When a grim afternoon sits right outside your door, it’s hard to shake off the regular omen that is a nasty night. Mischief makes it apparent by tapping your window far before the rain arrives, and you know he doesn’t often reach out to help. It’s only worse when the tapping is accentuated, best emphasized, by a rapid flickering of the light in your office. You didn’t want to pay any mind to the tapping, but the lights going on and off were out-of-pocket and took you away from your work.

Now you’re on your toes, high alert, a strong front and capable guard. You don’t even know what you could expect, but you know you have enough help from the ghost who regularly makes your life hell. You organize your ouija board and cut light to the room. The piece moves before you even have your fingers on it, but you keep close to it to keep it controlled.

D-E-M-O-N.

You frown.

H-E-R-E.

Your brow folds. There’s a demon within the rooms of your sanctuary. There isn’t anything you actively do to prevent the paranormal, the supernatural, the weird, or the devilish from entering your gallery, but you most certainly will now. These will be hallowed grounds if you can help it, but the piece moves again.

G-A-L-L-R-Y.

That certainly helps a lot, but—

D-I-S-G-I-S-E.

Admittedly, your patience wore thin with the longer words, but Mischief was smart enough to hasten his spelling, even if it would cost its accuracy, but there was more urgency now than there was before. You rush as subtly as possible from your office, downstairs and into the gallery floor.

~ 🖼️ ~

You were still in operating hours, so there were a few people roaming the gallery. A couple was clinging to one another, walking the exhibit that housed the historical architecture and locale within the city. Two others, separate, were admiring the more artistic photography, one woman looking on with shock and intrigue at one of the few color portraits in the gallery.

Then there was the last person you could account for in the building. He was over six foot, had a darker complexion, wearing a coat, collared shirt, and slacks in a dark ensemble. You stalked the edge of the gallery, knowing well-enough pathing to avoid even stray lines-of-sight. You caught a scar over one cheek and the fold of the jawline, stretching up over a gap that continued on the right eyebrow. You started to fixate the most on his ears. They were pointed, undoubtedly pointed. You had to stop and stare, of course, but suddenly, a canvas that one of your prints was draped over started rattling violently against the wall. In a panic, you threw your hand against its corner as if clapping your hand to that of a mouth. Mischief knew when to chime in, and other times, he was uncannily timely with his pranks and namesake mischief. It was impossible to know whether or not this was a sign or a ploy to make you out as the most awkward curator there could be, but now two eyes were upon you. The lone man, apart from this pointed-ear stranger, was glancing over. His gaze lingered for a moment while you pretended to straighten the frame, but then he went back to his business. You did, in fact, straighten the frame, and only when you felt that you were content with its position and alignment did you turn around to find that stranger beelining right for you.