Ghost town

"There is no way to explain the terror I felt when I finally lunged up to the clerk and began babbling. All my well-rehearsed lines fell apart under that woman's stoney glare. "Hi there," I said. "My name is . . . ah, Raoul Duke . . . yes, on the list, that's for sure. Free lunch, final wisdom, total coverage . . . why not?"

West Virginia looks a lot like home under these conditions, except they have huge rivers instead of glacial valleys. I decided to venture through the gap in the flood barricade to walk up and down the Ohio river. Supposedly a park, but nobody was around. Creepy. I was approached by a transient who asked me if I lived under the bridge as well. I left immediately.

Looking for something uplifting, I went to Huntington's epicenter of cultural discourse: the art museum. It was not uplifting. After several hallways of silver and glass sculpture and refinement I began to hear very disturbing noises. I entered the current exhibit that featured an abnormality and anxiety theme. Besides the dark room that chanted "GET OUT OF MY MIND GET OUT OF THIS ROOM" there were many paranormal pieces.

"I posed nude every day for a drawing class, from 9 am to 12 noon. Each day, a man who was always seated in the first row, on my far left, drew me for three hours. At noon he would take a razor blade out of his pocket and compulsively slash the drawing he had made. I would watch. Then he would leave the room. The drawing would remain on the table as evidence. This was repeated every day for twelve days. On the thirteenth day, I didn't go to work."

This was a doll, trapped under a chair, with a face projected onto
the head. It was alternately screaming and laughing.

Thank you, Huntington. I will now have nightmares.