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GALLERY CLOSED。 NEW EXHIBITION IN PROGRESS。 THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING。
The left…hand door was locked。 The right one； however； pushed open easily。
As casually as possible； she looked over her shoulder： nobody。
The door hissed shut behind her； and she found herself in a narrow crawl space between the outer walls of the gallery and the back of the exhibition proper。 Plywood boards and large nails were strewn around in disarray； and electrical cables snaked across the floor。 On her left a huge structure of Sheetrock and boards； hammered clumsily together and supported by wooden buttresses； looked very much like the back side of a Hollywood set。 It was the side of the Superstition exhibition that no Museum visitor would ever see。
She moved carefully down the crawl space； scouting for some way to get into the exhibition。 The light was poor…metal…shielded light bulbs； spaced about twenty feet apart…and she didn't want to stumble and fall。 Soon she came across a small gap between the wooden panels…just big enough； she decided； to squeeze through。
She found herself in a large； six…sided anteroom。 Gothic arches in three of the walls framed passages。 that receded into the gloom。 Most of the light came from several backlit photographs of shamans high up on the walls。 She looked speculatively at the three exits。 She had no idea where she was in the exhibition…where it began； where it ended； or which way she should go to find Moriarty。 〃George？〃 she called softly； somehow unable to raise her voice in the silence and gloom。
She took the central passage to another dark hall； longer than the last and crowded with exhibits。 At intervals； a brilliant spot illuminated some artifact： a mask； a bone knife； a strange carving covered with nails。 The artifacts appeared to float in the velvet darkness。 Crazy； dim patterns of light and shadow played across the ceiling。
At the far end of the gallery； the walls narrowed。 Margo had the odd feeling that she was walking back into a deep cave。 Pretty manipulative； she thought。 She could see why Frock was upset。
She went deeper into the gloom； hearing nothing but her own footsteps padding on the thick carpet。 She couldn't see the exhibits until she was almost on top of them； and she wondered how she'd retrace her steps to the room of the shamans。 Perhaps there would be an unlocked exit…a well…lit unlocked exit…someplace else in； the exhibit。
Ahead of her； the narrow hall forked。 After a moment's hesitation； Margo chose the right…hand passage。 As she continued； she noticed small alcoves to either side； each containing a single grotesque artifact。 The silence was so intense that she found herself holding her breath。
The hall widened into a chamber； and she stopped in front of a set of Maori tattooed heads。 They weren't shrunken…the skulls were clearly still inside； preserved； the label said； by smoking。 The eye sockets were stuffed with fibers； and the mahogany…colored skins glistened。 The black； shriveled lips were drawn back from the teeth。 There were six of them； a crowd grinning hysterically； bobbing in the night。 The blue tattoos were breathtakingly plex： intricate spirals that intersected and reintersected； curving in endless patterns around the cheeks and nose and chin。 The tattooing had been done in life； the label said； and the heads preserved as a sign of respect。
Just beyond； Margo could see the gallery narrowing to a point。 A massive； squat totem pole stood before it； lit from beneath by a pale； orange light。 The shadows of giant wolf heads and birds with cruel； hooked beaks thrust upward from the pole and splashed across the ceiling； gray against black。 Certain she had reached a dead end； Margo approached the totem pole unwillingly。 Then she noticed a small opening； ahead and on the left； leading into an alcove。 She continued slowly； walking as quietly as possible。 Any thought of calling out again for Moriarty had long since vanished。 Thank God I'm nowhere near the Old Basement； she thought。
The alcove held a display of fetishes。 Some were simple stones carved in the shapes of animals； but the majority were monsters depicting the darker side of human superstition。 Another opening brought Margo into a long； narrow room。 Thick black felt covered all of the room's surfaces； and a dim blue light filtered from hidden recesses。 The ceiling was low above Margo's head。 Smithback would have to go through here on his hands and knees； she thought。
The room broadened into an octagonal space beneath a high groined vault。 A dappled light filtered down from stained…glass depictions of medieval underworlds set into the vaulted ceiling。 Large windows dominated each wall。
She approached the closest window and found herself looking down into a Mayan tomb。 A skeleton lay in the center； covered with a thick layer of dust。 Artifacts were scattered around the site。 A gold breastplate sat on the ribcage； and gold rings encircled bony fingers。 Painted pots were arranged in a semicircle around the skull。 One of these contained an offering of tiny； dried corncobs。
The next window displayed an Eskimo rock burial； including an Eskimo mummy…bundle wrapped in skins。 The next was even more startling： a lidless； rotting European…style coffin； plete with corpse。 The corpse was dressed in a much…decayed frock coat； tie； and tails； and was well on its way toward deposition。 Its head was bent stiffly toward Margo as if prepared to tell her a secret； sightless eye sockets bulging； mouth ossified into a rictus of pain。 She took a step backward。 Good God； she thought； that's somebody's great…grandfather。 The matter…of…fact tone of the label； which tastefully described the rituals associated with a typical nineteenth…century American burial； belied the visual hideousness of the scene。 It's true； she thought； the Museum is definitely taking a chance with stuff as strong as this。
She decided to forego the other windows and proceeded through a low archway in the far side of the octagonal room。 Beyond； the passage forked。 To her left was a small cul…de…sac； to her right； a long； slender passage led into darkness。 She didn't want to go that way； not just yet。 She wandered into the dead…end room； and stopped suddenly。 Then she moved forward to examine one of the cases more closely。
The gallery dealt with the concept of ultimate evil in its many mythic forms。 There were various images of a medieval devil； there was the Eskimo evil spirit； Tornarsuk。 But what arrested her was a crude stone altar； placed in the center of the gallery。 Sitting on the altar； lit by a yellow spot； was a small figurine； carved in such detail it took Margo's breath away。 Covered in scales； it crouched on all fours。 Yet there was something…the long forearms； the angle of its head…that was disturbingly human。 She shuddered。 What kind of imagination gave rise to a being with both scales and hair？ Her eyes dropped to the label。
MBWUN。 This carving is a representation of the mad god Mbwun； possibly carved by the Kothoga tribe of the Upper Amazon basin。 This savage god； also known as He Who Walks On All Fours； was much feared by the other indigenous tribes of the area。 In local myth； the Kotho