Serial killer John Wayne Gacy's original paintings are
on display at the Museum. (Samantha Page)

You walk through a San Quentin prison cell door and sign a guestbook, placed on an old, unfinished coffin. To your left, through a doorway, an instructional video on how to embalm a corpse is mid-way through prodding the guts of a dead body with a tubular vacuum, sucking out bodily fluids.

You have just entered Hollywood's Museum of Death.

The museum, a brainchild of artists Cathee Shultz and J.D. Healy, is a macabre homage to death, murder and serial killings.

"Seeing death, you're happy to be alive," says Shultz. "It's very natural. Death isn't bad, and it should be understood."

The museum can be shocking. There is a warning on the website that reads: "There is not an age limit for for the Museum of Death because WE ALL DIE but we STRONGLY recommend MATURE AUDIENCES!! There have been a number of Falling Down Ovations (people passing out) at the Museum (mostly Men) so we stress being prepared for a good dose of reality!" They aren't kidding.
 

A reconstruction of JFK's gunshot wound sits alongside autopsy photos.
(Samantha Page)

After moseying through an exhibit of the business of death - coffins, a wall of matchbooks from mortuaries, a glass case of books for survivors - you quickly stumble onto a glass case, surrounded on three walls by mirrors, in which is a human head. It is the head of the Bluebeard of Paris, a turn-of-the-century French serial killer.

You lean down to read his history of luring widows to his country estate (eerily buying a round-trip ticket for himself and a one-way ticket for his victim), and you realize that your face is mere inches from the dead man's. You try not to pass out.

Other highlights, if you can call them that, include unbelievably gory crime photos - including J.F.K.'s post-mortum pics, replete with a plastic reconstruction of his head, post-bullet - and a series of serial killer paraphernalia, like the John Wayne Gacy painting above.

Shultz is, pardon the pun, adorably vivacious. She welcomes vistors enthusiastically, warning not to be surprised at the two dogs that wander around, giving visitors a much-needed reminder of the living world. Outside are two giant lizards and two turtles, an albino and a two-headed little guy. The museum is not creepy. It's nice, actually. It's respectful, even when you are staring down police photos of the Manson murders and OJ Simpson's house.

Still, by the time you get to a room labeled "Theater of Death: If if leads, it bleeds," you might be, as I was, a little overwhelmed. I chose to pass the room by, but if you go to the Museum of Death (6031 Hollywood Blvd., $15 admission/free parking), I recommend you take a deep breath and walk right in.

"They scream at it, like it's a horror film," says Shultz. "But, it's real."