Ryslig Multiversal Museum Exhibit

[joiseydevil]

The exhibit belonging to one Djinn Dupree is more humble to the initial passerby. It’s near the back of the museum, easily overlooked in favor of larger, more bombastic pieces. Yet it sports a regular flow of attendees after its first few weeks, word gets around that it’s actually quite popular, you just have to ‘wait for the end.’

Visitors are led into an apartment, a particularly small and crappy one at that. The ceilings are short for the height of the occupants, there are cracks messily patched in the plaster, and children’s toys are scattered around the kitchen, dining room, and living room. The TV plays some episodes of Iron Chef from the early nineties at a low volume. There are law textbooks open on the table, and the sounds of city and other apartments can be heard through the walls.

Despite being false, the sunlight that streams through the windows manages to be almost beatingly hot. There’s a box AC in the window, shuddering out just enough cold air to keep the small space somewhat comfortable.

The short hallway leads to a normal looking bathroom with hair dye stains on the sink, two doors that are locked, and one that is open at the end of the hall.

It’s very obviously a grungy teenager’s bedroom. There are scorch marks on most surfaces: the mattress, the desk; and a large indent where someone put their fist through the crappy drywall. It’s the only spot where the light grey-ge color of the walls is visible: every other inch is covered in crowded-together posters of bands or hastily taken Polaroids.

The posters are popular American bands from the late eighties to nineties, familiar names and faces to most. But the Polaroids tell more of a story, if examined closely:

Two figures sit at the tiny dining room table over what is obviously Sunday dinner. A large, thick fingered man with a wide, infectious smile dunks a lanky teenager’s face into his plate. The photo is taken mid-motion, so both figures are blurred slightly. But the teenager’s missing shirt supplies a distinctive view of a large tattoo: A sigil above the heart.

There’s a photo of a little girl with dark skin and curly hair smiling from on top of a dinged up bicycle. She’s missing one of her front teeth and her grin looks exactly like her brother’s. A lanky but familiar teenager who stands next to her, obviously beaming with pride.

Another photo is a beautiful woman with natural hair, sitting in the living room's large, stained armchair. She looks like she’s been interrupted from reading a textbook and is not appreciating whatever the camera-person is saying. Her dark eyes are alight with a motherly warning, and her mouth is open to undoubtedly tell someone off.

Next to it is a photo of the same woman and little girl. The girl is asleep with the limp kind of content only young children can receive, draped over her mother’s stomach and head in the crook of her neck. The woman watches something on the Television peacefully, a hand in her daughter’s hair.
Most photos are similar to this one. All the woman and girl in places of respite: at a roller-rink, the woman in a suit taking off a high heel, the two posing in Halloween costumes witches, matching of course.

The last photo is actually framed, but the glass has been shattered too completely to discern exactly what it’s of. Even upon close examination, it looks to be two different figures, drastically different heights and colorings, sitting on a fire escape too close together.

Next to the bed is a boombox, complete with a stack of cassettes. But they aren’t music, instead labeled with names and dates:

Sugar. 1999

The first conversation is between a woman, likely the one in the photos, and a young man:

“Djinn Dupree I know you aren’t wearing those muddy ass boots in my house.”
“Maaaaaaaa I just got off work. Lemme get settled in first-” a higher voice interrupts him-
”Djee!” There is a sound of running, tiny feet.
”Aw, hey sweetheart! How was school?-” the exhaustion that had been in the man’s voice is gone, like it had never been there.

Saul. 1995

The young man is in all the audio tapes, including this one. He can be heard breathing heavily, each inhale tinged with hisses of pain. But the first voice to speak is someone else. This man is older, gruffer, and clearly irritated-

”Get the fuck off the floor, Djinn.”
“Gimme… Gimme a minute, Saul.” There’s the sound of shifting, like he’s trying to get onto his feet but can’t manage the strength.
“I said get the fuck off the floor.” A chair scrapes against hardwood, and Saul can be heard sitting down with an aged groan. ”You ain’t gonna be any use if you can’t handle this shi-”
”I know.” His voice goes guttural. Still belonging to the named Djinn, but like its the rawest part of him speaking. It fades quickly- “Fuck. Alright, look. I know. I just gotta catch my breath.”

”You ain’t got a minute. You mom and sister are countin’ on you every day, and you think it’s time to take a fuckin’ nap? You know what, you got thirty seconds before we’re starting over. Now geddup.”

Jessie. 1996

Where the last two audios were regular conversations, had at normal volume, this tape opens with a door slamming open and Djinn’s voice yelling:

”Jessie what the FUCK are you doing?! What the fuck was that?! You mean to tell me this whole time we’ve been screwing around you-
A female voice interrupts him, angry and teary sounding.
”You don’t know what they did, okay? They deserved it, and you weren’t ever supposed to see that-”
He doesn’t let her finish. “Jessie, you can’t DO that shit, those are your parents! Think about your little brother! If the cops find out-”

Something pulls him up short, something silent that the audio cannot convey. The strain of the sudden quiet is damning.

”Jessie. Put down the gun.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, DJ. Get the fuck out and DON’T come back or I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

The tapes end there.

There aren’t many books to be found, except for a wobbly end table near the bed. Set out for guests to obviously peruse is a yearbook for 1996, the junior class is posing for pictures, and one particularly distinctive Goth with fishnets on their arms is halfway down a page- or at least. They would be, the face in the photo and name have both been burned out by what looks like cigarettes.

There are almost no signatures, except for a scrolling, scripting ‘Jessie’ on the inside back cover.

There is however a photo of Jessie, should you flip back to look. Just two rows down and one picture over from the burned photo: A young woman with short, curly blonde hair, round coke-bottle glasses and a gap between her front teeth. She’s dressed as richly as her last name would suggest: Waldorf.

A keen eye would distinguish how the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and there’s instead a caged sort of fury there instead.

But despite the photos, the room itself has very few personal belongings. There isn’t much to encourage guests to stay and look around. The drawers have been empty, the bed obviously untouched for some time.

Was the door next to the desk always cracked open? Perhaps not.

It leads to another apartment, very different from the last one. Where the previous tenants were a family, there are no signs of children anywhere to be found in this dingy two bedroom. There’s more burn marks, a few on the cabinets, a hand-print in the tiny two-person kitchen table, nearly covered by what looks like computer parts.

It looks like a Best Buy threw up in the main area, wires and motherboards and other manner of tools covering most surfaces, except for a bong by the TV (for decoration, should a guest try to touch it, a screechy male voice demands ‘PUT IT DOWN’ until you do.)

The bedroom on the left has a rope tying it off, though of course guests can look inside. It lies in a similar state to the common areas. Pieces of machinery, clothing, trash, and various other flotsam have formed a carpet over the floor. There doesn’t appear to be a bed as much as a pile of clothes that have a sheet thrown over it like some strange human rat’s nest. Closer examination of the room reveals a desk with a beautifully kept computer, and many. Many needles and dime bags with various substances.

The bedroom on the right can be entered. The Polaroids have come with - now hung somewhat more neatly in an area near the bed. There are a few additions: the inside of a strip club where two scantily clad women are taking a selfie for the camera, a mechanic’s shop where the exhibit’s subject is working on a motorcycle, and a photo of a very small, strung out-looking junkie, frowning at the camera while he washes dishes in the sink. He’s got huge bags under his eyes, bad acne scars, and an obviously nervous disposition.

Upon examining the last photo an audio plays through the room, though the boombox is no longer present:

“Come oooon, Deej. You have to move out sometime!” the same voice that warns you away from the bong comes scratching back.

“Yeah, yeah. Look man, it’s my mom and my sister okay? Someone’s gotta take care of ‘em.”
“And the next time demons come knocking at your fuckin’ door? What’re you gonna do, just keep smashing their heads in?”

There’s a pause of nervous silence, but eventually the deeper voice answers.

“You just want me for my security deposit.”
“Don’t be such a queer about it. Just move in with me man.”
“You callin’ me a queer, ya fuckin’ twink?”

The audio falls off into the sounds of a short scuffle, a yelp, and the sound stops.

There’s another door that wasn’t there before. It’s a heavy metal with thick bolts, the same sigil from the teenager’s photograph is scrawled over the door in some sort of dark, viscous substance. Something is scratching at the other side.

Even if guests do not approach, it eventually creaks inward. Beyond the doorway appears to be darkness.

It feels like a hallway beyond the door: no wider than three feet, guests must go single file but can easily touch the walls. Good thing, since the door will slam shut behind you. The rest of the exhibit has been a comfortable temperature, but this hallway is hot, near stifling with it’s stuffy stagnant air.

A voice crawls up the spine, ringing with a clarity that the previous audio tapes lacked.

So you’ve come to learn about my son, one of the sole survivors of my little experiments with humans…

The voice laughs, dark as the ocean, the floors seem to shake with it.

He has done well for himself, very well. He’s grown strong and even loyal…

The hallway stretches, on and on and on in stifling pitch black. It feels like every few feet you brush against something, but should you stop and reach out, no one is there.
Eventually the hallway ends, and the walls seem to open up into some larger space.

But he would do well to remember…

He
Is
Mine.

The lights flick on suddenly, blinding with their immediate intensity as they reveal a startling sight.

There is a glass viewing room directly before you, lit with bright fluorescence that shines on a macabre scene. It’s the kitchen from the very first apartment, splashed with black, ichorous blood. It drips from the busted open wall, from the ceiling, and from the hands of the young man standing at the center.

His head is down, so his face isn’t visible, but his posture is bent in a strange combination of grief and threatening. A chef’s knife is clutched in one of his hands as he straddles the body of some strange, dead creature. It’s twisted form is obviously inhuman, reddish, scaled skin morphs unnaturally as it writhes in the pain of death, bleeding out on the floor as DJ watches.

The lights switch off again, though there is the faint glow of an exit sign. Through the shadows it casts visitors can continue to watch the tableau beyond the glass, though the occupants will never acknowledge them.
 
 
Gift Shop Items!

• Early 2000's 'Hit Clips' with purchasable cassettes from Nine Inch Nails, Guns n Roses, and Biggie Smalls
• Little paper crowns  from Not Burger King
• Plastic/fake brass knuckles. Still actually somewhat useful, even if the plastic is flimsy
• Fake temporary tattoo sheets of his own pieces: A large circular sigil, a two headed snake, a burning sacred heart, anatomically accurate locusts, thorny vines, human and inhuman eyes, and strange blue smoke.