Museletter

The slam of the computer gallery door was so loud it seemed to shake the dust out of the keyboards. Larry jolted in the swivel chair, his knees knocking the underside of the desk. In the doorway stood Mr Globesmith, framed by the strip-light behind him like a villain in a school play. His tie was askew, his face pale, and his eyes were fixed on Larry with a stare so hard it could have drilled through granite.

For a beat, nobody moved. The gallery felt colder than it should have, as if the computers were breathing out freezing air. The blinds hung half-open, spilling thin stripes of light across the desks like pale ladders. Somewhere, a fan whirred, then stopped, then whirred again, like a creature that couldn't decide whether to wake up.

Larry's screen was still on.

Who is Milo Mesmer?

Milo Mesmer is a well known Youtuber, hailing from Brainsville, Missouri…

A glossy image had loaded in the corner: a man smiling straight at the camera. His skin looked polished, like someone had buffed him with a cloth until he shone. His eyes were bright, but not warm. They reminded Larry of glass marbles — perfectly round and almost translucent. Larry's stomach did that unpleasant flip again, the same warning-tap he'd felt when the dots had started moving earlier.

Globesmith stepped into the room. His shoes squeaked once on the shiny floor, then went quiet. He crossed the gallery without speaking, moving fast but controlled, like a fencer advancing on his adversary. Larry's brain scrambled for excuses. Research. Homework. Curiosity. They rattled around in his head like loose stones in a tin, noisy and useless.

Globesmith stopped behind Larry's chair. Close enough that Larry could smell his aftershave — something sharp and stony, like flint rubbed against rock.

"Close it," Globesmith said. His voice wasn't the usual scolding voice. It was flatter. Careful.

Larry's fingers hovered over the mouse. For a second, he couldn't move. The screen tugged at him — not physically, but in that strange way a shiny thing pulls your eyes even when you don't trust it. He wanted to scroll. Just a little. Just to understand. Just to —

Globesmith's hand clamped on the back of the chair and the spell snapped. Larry blinked and clicked away. The page vanished. The desktop background appeared — boring school blue with the logo in the corner. The sudden emptiness made Larry feel as if someone had yanked a curtain down in the middle of a show.

Globesmith exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy, like a volcano emitting a small stream of poison gas.

"Sir… what is it?" Larry turned his head slightly.

Globesmith didn't answer straight away. His eyes scanned the room: the rows of monitors, the cables, the windows, the door. He looked as if he half-expected the computers to swivel around and stare back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was creased and worn, the edges softened like it had been opened and shut too many times. He held it carefully, as if it wasn't paper at all, but something fragile.

Larry stared. The idea of Mr Globesmith receiving a letter felt unlikely.

Globesmith unfolded the paper. His hands didn't shake, but they were tense — the way hands get when you're gripping a rope you don't fully trust.

"It's a warning," he said.

Larry's mouth went dry. Outside, faintly, he could hear lunchtime sounds: distant shouts, a football thudding, someone laughing too loudly. In here, it felt like the world had been turned down.

"A warning for who, sir?" asked Larry.

"For me…" replied Globesmith. He handed it to Larry — it was crumpled, tattered. The writing on it was spiky, black, with oddly small loops and oddly long lines.

Dear Giovanni, it began.

"Giovanni?!" said Larry, turning in amazement to Globesmith.

"Questions at the end," sighed Giovanni Globesmith.