By Michael Teasdale
Nobody knew precisely where the relics came from nor how those with the money and power to assemble such collections managed to locate them in the first place.
Yet Hal was certain of one thing—at some point he had robbed and swindled them all.
“Let me guess. You see yourself as a modern-day Robin Hood?” the gray-haired man spat as Hal tightened the ropes around his wrists.
“Not really,” Hal mused. “Robin Hood, as I recall, robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.” He winked as he slipped the gag over his target’s mouth. “Whereas I rob from the rich and sell to the even richer. That’s capitalism, right? Who knows? On another day, you might have been my client.”
Ignoring the muffled protest of the aging millionaire, Hal wandered to an ornate bookcase and ran his finger along its dusty tomes, eventually finding one that stood out through more prominent use.
“Prometheus Bound,” he read, tilting the book’s spine. A section of the wall slid away, revealing a descending stairwell. Peering into the darkness, Hal flicked on his infrared goggles and glanced back at the fuming millionaire struggling against the ropes. “An ironic choice,” he chuckled.
As Hal felt his way down the winding staircase, he tried to remember when he’d first crossed the line from simple underground art thief to hunter of the legendary objects that he hoped would buy him his retirement.
The black market for stolen antiquities was a complicated affair. Every aging collector worth their salt had some nefariously obtained Picasso sketch or illegal Etruscan urn buried away in a vault. It was a smaller, more elite circle that dealt in the true treasures of protohistory. The objects that most dismissed, through arrogance or ignorance, as mere legend.
Was it the Green Armor of Arthurian legend that first made him a believer? Probably not. It was hard to judge the armor’s effectiveness at preventing external injury when the client had succumbed to old age a few months after receiving it.
Perhaps it was the sword of Thuận Thiên that he’d stolen for a high-ranking member of the Vietnamese military. Or the Rod of Asclepius taken at the behest of a famous American doctor.
In truth, once the deal was done and the payment rested in his account, Hal had little interest in how the new owners chose to use their ill-gotten treasure.
He reached the bottom of the staircase, scanning the room ahead.
Nothing? No infrared beams? No security cameras?
Of course, Hal reasoned, the upper-mansion with its valuable artwork, pottery, and sculpture was designed to distract from the real prize. The amateur thief might make off with a Caravaggio or Constantin but would never dream of what lay beneath. Still, Hal felt a tiny flicker of unease kindling in the pit of his stomach as he looked upon the sculptures that lined the walls of this hidden basement.
Ugly looking things; certainly, no Renaissance masterworks. Instead, they appeared to be statues set in peculiar poses, chiseled from rough, unfinished stone. With the night-vision it was hard to get a better look, but his concerns were extinguished when he spied the pedestal at the back of the room and saw the box resting atop it. A crooked smile creased his lips, remembering the words of his contact in Marrakech.
Nobody knows for sure what’s inside it, but they say it’s power beyond measure. If your client likes the Ancient Greek stuff… well, let’s just say you’ll never have to work again!
Hal’s hands trembled with anticipation as he took hold of the box’s lid and carefully raised it. Too late he saw a flash of movement and felt the sharp pain in his wrist.
“Little snake, little snake, oh how you slither.” The voice rolled in from some unseen speaker as the lights powered on in a flash of white. Blinded by the sudden glare, Hal wrenched off the goggles and dropped them to the floor as pain raced up his arm.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t guard my greatest treasure?”
He recognised the voice now. It was the old man, no longer incapacitated. Hal’s vision swam back into focus as his eyes adjusted to the light. He stared into the box.
A head lay in the box, mouth open in a permanent death snarl, a nest of green vipers squirming where the hair should have been. They writhed and hissed and snapped at him. Yet it was the eyes, the terrible burning hatred of the gorgon’s eyes, that burrowed into him as the lecture from above continued.
“Isn’t she beautiful? The legendary Medusa, slain by Perseus! Full petrification will of course take a moment. She is rather old after all,” the voice explained. “Still, it will be long enough for you to admire my true collection.”
Hal’s chest began to stiffen. He could already feel the leaden weight in his legs. He stumbled as the flame of doubt rekindled into an inferno of panic. His eyes darted around the room. Stupid! He saw the statues for what they truly were now. The faces frozen in terror. A sea of thieves cast in stone.
“If it’s any consolation,” the man said, “you will be the pride of my collection, Hal. I’ve tracked your progress for some time. Your work is most impressive.”
“H-How?” Hal stuttered in defeat, vocal cords tightening as the immobilizing petrification crept up past his shoulders.
“Your clients turned you in,” he chuckled. “It was simple to lure you here as we did with the others. You’ve stolen from so many of us that you’ve become a liability to your own employers. This is the endgame for thieves like you, but don’t worry. I’ve a place along the wall picked out for you.”
Hal felt a solitary tear form in the corner of his eye. Before it could roll down his cheek, it was no more than a blemish on The Collector’s newest acquisition.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eek! I kinda expected it, but still, poor Hal!
Oh, creepy! Not sure if I feel sorry for Hal or justified for the Collector…
Nice twist!
Horribly creepy, but also very (delightfully?) good!
This was great. I loved how all of the statues in the room were thieves who had gotten too good for their own good.
Chilling!!
Such a creepy story! Lovely twist ending!