I think people misunderstand what it’s like to work a night shift. It’s not lonely because I’m good at keeping myself company. It’s not too tiring because contrary to what the movies say, cat burglars aren’t attempting to rob this museum every other week — besides, I can make up for these sleepless nights by sleeping during the day. Most importantly, it isn’t boring. When I’m done making my rounds around the building, I can sit in my office and speed through crosswords and word searches. And if those get boring, I can count on the creature to keep me company.
I don’t really have a name for it. It just slid under my office door one day and plopped down on my desk. I was scared at first: I wasn’t expecting a black, formless blob that somehow had a full set of canines to show up out of nowhere. I considered shooting it, but I realized that would get too messy, so I tried whacking it with my baton instead. The baton passed straight through the creature like it was a ghost, and it screeched at me, exposing the tips of its sharp pearly whites. I took a few steps back and cowered, expecting it to lunge at me, but it closed its mouth and flattened out a bit, like it was settling down for a nap. I got the impression that it was like a cat. A mysterious, dangerous cat.
If violence wasn’t the answer, maybe I’d have to use words instead. From my safe space in the corner of the office, I begged the creature to kindly get up and go back to where it came from, because I had a life to live and a job to do. The creature ignored me and flattened out even more. I inched towards a nearby cabinet, took out a pair of latex gloves, and slid them on. If the creature didn’t want to attack me, I could probably get away with moving it. I carefully wrapped my hands around the creature and picked it up. It stretched out between my fingers like melting silly putty, but I managed not to drop it. I tip-toed towards the door, pushed it open with my foot, then tossed the creature out and shut the door behind me. I heard a muted, aggravated screech, but it didn’t crawl back in. I didn’t want to risk getting my hand bit off — or worse — so I kept the door shut and watched the creature from the monitors in my office. There were two security cameras trained on my door. The creature rolled up to the door and leaned against it, but it didn’t try to get in. I figured it finally got the message.
The next few nights were a repeat of the first. The creature crawled onto my desk, I kicked it out, and it sat outside my door like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home. On the fifth day, I got tired of the routine. I wondered if the creature was actually a threat, given how it hadn’t tried to attack me all. This time, I ripped off a small piece of sliced roast beef from the sandwich I’d packed and dangled it over the creature. It hopped and snatched the meat from my fingers, gulping it down in one bite. It sunk in that now that I’d fed it, there was no way it would leave me alone. But the tiny voice in my head that was worried about getting hurt was drowned out by my curiosity. I fed it another piece of meat, then another, and eventually half of my sandwich.
The creature purred and leaned towards me like it was expecting to be petted. Maybe I was feeding the ghost of a dead cat. I wasn’t ready to touch it with my bare hands, so I put on a latex glove and hesitantly ran my hand across its back. It was impossibly smooth and devoid of curves or bumps, a seemingly infinite sheet of onyx. What was this thing even made of? Was it a ghost that the archaeologists had accidentally dug up and dumped in the museum? Or was it a figment of my imagination, a hallucination my brain cooked up so I wouldn’t feel as lonely?
A week later, the creature proved it was real. Around 3:00 AM, long after the last janitors had gone home for the night, a single burglar broke into the museum, hoping to steal a priceless artifact or two and get rich. I spotted him from the monitors in my office and rose up to catch him, but the creature was much faster than me. It squeezed through the gap between the door and the floor and bolted towards the rocks and minerals exhibit, frictionlessly sliding across the ground. Too stunned to react and feeling a little outclassed, I watched from the monitors as it jumped and sunk its teeth into the burglar’s arm. Blood dripped onto the floor and the man shrieked in pain and confusion. He managed to rip the creature off of his arm and ran away as quickly as he could; he figured that dealing with that thing wasn’t worth it, and I agreed.
Maybe I’m wrong for this, but I didn’t feel too bad for him. I’d scored myself a ghastly guard dog, an otherworldly pet that was nice enough to help me with my job and strong enough to do it well. What kind of security guard wouldn’t want a pet like that? I hurriedly went to a storage closet, took out some cleaning supplies, and cleaned up the blood so no one would raise any questions in the morning. If the creature had a spine it would be straightened in self-confidence, and I petted it as a reward for its effort.
The creature and I are friends now. I hold it with my bare hands and give it bacon every Sunday. I’ve even been considering giving it a name, since saying “the creature” is starting to get boring. I’ve considered the possibility that it is a malevolent ghost and it’s been playing the long game, making me lower my guard so it can strike me down when I’m at my most vulnerable. But in the meantime, I don’t care. I love having the funny thing around, and it loves being with me.