Tales of the Museum 2.0

Tales of the Museum 2.0

Halloween 1978

written by: Joseph Amendolare

 

The American Museum of Natural History, that is. The nights always began in Brooklyn, where I would catch the elevated to Broadway Junction-ENY, transfer to the L line to 14th St/8th Avenue, and catch the local AA or CC uptown to 79th Street.

Those night shifts began at 10PM, and I would arrive somewhere between 9:30 and 9:45, change into uniform, and head up to the break room to await the start of our rounds. There were four of us employed on the security team in those days, plus two armed supervisors, a desk clerk, and a certified building engineer.

We were organized by “trip” or whatever route we were assigned to for the shift. There were A, B, C, and D trips. Each of us carried a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, and a heavy clock on a shoulder strap. The clock had paper tape within, which we had to punch with a key, usually mounted to a wall somewhere in a metal box. The tapes would later be reviewed and indicate to the day staff that we were where we were supposed to be, at our appointed times.

“A Trip” started up on the 5th floor, took a short hop across a section of the roof into ornithology, looped through an attic in which you were required to step across steel roof beams for about a minute or two, and eventually wound down into the public areas. Along the way, you passed the stoic brontosaurus on display and the massive blue whale suspended from the ceiling.

“B Trip” took you through herpetology and its collection of live snakes.

“C Trip” was a walk through the post office, much of the yard, and a tour of the museum’s basement. I once discovered a safe pried open in the post office and came across a burst steam pipe in the basement, which had to be relayed to the engineer’s attention.

When break came, usually around 12:30AM I’d sometimes walk over to a deli on Amsterdam Ave, grab a pastrami on rye. It was possible to raid the museum’s cafeteria, which was left open, but these visits did not yield much. A soggy tuna sandwich left on the counter, and maybe a container of milk.

As it turned out, I had been in the job about six months and found myself on duty the night of Halloween 1978. It seemed just a routine evening for me, and on this particular shift, I was assigned to “D trip.” Now, “D” was one of those tours that mostly took you through private areas of the museum: scientists’ offices, Margaret Mead’s area, the lab where many of the exhibits were assembled, storage areas.

We finished our break and took the elevator up to the 5th floor, where we each went our separate ways. I eventually had to climb a set of stairs up to a storage area. This particular area was a long corridor, well-lit, with a room at the end of it. The walls of it were hung with masks of various indigenous tribes, parts of totem poles, spears, and other artifacts. The room at the end was off to the right, and held racks of animal skulls, antlers, and bones. That’s where the key was, waiting for me to insert it into my clock and click it a few times to strike the tape.

As I walked down that hallway, I had an odd feeling. Those masks seemed to be eyeballing me. About halfway down, I heard a sudden scraping sound and then a loud, calamitous “bang” that stopped me in my tracks. Someone had propped a crowbar against the wall, and on its own as I approached, it had somehow slid along the wall and crashed to the floor.

Now, I do have reasoning ability. The floor was solid concrete. My footsteps were likely not enough to cause it to slide. Besides which I had passed it twice already that night on previous trips up there.

I looked down that hallway. I knew that room was down there. It spooked me. There was a door to the left that led down to the main area of the museum. I pulled it open, it creaked on its hinges, and I descended down to the 5th floor, wondering what had just happened.

As I was standing there, thinking of what to do next, I heard the door above me open on its creaky hinges again.

Alone on the 5th floor of the museum at three in the morning, I literally flew down the remaining stairs of the public area. Without stopping. There was a landing halfway down each set of stairs, and when I reached that, I jumped. I went all the way down to the lobby that way, seeking out the desk clerk, who saw me coming.

His name was Chapman, an older gentleman in his 60s, from Guyana.

“Why are you back so early,” he said, looking at his watch. “What’s wrong?”

So I told him.

He nodded.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” he said, “that area’s haunted. A few years ago, one of the guards saw a ghost up there.”

I stayed in the job another six months, but never again went through that area. I found a way around it. The day security staff eventually sent notes to our Supervisor, inquiring as to why I was not hitting that particular key anymore.

So I told him.
I told him I would never again set foot up there unless someone was with me.
He laughed.
They did not give me an escort, and I never set foot in that place again.