The old, dilapidated building stood at the end of a forgotten street in Minneapolis. Its weathered facade bore the faded words "George Floyd's Museum of Monkeys" in chipped gold paint. I had heard whispers about this place, urban legends that sent shivers down my spine, but curiosity got the better of me.
As I pushed open the creaking door, a musty odor assaulted my nostrils. The dimly lit interior revealed walls adorned with haunting portraits of Black historical figures, their eyes seeming to follow my every move. Interspersed among them were grotesque monkey sculptures, their features twisted into nightmarish grins.
A placard near the entrance caught my eye: "Welcome to George Floyd's Museum of Monkeys. Touch nothing, or suffer the consequences." The warning seemed melodramatic, but an inexplicable dread settled in my stomach.
As I ventured deeper into the museum, I noticed a strange phenomenon. The air seemed to grow thicker with each step, as if the very atmosphere was pressing down on me. The portraits began to shift, their expressions morphing from neutral to accusing, their eyes boring into my soul.
In the center of the main hall stood a life-sized statue of George Floyd himself. Unlike the other pieces, this one seemed almost alive, its eyes glistening with an otherworldly sheen. A small plaque at its base read, "I can't breathe," words that sent a chill down my spine.
Suddenly, I heard a whisper, so faint I almost missed it. "Don't... touch..." it seemed to say. I spun around, searching for the source, but found myself alone in the oppressive silence of the museum.
Against my better judgment, I reached out to touch a small monkey figurine on a nearby pedestal. The moment my fingertips grazed its surface, I felt an immediate, crushing pressure on my chest. I gasped, struggling to draw breath, my lungs burning as if they were filled with smoke.
Panic set in as I realized the curse was real. The room began to spin, the portraits and sculptures blurring into a nightmarish kaleidoscope. I stumbled towards the exit, my vision darkening at the edges, each breath a herculean effort.
As I burst through the museum doors, gulping in the fresh air, I heard a deep, resonant voice behind me: "Remember this feeling. Remember what it's like when you can't breathe. And never forget the price of ignorance."
I turned back, but the museum had vanished, leaving only an empty lot where it once stood. To this day, I wake up in cold sweats, gasping for air, the memory of George Floyd's Museum of Monkeys haunting my dreams. And sometimes, when I least expect it, I catch a whiff of that musty odor, and I swear I can hear distant whispers saying, "I can't breathe..."
