Chapter 14: Words of Wisdom
Night.
The museum was wrapped in silence, a stark contrast to the bustling chaos of the daytime crowds.
The revived exhibits stood quietly in their display cases, stealing nervous glances at the man behind the service desk.
Rango, the focus of all those hidden eyes, wore an expression so dark it could've passed for a storm front rolling in.
He hadn't dared to close his eyes for a single moment all day.
Don't get the wrong idea — it wasn't the ghosts back at the house that were eating at him. It was the very real possibility of being grabbed by that leather-thong-wearing ghost again. After all, based on the Polaroids in that suitcase, there had been more than one guy like that living in this house. A whole crowd of them, actually.
Furious, he'd torn the entire villa apart before his shift, but the ghosts had vanished like smoke. Not a single one dared to show their face.
This wasn't exactly new territory for him, though.
Back in Africa, in order to push the system's progress bar forward, he'd made a habit of venturing deep into remote villages and settlements to deal with possessions — people overtaken by spirits, demons, things that most folks didn't even believe existed.
The reason he could do any of that came down to one thing: the system. It gave him the ability to physically interact with spiritual entities — things that no ordinary person could touch, let alone fight. Whether it was residual spirits, full-blown ghosts, or something darker and stranger that he'd never been able to categorize, the rule was simple. If they showed themselves in front of him, he could hit them. Hard.
And with the light formation that blazed across his right hand every time he threw a punch, each strike left damage that couldn't be undone. Permanent. Final.
With nothing but his bare fists, Rango had scattered more ghosts across Africa than he could count. That was exactly how he'd pushed the system's progress bar all the way to ninety-nine percent.
But for all that, he had a blind spot. A real one.
The system let him hurt spiritual bodies. It did not let him see them.
Unless a ghost voluntarily revealed itself, Rango had no way of knowing where they were hiding. They could be standing right next to him and he'd never know.
That thought sat heavy in his chest. He'd walked into the villa tonight fully confident — ready to sweep the place clean before Emma got back. But these ghosts turned out to be more skittish than anything he'd dealt with before. After getting a taste of what he could do, not a single one had dared to show itself again.
At this rate, he wasn't going to clear that house out in time.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and let his gaze drift toward the lobby. Ted was out cold on the front desk, one paw draped dramatically over the edge of the table. Somewhere deeper in the museum, M3GAN was off in one of the exhibition halls, apparently entertaining Stan — the very enthusiastic Tyrannosaurus Rex — by tossing him a bone.
Rango checked his watch. Time for his patrol rounds.
He grabbed the flashlight off the desk and pushed away from his chair, heading out into the darkened corridors of the museum.
As a history and culture museum, the place was stuffed with artifacts — but more than anything, it was packed with books, documents, specimens, and above all, character models. Statues, mannequins, wax figures, busts — dozens of them, tucked into display cases all over the building.
Every step Rango took, he could feel them watching him. Dozens of frozen faces, all pretending to be lifeless, all very much aware that he was there.
After last night's little warning — the one where he'd made it extremely clear what would happen if any of them stepped out of line — the exhibits had been impressively well behaved. Not one had caused a scene since.
As he passed through the American History wing, Rango slowed his pace and let his eyes wander.
The place was something else, even in the dark.
Along one wall hung a series of landscape paintings — sweeping vistas of the American West, golden light spilling across canyons and prairies. As he walked past, he could hear the wind moving through them. Faint, but unmistakable, as if the paintings were breathing.
In the wildlife section, a massive Audubon painting of eagles in flight seemed to shift — feathers rustling, talons tightening — and a low screech echoed softly through the glass.
And the portraits. God, the portraits.
Revolutionary War generals, frontier pioneers, presidents — their painted eyes followed Rango as he moved down the hall. A couple of them even gestured, subtle little waves, as if trying to coax him closer for a chat.
Rango shook his head and kept walking. He made a mental note to criticize the museum's acquisition history sometime — half the stuff in here had been ripped from other countries without so much as a receipt. He scribbled his signature on the patrol sign-in sheet by the door and was just about to move on to the next hall when a voice stopped him cold.
"You look like a man with something on his mind."
Rango's brow furrowed. He turned toward the voice and looked into the nearest display case.
He blinked.
Was that... Benjamin Franklin?
The revived figure standing inside the case was unmistakable — round spectacles, period coat, a warm but mischievous expression on his face. He was leaning against the glass with one hand on his hip, regarding Rango with open curiosity.
Rango stared for a beat, then let out a breath and composed himself. He gave the statue a polite nod. "Yeah. I've got a situation. But it's not a big deal. Thanks for asking."
He turned to shut off the light and move on, but the Franklin statue immediately perked up, eyes going wide with excitement.
"Wait! Hold on! You actually talk to us?!" Franklin pushed off the glass, practically vibrating. "Kid, don't you dare walk out that door! Stay! Talk to me! I have been stuck in this case for years and you are the first security guard who has ever had a real conversation with me! Years, kid!"
Rango paused. He turned back and looked at the Franklin statue — all animated enthusiasm and barely contained energy — and thought, This is definitely not how Benjamin Franklin actually acted.
He walked back to the case and asked, evenly, "Can I help you with something?"
The moment Rango engaged, Franklin's whole demeanor shifted. The manic energy smoothed out into something warmer, more conspiratorial. He flashed a wide grin and leaned in like they were old friends.
"Come on, tell me what's going on! I've got nothing but time, and honestly? I'm bored out of my mind in here. Spill."
Rango considered it for a moment. Then he said, "I moved into a new place recently. Turns out there are some uninvited guests. I'm trying to figure out how to deal with them."
Franklin slapped the inside of the glass with delight. "Ha! Is that all?!"
He stroked his chin, putting on an air of great seriousness, then pointed a finger at Rango. "Kid, let me ask you something. Have you ever read the Federalist Papers?"
"A little," Rango admitted.
"Then you know what Hamilton wrote about dealing with opposition — you don't wait for them to come to you. You take the fight to them. You make it clear who's running the show." Franklin tapped the glass for emphasis. "A man who doesn't assert himself invites chaos. You want order in your house? You make order. You let them know — loudly, and without any room for interpretation — who is the master of that house."
Rango nodded slowly. That part, he actually agreed with.
But then he said, evenly, "I appreciate the advice. But these uninvited guests aren't exactly the kind you can just kick out. They're ghosts. Residual spirits. The house I moved into is haunted."
Franklin's eyebrows shot up. He stared at Rango for a solid three seconds.
"Ghosts," he repeated.
"Yeah."
"You didn't lead with that."
"Didn't seem relevant until now."
Franklin huffed, clearly pleased that this had just gotten way more interesting. He crossed his arms, rubbed his chin, and thought hard for a moment. Then, slowly, a knowing look crossed his face.
"Alright. Ghosts. That's a different ball game." He pointed up toward the ceiling. "Second floor. Find an old man named Gabriel Amos. He's got a display case near the back of the Civil War wing. Legendary exorcist — or at least, he was, back in his day. Western ghosts, demons, the whole nine yards? That's his specialty."
Rango raised an eyebrow. An exorcist. Right here in the museum.
He gave Franklin a respectful nod. "Thanks. That's actually really helpful."
"Hey, what can I say? I know people." Franklin winked.
Rango turned to go, but stopped halfway to the door. He thought for a second, then walked back.
"One more thing. Hypothetically — if I ever run into a ghost that doesn't fall under Gabriel's wheelhouse. Something older. Something that doesn't respond to the usual stuff. Who would you point me toward?"
Franklin didn't even hesitate. He jerked his thumb toward a large, striking painting hanging on the far wall of the hall — a towering figure in dark robes, sword drawn, face set with fierce authority, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. The kind of painting that made you feel like the subject was staring right back at you.
"Him," Franklin said. "That's a painting of Zhong Kui — done by one of the greatest artists who ever lived. You run into something nasty and old? You bring it right here. Trust me."
Rango looked at the painting. The figure inside seemed to radiate a quiet, dangerous energy — even rendered in oil and canvas.
He turned back to Franklin. "Good to know."
"Kid?" Franklin called out as Rango headed for the stairs.
Rango glanced back.
Franklin leaned against the glass one more time, grinning. "This museum? It's full of surprises. Don't sleep on it."
Rango allowed himself a small smile, then disappeared up the staircase toward the second floor.
This museum really is something else.
[500 Power Stones → +1 Bonus Chapter]
[10 Reviews → +1 Bonus Chapter]
Enjoyed the chapter? A review helps a lot.
P1treon: Soulforger (10+ advance chapters)