prison sentence and the small joys of watching Maya grow, of seeing Lisette’s smile, were enough for him. Sure, he had regrets, not continuing with his guitar chief among them but that was no reason to throw everything away again. He was past the days of searching for new dreams.
“Why can’t you be happy?” he asked her, “We have all we need right here. We are living the dream, literally.”
Lisette’s response made no sense to him. “I’ve failed you.”
After that there were no more incidences.

Lights appear far in the distance. Almost as soon as they do, Mike’s phone buzzes, filling the car with white light. He blinks in the brightness and squints at the hundreds of missed calls and messages.
“Is this Michael?” an unfamiliar voice asks when he picks up the phone.
“I am he,” he says, his voice surprisingly steady.
“I have to inform you of an accident.”

The voice tells the story of a tragic fire that engulfed his home and the miraculous survival of both occupants. Lisette, he is told, is severely burned but Maya is completely unscathed. He nods as he listens, his body numb.
“Can I speak to her?”
“Lisette is in intensive care.”
“I meant Maya.”
There is a moment of silence then he hears the voice of his child, “Dad?”
“Maya,” he says, breathlessly. He closes his eyes as tears begin to flow, “Maya, are you okay? Who’s there with you? Are you with the nice nurse?”
“Yup.”
“Alright, okay, it’s gonna be okay. I’m coming back.”
“Where are you?” Maya asks, her voice is wavering with tears now, “You were supposed to come home. Mommy said you would save us.”
“Phoenix, I’m on the road to Phoenix,” he pauses, “But I’m coming back. I’ll be there soon Maya.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before putting the phone down. He puts his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The more he repeats Maya’s words in his head, the more everything makes sense. He ran because he couldn’t stand to see his simple life burned away again, not after all the effort they put into building it. But he understands now, Lisette never wanted them to settle, never wanted to just live, never wanted to solve problems, always running away. A flair for the dramatic, Lisette would’ve called it. Mike might call it cowardice. It doesn’t matter either way, she’s done it again. His veins once again pulse with the urgency of fire, the want.

What a cruel way to reignite the flames.