a large brown rottweiler. Looked strong.
Penny took Scott’s hand, squeezed it, and together they approached the second photograph. This was the image of a table saw, the kind commonly used in a wood shop.
“I don’t get it,” Penny said.
“Me neither.”
They approached the third photograph, slowly, almost cautiously. There was a feeling growing between them that the couple didn’t want to address. They were becoming nervous, and not in a good way. They expected art, not this. Not cheap photographs and canned music. This was dark and disturbing, true, but there was nothing artistic about it––at least, not from what they had seen so far.
As they reached the third Polaroid, Penny turned away.
It was the image of a body, a corpse, mutilated beyond comprehension. The stomach was gutted, the chest was mangled; entrails washed the floor around it. A hand had been chewed off; the throat was opened to the bone. Glossy eyes were forever frozen in a gaze of terror.
It took Scott a few seconds to recognize the corpse as a woman, and a few more to see the rottweiler in the background.
“That’s fucked up,” Scott said.
Penny glanced at the image a second time, saying, “Do you think it’s real?”
In the far corner of the room, near the door they had entered, a wall began sliding up. It made a sound like an escalator. They heard a deep, sharp bark, followed by two more. There was nothing canned about it.
There was a dog in the room with them, a rottweiler. It ran towards the couple quickly. Its snout was arched into a brutal snarl, with teeth long and white. Its ears were pulled so far back they looked aerodynamic.
Penny stepped away, lost her balance and fell. Her dress yanked against her shoulders; her purse slipped from her fingers and slid across the floor.
Scott watched his wife drop.
His mouth was agape; his eyes were wide with terror.
Looking away from her, he saw the animal leap and he screamed. With his hands held in a distressing pose of defense, he thought he was about to be torn to pieces.
Miraculously––as if God himself intervened––the dog came to an abrupt halt in mid-air.
It was chained to the wall.
“Jesus Christ!” Scott cursed as the animal was hurled to the ground.
The dog lifted itself to its feet, yelping. The hair on its back pointed north. White foamy drool hung from its mouth like a beard.
“What the fuck is that!”
Penny was shaking; she was close to tears. “Help me up,” she said. “Scott, give me a hand.”
Scott helped his wife to her feet, still cursing and angry. “This isn’t art! This is bullshit! Are you okay, honey? Are you all right?”
Penny wrapped her arms around her husband. Her dress––her beautiful peach colored dress––was torn on one side. “Look at me,” she said.
The dog growled and barked several times, drowning her words.
“I’m not happy about this,” Scott said. “This is bullshit.”
“I know it is. Lets get out of here.”
As the dog barked again, Scott screamed, “SHUT UP!” He was furious now. That fucking dog was not cool.
Hand in hand, Scott and Penny walked towards the white door, eager to move on. The floor was sticky. The white door had spots of blood on it.
They entered the next room; the door closed behind them with the familiar CLICK. This time, the sound pissed Scott off. He tried opening it. Sure as shit, it was locked. Not that it mattered––they couldn’t go the other way. Not with that fucking dog in the room.
The new room was bigger than the one before it, but designed similar: black ceiling, black walls, black floor, white door and spooky music. But this time, four pieces of art hung from the wall on their left, placed inside three-foot glass cube cases. The art seemed to be ‘actual art’, not photographs.
Scott said, “Wait here.”
He took a step away from Penny and away from the cases, wanting to investigate the dark corners of the room.
Grabbing his arm, Penny said, “Are you crazy? Don’t leave me here! You’re going to trip some invisible wire and a gorilla will jump out and tear my friggin head off!”
Scott felt the urge to pull away from Penny and tell her to shut up.
He didn’t.
“You’re right,” he said, feeling terrible. This wasn’t her fault; it was his. He was the one that brought them here, not her. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little upset about that last room.”
“That’s okay, but don’t leave me.”
“I won’t.”
They walked away from the art, checking out the