She never believed in the supernatural, until the day it spoke to her. Weird Tales Entry.
Jack smiled back, and gestured quickly for her to follow. He was so handsome, six feet tall, and built like a dark-haired dream. The stage clothes weren't doing him any favors, though. What man can pull off gold shorts? Now that was a delicious thought! Anyway, Jack was fearless, and he'd been eyeing her in exactly the right way, which was why she was following him through the back door he'd sneaked the key to. There was stuff for the new exhibit there: gold and mummies and things coming back from the Far East. Jack wanted to see it, and God help her, she wanted Jack. She followed.
The door opened with a little squeal, and she stepped in behind him, grasping his arm when he stopped. He flipped a switch, and a few overhead lamps blinked to life. It was still dark, and dust stirred as they walked. There were boxes and statues everywhere, all lined up in rows. Tiffany frowned: no gold, though. She did see a big shiny black statue right ahead, of a fat man with one eye in the center of its forehead. It was huge, and fascinating, beautiful and creepy somehow at the same time. She'd never seen anything like it. She released Jack's arm, and tiptoed towards it.
"What's that, Tif?" Jack asked. "Looks old."
"You're asking me?" she shrugged. "I wanna touch it."
"Careful," Jack said. "We're just here to look."
"Scared?" Tiffany said, and giggled again, softly. The building was quiet at night, but it wasn't empty. Jack just shook his head.
The fat man was even stranger up close, and its dark stone was smooth to the touch. Acting on impulse, Tiffany eased herself into the statue's arms. They were cool on her skin, but didn't leave her cold. She must have been a sight, in her skimpy purple dress, as she bent back to kiss the statue's broad lips, golden curls spilling behind her.
"Daughter, you have come," a deep, alien voice echoed in her head. She screamed.
* * *
Tiffany popped a tranquilizer, and placed one shaking hand over the other to still it. Nothing had been the same since she touched that stupid statue. It was cursed, more than cursed, if there was such a thing. It cost her everything.
First she lost Jack, who was totally pissed when the security guard came running at her screams. He caught them red-handed with the new exhibits - she almost ended up in jail! Instead they sent her to a doctor, who said she had a breakdown. Her gave her pills - sometimes they worked. Her job went next - a Vegas outfit had no place for a trespasser. She got a gig as a secretary, but that fell through too, cause the sedatives were too strong, and she missed her first day. With her luck, this gig wouldn't pan out, either
To top off matters, the bus was late - she was probably gonna miss the interview, too. Desperate, Tiffany squinted off into the west, trying to figure where to go. The office was just a couple blocks over, easy walking, but the neighborhood wasn't great. Damn. She hiked up her skirt, and paced toward the alley. If she could just get through, she'd be fine. She only needed this new job, and everything would turn around. It took every ounce of self-control not to kick off her heels and run, but she wasn't going far.
"Hands up, lady," a harsh voice called out from behind, and there was a click. "I just want your money, honey."
Double-damn. Tiffany raised her hands, and turned slowly to the voice. Looking down at her was a scruffy looking guy with dirty blond hair. Like, really dirty, with streaks of something dark running through. His face wasn't any better. "I don't have none, honest. I got nothing! I was just headed to try to get a job. Oh, please."
"That's a shame," dirty-face said, "a crying shame. You see, you wanna come through here, you and me gotta work somethin' out."
"Oh God!" Tiffany yelled. "Anybody, help!" Just get me out of this, God, and I'll do anything, I promise.
"Whoa, lady," the blond mugger said, raising both hands up to shush her, when someone jogged into the alley from where she came, drawn by her voice. It was a handsome guy in a dark suit with money written all over it: another victim.
"Looky what we got here," the mugger said, ignoring her. "Now, you sure ain't comin' up dry."
Oh God! Why was she even born! Then the voice came again, the voice from the awful statue. But the voice wasn't awful at all: it was deep and comforting. "Daughter, be at peace. I am here."
For a wonder, she was. Time slowed as Tiffany looked around, took in the absurdity of it all. She almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she swung her purse, the one with the steel coffee thermos full of whisky inside. Dirty-face staggered at the blow. Money-suit followed with a wicked hook to his jaw, and the mugger went down, his gun skittering right in front of the suit, who scooped it up in a blink.
"Don't move, asshole," the suit said, then swiveled his neck to take Tiffany in. Twice. "That was some really quick thinking. My name is Bruce Waxman, nice to meet you."
Waxman? The filmmaker? "Tiffany Hart, a pleasure," she replied with a voice as cool as a cucumber, and smoldering eyes.
Waxman's smile was appreciative. "I'm so sorry you had to see this, Tiffany, but I'd like to make it up to you. How does dinner sound? Tonight. I have some interviews to give first. We're hiring for the new movie, but you I don't want to miss."
"That sounds real nice," Tiffany said, and turned her face down coyly, She'd had it all wrong. Everything was gonna be fine. Better than fine.