Moonlight drifts through hazy wisps of still-forming fog. Sat in little more than her pajamas, Avery stares through bleary eyes over the dashboard of her sedan.

Being here this late is dangerous. You're going to get mugged if you go out there: or shot and left for dead.

She pulls the door's handle. "And I'll look very silly when Tamika finds my body in the morning, I'm sure."

At the crack of the door, cold night air supplants warm and the thought fades to the back of her mind. She sweeps the door open and climbs out. Cordia Aquarium looms in the distance, still imposing even from the far side of the parking lot — where Valerie demands the employees park. Avery starts her hike. Before she can take her third step, white lines upon pavement catch her eye. Not because they're spectacular in some sense, but because her car sits above them, horribly askew.

Warmth flushes her face. How did she park so terribly; what if someone sees her? A few seconds pass in wind-murmuring silence. And then it hits her. She marches off, head down and shaking. What am I doing? I'm the only one here.

Halfway to the entrance, the wind stutters to a halt, then roars. It sweeps her brown hair into swirling whips; it steals her breath and chills her face to the point of painful, tingling numbness. She tucks the flittering flaps of a varsity coat over her tank top and trudges through the erratic currents.

Suddenly, the wind breaks.

Her stomach lurches alongside stumbling feet, but she catches herself by plunging an errant foot into an ankle-high puddle. Afterward, it's quiet: no wind. Just Avery's shoe squelching against wet leaves and pavement. Her spine shivers with every other sickly, wet step.

She stops a few strides from the door. With a moment's thought, water phases through her shoes and pools around her feet. No more squelch. Still cold, though.

She presses her face against the glass, cupping hands around her eyes. The lobby is lit only by moonlight; its expanse of windows cast crisscrossing shadows over a carpet patterned in patchy blues. Almost like a tiny, fuzzy ocean: or the carpet of every library she's ever been in. Avery fumbles her keys into the lock. It unlocks with a click and she pulls the door open.

The lobby is strange at night: foreboding and almost liminal. Circular stands of brochures and velvet-roped stanchions spot the space, like buoys at an empty beach. Off to the side, the ticketing booth sits empty under blank monitors that would usually be flashing exhibit information or local advertisements.

An odd sensation prickles between the hair at the back of Avery's neck. Unease? She exhales into her hands and rubs them together. It's just the cold.

Or you're standing in a fish coffin; you took forever getting here, all the water probably leaked out of the tank already.

Tendrils of compulsion force her feet forward. She writhes inside, rebels against her own thoughts. But despite it, she creeps toward The Hall of Discovery. Its doorway stands like a portal made of pure shadow. At the precipice of the threshold, the compulsion wanes and her internal writhing subsides: she can think again.

Nothing can be made out in the darkness past the doorway ahead. She chews on her lower lip, planning a dive for the light switch somewhere within. On the left behind the door?

Light falling through the windows disappears for a moment, as if the moon itself blinked. Just a passing cloud. Enough to snap Avery out of her tired, anxious, and childish fear of the dark. Still no reason to take chances, though. She darts into the hallway and flings a hand behind the door.

The switch behind it flips and lights burn to life, casting diffuse rays from behind translucent panels set into the ceiling. She lets stale air escape her lungs in a shoulder-drooping sigh. See? No murderers.

Tanks of various sizes line the righthand side of this stretch of The Hall of Discovery, but not the tank still gripping her obsession's attention. She strides forwa—

Clack. The sounds comes muffled; it reverberates from somewhere behind the door to the aquarium's haphazard stash of cleaning chemicals. Her heart stops beating; her legs stop moving. No.

Yeah, murderers.

Cold sweat instantly forms and rolls down Avery's neck. No. It's just pipes or something.

Murderers, go check.

Tendrils sweep her legs away from her control and she seemingly floats toward the door in question. She pulls back on her leg, trying to stop her next step. All she manages is a momentary shudder in her stride as compulsion strips her senses and drives her forward. She really is going to get murdered if she doesn't check.

Avery yanks the door open and...

Nothing. Nothing out of place; nothing staring back at her besides hanging rags and the overpowering smell of premium carpet shampoo.

Compulsive tendrils shrink, wither: they leave her heart hammering like the tremors after an earthquake. She relaxes. Her white-knuckled grip on the door's handle falls away and the latch clicks closed. No, nothing at all.