Bah, sure, Stephanie told herself, working in the RHA for a couple of weeks would be a bit of craic. She’d interact with some of those zany arty folks, and there would be much banter and bohemian good humour.
Three hours into her first shift between the dead horse and the hanging lamb and she was no longer so sure.
The unnerving sounds coming from the installation next door were beginning to make her feel decidedly uncomfortable.
She was afraid to take another glance at the black and white photograph of the dead nun.
She tried to lose herself in her book but she couldn’t block out the sounds emanating from the Victorian plaster room.
Another “coucou” she was running the fuck out of there…