Hello, it’s #Halloween: when things go bump in the night, when international pumpkin sales soar through the roof, like a vampire bat on an ejector seat.
As if on cue, strange things have been happpening this week across the museum.
Buckle up.
🎃a haunted thread🎃
PART 1/2
As if on cue, strange things have been happpening this week across the museum.
Buckle up.
🎃a haunted thread🎃
PART 1/2
Firstly, you might be aware of this, but in our garden we have two chickens. They live in a little chicken house. Their names are Lines & Puffball. These was chosen by Friday Fledglings, our under 5s group, who we should entrust with more infrastructure decisions than we do.
We have a group that tends to the chickens — a complex machine of many moving parts, that keep the chickens chicking over.
It’s kind of therapeutic, like an SAD light.
Life gets busy. Emails overflow. The soul blocks, spluttering like an old pipe.
It’s kind of therapeutic, like an SAD light.
Life gets busy. Emails overflow. The soul blocks, spluttering like an old pipe.
In these moments, the chickens are a source of calm, comfort, and resilience.
People like it. We really do.
People like it. We really do.
At the same time, we also have a really old building. It’s been owned by many different people, at many different times.
Families have lived here, students have lived here. Stories have lived here. They continue to.
Families have lived here, students have lived here. Stories have lived here. They continue to.
As each tenant leaves, small specks of the lights they shone from stay. Small markers, tracing. And feasibly our archives could also be archives of these lives: long rows of chapters in wildflower, errant shelves, well-loved stacks of dust.
The building has existed in a permanent state of redistribution. New owners acquired new parts and knocked through walls, installing doors like full stops to make the new sentences make sense. It’s like the staircase halls of Hogwarts — at a 0.025 playback speed.
Though we use pretty much all of the space today, there are some parts that time passed by. There’s one room in particular that time passed by.
Outside the window by the photocopier, beneath a maze of red bricks and chimneys, there’s a window, through which not much light gets out or in. A small room. A happy little office — empty.
We know it’s there. We just don’t know how to get to it.
This is where it started.
We know it’s there. We just don’t know how to get to it.
This is where it started.
The photocopier is handy — a reliable investment. It’s good quality, rarely jams.
Also, if you put your hand on the glass, scan it and print it out, you can hold it up and high five yourself, in the past. The future you, beaming.
We appreciate what it does for us, daily.
Also, if you put your hand on the glass, scan it and print it out, you can hold it up and high five yourself, in the past. The future you, beaming.
We appreciate what it does for us, daily.
This isn’t what it was being used for on Monday, however.
Instead, it was being used for fliers for the Late we're having next month which we're going to tell you loads more about very shortly — though not today.
Fliers. Fliers. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Instead, it was being used for fliers for the Late we're having next month which we're going to tell you loads more about very shortly — though not today.
Fliers. Fliers. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Except, fliers weren’t what it produced.
Instead, it was an A4 sheet, bearing the same inscription repeatedly, a broken chant, a strange spooky incantation.
Over and over, it said: Say Happy Halloween to the chickens.
Instead, it was an A4 sheet, bearing the same inscription repeatedly, a broken chant, a strange spooky incantation.
Over and over, it said: Say Happy Halloween to the chickens.
Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween to the chickens. Say Happy Halloween t
It was kind of funny. The idea of it. Spooky chickens!
Someone even put a copy on the staff room fridge — with a little chicken fridge magnet, with tiny, gliding eyes.
This is all it produced all day.
Someone even put a copy on the staff room fridge — with a little chicken fridge magnet, with tiny, gliding eyes.
This is all it produced all day.
At around 3 o’clock, someone called IT, who managed to fix it remotely.
It was a fault on the network, they said. Strange crossed wires in the digital spheres.
And we were glad it was fixed. High fives all round. Scanned, printed, delivered.
It was a fault on the network, they said. Strange crossed wires in the digital spheres.
And we were glad it was fixed. High fives all round. Scanned, printed, delivered.
Tuesday started out as normal. But you must know that we’re setting this up for something. Like in a play when you see the stage crew dressed in black hopping across the backdrop like crows, like wiry bits of rain.
How else do you tell it? How do we?
It didn’t end as normal.
How else do you tell it? How do we?
It didn’t end as normal.
For most of the day, we had meetings. They were good, happy, and productive. We left with a big bag filled with the crop of good ideas. We drank lots of tea. Outside, it rained.
When we returned to the office, there was a note left on each of our keyboards. A little yellow post-it. The kind we might leave when someone calls.
On it, each said: Say Happy Halloween to the chickens — trimmed to the shape of a tiny yellow chicken.
On it, each said: Say Happy Halloween to the chickens — trimmed to the shape of a tiny yellow chicken.
We laughed, again. Chickens! We’re always talking about them. Chicken this, chicken that! Ch-ch-ch-chicken it out! It could be our anthem. It could be our song.
Clearly, someone was up to something — a person moving covertly, with cluck and dagger, causing things.
Because throughout the day, these little yellow chickens had begun appearing everywhere. And nobody knew who was behind it.
Because throughout the day, these little yellow chickens had begun appearing everywhere. And nobody knew who was behind it.
Wednesday, yesterday.
In the morning, management circulated a polite request, for the chicken malarkey to wind down. As funny as it was, it was wasting stationery, evicerating our stocks of yellow post-its. Which it was.
Please stop it, please. Please, thank. Thanks.
In the morning, management circulated a polite request, for the chicken malarkey to wind down. As funny as it was, it was wasting stationery, evicerating our stocks of yellow post-its. Which it was.
Please stop it, please. Please, thank. Thanks.
Then an email came back, a reply-to-all, from an account registered to The MERL domain.
It said: Wish the chickens a Happy Halloween.
The sender's name was CHICKENS.
It said: Wish the chickens a Happy Halloween.
The sender's name was CHICKENS.
The case of the spooky chickens became the talk of the town — which was the staff room water cooler. In fact, we even purchased and installed the water cooler yesterday morning specifically, just so that we could talk about the chickens.
At lunchtime, everyone met in the staff room, which doesn’t normally happen. It was kind of nice, but, really, it was a crisis meeting, with one order of business.
And what's worse: whoever was responsible was there.
We think people thought it was us.
🎃🐔END OF PART 1🐔🎃
And what's worse: whoever was responsible was there.
We think people thought it was us.
🎃🐔END OF PART 1🐔🎃
PART 2/2
📚💀Back From The Thread 🎃🐔
📚💀Back From The Thread 🎃🐔
The meeting continued for a while, and people started making connections. The tea urns that vanished on Monday, for instance. Was it connected? Stationery and pens, vanishing like smoke?
And who had been missing? Who wasn’t there? Who wasn't here when they should have been?
And who had been missing? Who wasn’t there? Who wasn't here when they should have been?
When we left, we passed by the copier. It wasn’t our usual route, but it wasn't a usual Wednesday. A usual Wednesday doesn't us via email.
We looked out to the little room beneath the chimneys, the waves of red brick, rising back.
We still think we saw a light go out.
We looked out to the little room beneath the chimneys, the waves of red brick, rising back.
We still think we saw a light go out.
The afternoon was sunny, and we decided to go outside, and see the chickens.
There they were, in their little hut, pottering. Not emailing. Not hopping around the museum and attaching post-it notes to out-of-reach places, stacking on top of each other like a chicken pyramid.
There they were, in their little hut, pottering. Not emailing. Not hopping around the museum and attaching post-it notes to out-of-reach places, stacking on top of each other like a chicken pyramid.
Would it have been weird, to say to them: It’s not you, is it?
They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t. They’re chickens. They do what it says on the chick-tin.
And if we were going to do that, then we might as well have wished them a Happy Halloween, instead.
They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t. They’re chickens. They do what it says on the chick-tin.
And if we were going to do that, then we might as well have wished them a Happy Halloween, instead.
Later in the afternoon, there was a children’s crafts workshop — making art with string. It was amazing! The precision, creativity, and imagination.
As the supervisors packed up, they found, made from yellow string, two small chickens.
No one remembers anyone making them.
As the supervisors packed up, they found, made from yellow string, two small chickens.
No one remembers anyone making them.
Today is Halloween, and the printer once more churns out its nonsense chicken ephemera, with the cursed devotion of a cheesemaker possessed.
The lights look different, we overheard. They don’t. They just shine. But even that, today, feels a little sinister.
The lights look different, we overheard. They don’t. They just shine. But even that, today, feels a little sinister.
Today is Halloween, and museum is also divided.
One camp has emerged to say that at some stage, we should all go outside together and wish the chickens a Happy Halloween. Maybe make light of it — like Thomas Edison in a jokes factory.
The chickens deserve it, probably.
One camp has emerged to say that at some stage, we should all go outside together and wish the chickens a Happy Halloween. Maybe make light of it — like Thomas Edison in a jokes factory.
The chickens deserve it, probably.
Another camp believes we should go home, hide in cupboards, fashion makeshift bunkers in the hillsides of our feelings, and maybe eat the sweets reserved the evening.
But it doesn’t solve the problem. It just creates more. A deficit of sweets. A wrath of trick-or-treaters.
But it doesn’t solve the problem. It just creates more. A deficit of sweets. A wrath of trick-or-treaters.
Right now we’re in our office, drinking glasses of water as chilled as the oceans of Mars. Maybe a little too much.
We're half waiting for an email from management of what we should do.
We're half waiting for an email from management of what we should do.
And we're half waiting for an entirely different message, a short and bittersweet note in a bright yet awful yellow, like a ghost in a hi-vis vest:
Say Happy Halloween to the chickens.
Say Happy Halloween to the chickens.
Thank you everyone for wishing lovely Puffball and Lines a Happy Halloween! We love them very much, and were more than happy to join the spooky chorus.
We would encourage you to count your chickens, and then wish each and every one of them a very Happy Halloween too.
We would encourage you to count your chickens, and then wish each and every one of them a very Happy Halloween too.
