To one side was a papier-mâché dummy of a woman in a bath, the water made from red Cellophane and her mouth hanging open as her eyes bulged and her sky blue head rolled backwards, and to the other side hung a series of photographs, blown up and mounted on canvas, of the shattered body of a Seoul stockbroker who, on seeing some unfortunate numbers appear on a screen, had hurled himself from a very high window. He was glad that this job would only last for one day. The skeleton expert heard few footsteps. He was not surprised. He had no idea why anybody would want to visit a place like this. As the museum closed for the day, Hulda returned to make sure the area around the new exhibit was left clean. She made two cups of coffee and took them to Room Seven. She pulled aside the black cotton, and as the coffee cooled she watched the skeleton expert attach the feet. She tried to let him do his job in peace, but it was impossible. Only by speaking, or singing, or humming, could she keep her most horrifying memories and her most petrifying visions of the future at bay.
