text: I’ve learnt that you really need to pick your exhibits carefully. Some times there can be unexpected consequences. My partner Steve and I opened the Olde Museum of Pirating And Smuggler Antiquities (I know, but it was a tourist seaside destination, what else could we do?) five years ago. We found a cheap building tucked away in the winding streets and alleys of the old town. There had been a tavern in that same location for hundreds of years, and smugglers and pirates would congregate there, sharing their plunder and drinking until the morning. Of course we couldn't get a drink license, but otherwise we resolved to be in keeping with the spirit of those anti-establishment gents (and ladies), and create the most rambunctious, exciting, and different museum in the land (or at least the local town, or maybe just neighbourhood. But we had big plans). We heard rumours that there were hidden tunnels leading down to the coast, allowing the smugglers to move goods undetected into the tavern basement, and also allow a sharp exit for anyone needing to escape attention, but they were long gone, lost to the ages. Still, a hand written sign on the stairs meant we could tempt people down into the basement, where we would put the gift shop. A quick exit through the firedoor at the back, covered over with some black cloth, and people would be none the wiser they hadnt walked out through those tunnels. Apart from the lack of the coast of course. But a speaker playing seagull sounds, and a spray of salt water would help there. Steve had some brilliant ideas in those days. We found some great stuff to fill the rooms. A replica pirate outfit came from a fancy dress shop, adorning a mannequin we took from a skip outside a closing down department store. The boat hanging from the ceiling was taken in the dead of night from a childs adventure playground. (It seemed only appropriate to steal something for a pirate exhibition - I’m not proud). That took four of us, drunk on whiskey and gin, dragging it through the streets at 4 am, setting off car alarms and waking dogs as we went. I can only presume anyone who woke thought they were hallucinating. Some stuff was authentic (ish). I was a fan of antique markets and shops, prowling the stalls to find knick knacks, and happened upon some very old looking manuscripts, charts and paintings one Sunday whilst with my ex-girlfriend. She had picked up a set of four candles, and was about to make the joke, when a box under a trestle table caught my eye. ‘Alright Ronnie, shh’ I’d said, wittily shutting her up. In hindsight there may be a connection with why she left me on the Friday, but that is another story. The box was stuffed full of crackly old papers, rolled up tight and tied with string. “Fiver the lot, mate” said the toothless old man behind the table, his eyes not leaving my girlfriends shorts. “Are you sure?” I repled, “They look a little torn” “Four fifty, then” he replied, and we left as he continued licking his lips. Steve and I framed and hung all the papers the next week, again accompanied by a bottle of the most expensive whiskey we could afford (in reality an own brand blend from the corner shop by the harbour). This resulted in a decidedly crooked display, but it was in keeping with the rest of our museum. Charts of the seven seas lined the walls down the stairs from the entrance desk, while a series of wanted posters hung behind the dressed mannequin. We even managed to add a couple to the group, printed from a website and showing our own faces, aged with splashes of cold tea and boot prints. The centre piece however was an amazing set of paintings, depicting pirate ships in full flight, cutlasses glinting and sails fully open, the skull and crossbones proudly on display. Hairy teethed pirates hung from the rigging, ragged trousers billowing in the wind of the advancing ships, cruel grins spread across dirty sun burnt faces. Whoever had painted these masterpieces was skillful, as Steve and I could almost taste the sea air (though that may have been the first trial of our exit spray we had forgotten to turn off). This set of paintings was hung in the main room, an area we now referred to as the rogues gallery. Not quite the British Gallery, or the Portrait Gallery, but we were proud of our work. Glasses were clinked, backs heartily slapped, and I stumbled on home to my cats. Steve lived the other end of town, and besides he had a fear of felines, so we resolved to see each other the next day for our grand opening (or at least our first day of trying to tempt in punters). I arrived bleary eyed to a closed door, no sign out as I thought we had agreed upon. I unlocked and hefted the wooden advert down the stairs into the pathway, then recoiled at the sun now coming around the corner, scuttling back inside. Steve came barrelling out from behind the counter at reception, straggly hair flying and unkempt as he almost knocked me flying back into the daylight. “You will never guess what has happened” he hissed in my ear, a crazed look coming across his bloodshot eyes. His teeth never stopped grinding, a curious experience when they were so close to my head. He was looking back and forth rapidly, and at one point his view fixed on a point just over my left shoulder for an unsettlingly long time. Both hands gripped my shoulders, nails digging, and Steve turned me roughly towards the rogues gallery. He pointed at the pirate portraits. His lips moved so close to my ear, I could feel the spittle as Steve hissed “They are alive”. I turned to look at him, my mouth coming perilously close to kissing him as I did so. I could smell the alcohol seeping out of every single one of his pores, seemingly as though he had bathed in it. “You sure mate - bit extra to drink last night?” I replied, wriggling free of his claw like grip. “Dont be soft, paintings arent alive” “I’ve seeeeen it” he replied, holding the words slightly too long. He paused, his eyes locked on mine, pupils fully dilated. His chin had somehow appeared to grow a weeks stubble in one night, less five o clock shadow, more five day beard. I noticed what looked a fresh tattoo adorning his neck as well, throbbing red, and looking home made. Steves clothes were also decidedly tattered now I properly looked at him. “I came back in last night” he whispered, “Id forgotten my keys. They were in the back, and as I collected them, I smelt the salt water” He stopped and looked round again, his train of thought gone. “And Steve... Had you left the spray on? Come on mate, for f..” “No, I hadnt” he snapped, interrupting me, forgetting to whisper and shocking himself. “The ship was real. Its real, I mean...” Again with the staring. This was starting to get on my nerves, and I was convinced he had taken something other than whiskey last night. “Come, come” he now said, gripping my arm again and leading my to the rogues gallery. He pointed at the end picture. It was then I saw the most remarkable thing I have ever seen (and I have lived a remarkable life by many standard. Again, thats for another story. But princesses, giants and snakes are all involved). The ships had all moved across the pictures, left to right. Where they were all separate before, now they were in convoy in one frame, hard against each other, ropes slung to keep them close. They looked to be heading to one thing - the exit and the location of the tunnel to the sea. “That cant be, what have you done?” I asked, before realising something else. Water was leaking from the far right of the picture, the source of the salt spray, and the frame was broken, pieces lying strewn across the floor. The steady drip drip had led to a puddle, an indoor sea, a waterfall down the steps, into cracks, along every nook. We had our own river, leading to the shore, and at the forefront was a single galleon, a hive of activity, shouts and smells as real as can be. It was no more than a couple of feet high, but real it was none the less. Steve nodded at me in fear, and grabbed me again. “They are real” he whispered. “Real men. Real press gangers” I didnt at first know what he meant, but that was soon rectified. Our mannequin had crept up behind us both, and a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. Wriggling free, and spinning behind it, I could see Steve shaking his head, and mouthing no over and over, as ropes from the boats swung across his shoulders, tying back his arms, and chains looped his ankles. “Not again” he cried, as the ropes pulled tighter, making him fall to his knees, and then, as I watched, pulling tighter, and actually making Steve shrink down in size. My friend reached out to me with one arm he pulled free, before he was overwhelmed by the men from the boat, and dragged screaming on board, thrown below deck as their attention turned to me. I’m afraid to say reader that all I could do was turn and run, leaving my friend and partner behind. I ran back up the stairs, dodged the mannequin as he reached out again, and managed to reach daylight, pausing to slam the door shut as I then fell down the entrance and knocked over our advertising sign. I didnt dare go back into the Olde Museum of Pirating And Smuggler Antiquities for a few days. I reported Steves disappearance to the police, but couldnt tell them the whole story. They looked over the museum, and found nothing untoward, the official report casually mentioning the lifelike manner of some of the exhibitions, and questioning the provenance of some of the displays (though that was never followed up). Steve wasnt to be seen anywhere. I ventured in after them, to find the picture frame mysteriously fixed, and all sign of the flowing river long gone. There was some water damage on the wall, and I managed to find the hidden tunnel by following it, but even in there I found nothing. The only thing that I did find strange was that one of the ships in the far right painting in rogues gallery seemed to have one pirate waving, but it was so small it was hard to make out properly. Still as the police commented, it was a very lifelike exhibition.