Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:05):
I should have known something was wrong when they offered
me one hundred dollars an hour to give tours. But
when you're three months behind on rent and your student
loan payments are piling up faster than snow in a
Montana blizzard, you don't ask too many questions about good fortune.
The eviction notice had been taped to my door for
two weeks, mocking me every time I came home to
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my studio apartment that smelled like mold and broken dreams.
The job posting appeared on a Tuesday morning, buried deep
in the classified section of an obscure employment website I'd
never heard of before. Specialized tour guide position, private museum
one hundred dollars per hour. Discretion required serious inquiries only
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no company name, no location, just an encrypted email address
and a warning that applications would only be considered for
forty eight hours. I sent my resume a meeting. The
interview came three days later, via an encrypted video call.
The screen showed only a dark room with a single
lamp illuminating a woman's hands as she shuffled through papers.
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Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, with an accent.
I couldn't place, mister Mercer, she said, pronouncing each syllable
with deliberate precision. Your educational background in art history is adequate.
Tell me what would you do if a guest insisted
on touching an exhibit despite clear instructions not to. I'd
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explain the importance of preservation and gently redirect their attention
to other pieces, I answered, trying to sound professional despite
the bizarre setup. And if they offered you money, a
substantial amount, the question caught me off guard. I I
would maintain the museum's policies regardless of financial incentives. A pause,
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papers rustling, very good. Are you prepared to relocate? Immediately relocate?
The position requires on site residence, full room and board
provided in addition to your hourly wage. The location is
quite remote. I thought of my mounting bills, my empty refrigerator.
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The landlord's increasingly aggressive voice mails, yes, I can relocate. Excellent.
You'll receive GPS coordinates within the hour, pack light, everything
you need will be provided. The line went dead. The
coordinates led me through three hours of winding mountain roads
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deeper into Montana wilderness than I'd ever traveled. My aging
Honda struggled with the elevation changes, and I began to
worry I'd made a terrible mistake. The last gas station
had been fifty miles back, and my cell phone showed
no signal. Then I saw it. The Blackwood Estate emerged
from the forest like something from a Gothic novel, three
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stories of dark stone and wrought iron, with towers and
gargoyles that seemed to watch my approach. Tall windows gleamed
in the late afternoon sun, and perfectly manicured gardens surrounded
the building. Despite the remote location, I parked in a
circular driveway paved with black stone and grabbed my single
duffel bag. Before I could knock, the massive oak door
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swung open. Mister Mercer, the woman from the video call
stood before me. Though I still couldn't see her face clearly,
she was tall and thin, dressed in a severe black
suit that seemed decades out of fashion. Her skin was
pale as parchment, and when she spoke, I noticed she
never seemed to blink. I am Missus Cordelia Veil, curator
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of this establishment. Welcome, Thank you for the opportunity, Missus Veil,
this place is incredible. Indeed, she stepped aside gesturing for
me to enter. Follow me. The interior was even more
impressive than the exterior. Marble floors reflected light from crystal chandeliers,
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and oil paintings in heavy gold frames lined the walls.
The air smelled of old wood and something else I
couldn't identify, something sweet and cloying that made my stomach
turn slightly. The museum opens only on Saturday evenings, Missus
Vale explained, as we walked through corridors that seemed to
stretch forever six o'clock precisely. Our clientele is quite exclusive,
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individuals who appreciate unique experiences and can afford the fifty
thousand dollars admission fee. I nearly stumbled fifty thousand per visit.
Her voice carried no emotion. They come seeking what conventional
museums cannot provide, authenticity, genuine historical artifacts with provenance. We
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climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, then another
to the third. Missus Veil opened a door at the
end of a long hallway your quarters. The apartment was luxurious,
beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Hardwood floors, a king sized bed,
a fully stocked kitchen, and windows overlooking the forest. A
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sixty five inch television dominated one wall and bookshelves lined another.
This is incredible, I said, setting down my bag. But
I notice there's no internet connection and my phone has
no signal. The isolation is intentional, Missus Vale replied. Our
guests value privacy above all else you'll find everything you
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need here. Meals are provided in the staff dining room
on the first floor. She handed me a laminated card.
These are the house rules. Study them carefully. I read
the eight rules printed in neat black text. Never look
directly at the weeping woman portrait in the Blue room
during tours. If you hear children laughing from the nursery,
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immediately leave and lock the door. The Bone Garden exhibit
closes at eight pm sharp, no exceptions. Never touch the
music box in the Victorian Room, even if guests request it.
If the Grandfather clock chimes thirteen times, escort all guests
to the main hall immediately. The basement level is off
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limits to tours. Redirect any guest interest. Always count your
tour group before and after each room. If you notice
your reflection behaving independently, inform Missus Veil immediately. I looked up,
expecting an explanation, but missus Vale was already at the door.
These rules were developed over decades of operation, she said,
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without turning around. They exist for survival, not showmanship. Breakfast
is served at seven. Your first tour begins tomorrow evening.
She closed the door, leaving me alone with questions and
growing unease. Saturday arrived faster than I expected. I spent
Friday exploring the museum's public areas, familiarizing myself the exhibits
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that would be part of my tours. Each room had
a theme, and the artifacts were unlike anything I'd seen
in traditional museums. The Blue Room contained European paintings from
the Renaissance through Victorian eras. The centerpiece was a portrait
of a woman in white tears streaming down her painted cheeks.
Even glancing at it peripherally made me uncomfortable, though I
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couldn't explain why. The nursery was filled with antique dolls,
children's toys, and a small white coffin labeled Baby Blackwood
Beloved Son nineteen twenty three to nineteen twenty three. The
dolls seemed to watch me as I moved through the room,
their glass eyes following my movements. The bone Garden was
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perhaps the most unsettling exhibit. It was actually indoors designed
to look like a Victorian cemetery garden. Marble statues stood
among carefully arranged displays of human bones and skulls, some
dating back centuries according to their placards. The centerpiece was
a beautiful statue of a woman reaching toward the ceiling,
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her marble face frozen in eternal anguish. The Victorian room
felt more conventional, furnished with period pieces, including an ornate
music box on the central table. Its surface was decorated
with intricate carvings of dancing figures, and I found myself
wanting to wind it just to hear the melody. At
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six o'clock sharp, the first guests arrived. They came in
expensive cars with tinted windows, a group of twelve individuals
who spoke in hushed tones and wore clothing that cost
more than my annual salary. I recognized none of them,
but their bearings suggested serious wealth and power. Missus Vale
introduced me simply as your guide for this evening's experience,
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and I led them through the exhibits. They listened to
my prepared presentations with polite attention, asking occasional questions about
provenance and historical significance. What struck me most was their
casual cruelty. During a discussion about medieval torture devices, one
guest laughed about employees who needed motivation. Another made off
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hand comments about disposing of problems that made my skin crawl.
They spoke of human suffering as entertainment, of pain as
a commodity to be purchased. But they seemed harmless enough,
just wealthy people with twisted senses of humor. The evening
passed without incident, and I began to relax. The second
day's tour group was smaller, but equally wealthy Russian oligarchs,
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according to missus Vale, who appreciated historical extremes. They were
particularly interested in the bone garden, asking detailed questions about
the origin of each skull and bone fragment. Are these genuine?
One asked, examining a display case containing what appeared to
be fresh organs in glass jars. All our exhibits are authentic,
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I replied, though something about those organs bothered me. They
looked too fresh, too real. As we moved through the
Victorian room, I was careful to steer guests away from
the music box, remembering rule four. One of the Russians
noticed my avoidance. What's in the box? He asked, A
lovely music box from the eighteen eighties. I said, unfortunately,
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it's too fragile for handling. He nodded, seemingly satisfied, though
I caught him staring at it longingly as we left
the room. Both tours ended successfully, with guests expressing satisfaction
and missus Vale's approval evident in her slight nod. I
began to think the rules were simply eccentric policies designed
to maintain atmosphere for thrill seeking millionaires. How wrong I was.
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As I settled into my apartment that second night, I
felt confident about my new position. The work was easy,
the pay was excellent, and despite the isolation, I was
finally getting ahead financially. The rules seemed manageable, just quirky
policies to add mystique to an already atmospheric experience. I
had no idea they were the only things standing between
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me and something far more terrible than I could imagine.
I fell asleep that night, thinking I'd finally caught a break.
I should have paid more attention to the way the
exhibits seemed to watch me. Should have wondered why the
tears on the Weeping Woman's cheeks looked wet despite being
painted centuries ago. Should have questioned why children's toys in
the nursery occasionally moved when I wasn't looking directly at them.
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But I was desperate, grateful, and wilfully blind to the
signs tomorrow would change everything. The third day at the
Blackwood Estate Museum started like any other, but I should
have known my false sense of security wouldn't last long.
Tuesday morning found me rehearsing tor presentations in the empty halls,
my voice echoing off marble floors and oil painted ancestors.
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The Russian oligarchs were scheduled to arrive that evening, and
Missus Vale had emphasized their particular interest in authentic historical experiences.
I was in the blue room practicing my discussion of
Renaissance portraiture when curiosity overcame caution. The Weeping woman portrait
drew my gaze like a magnet. Despite Rule one's clear warning,
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I found myself looking directly into her painted eyes. Time
seemed to freeze the woman's eyes, which had been staring
demurely downward in the classic portrait pose, slowly lifted to
meet mine. Her painted pupils dilated with impossible life, and
black tears began streaming down her pale cheeks. The tears
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weren't just paint anymore. They were wet, real, flowing down
the canvas and pooling on the ornate gold frame. My
heart hammered against my ribs as the metallic scent of
blood filled the air. Dark red liquid began seeping from
behind the frame, trickling down the wall in thin rivulets.
You should not have looked. A voice whispered, though the
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painted lips never moved. I stumbled backward, my hands shaking,
and fled the room, just as footsteps approached from the corridor.
Mister Mercer, missus Veil appeared at the doorway, her pale
face showing no surprise at the blood streaked portrait behind me,
preparing for this evening's guests. I see the painting. It
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was bleeding. The eyes moved. Yes. She stepped past me
with a white cloth, calmly cleaning the blood from the
wall and frame. Rule one exists for precisely this reason.
The guests appreciate authentic supernatural experiences, but they assume its
all theatrical effects. You, however, know better now. As she worked,
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the painted woman's eyes had returned to their downward gaze.
The tears once again mere brushstrokes, but I could feel
her watching me still, even when I wasn't looking. The
rules exist for survival, not showmanship, missus Vale said, her
voice carrying a chill that made me shiver. Remember that
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that evening's tour proceeded without incident, though I kept my
eyes carefully averted from the weeping woman. The Russian guests
seemed particularly entertained by my obvious discomfort in the blue room,
chuckling among themselves in their native language. Guide seems nervous,
one commented, in accented English, makes experience more authentic. They
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had no idea how authentic it truly was. Wednesday brought
the children's laughter. I was alone in the nursery, dusting
display cases and rearranging the antique dolls when I heard it,
soft giggling like young children at play. The sound seemed
to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the walls
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in a way that made my skin crawl following rule two,
I immediately left the room and turned the key in
the lock. But instead of walking away, I found myself
compelled to look through the old fashioned cakes key hole.
What I saw defied explanation. The dolls were moving, not
all at once, but in subtle, co ordinated ways that
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suggested intelligence. A porcelain girl with golden ringlets turned her
head to smile at something I couldn't see. A boy
in sailor suit sat up in his display case and
clapped his hands silently. They were playing with invisible companions,
their glass eyes reflecting a light that wasn't there. The
small white coffin labeled Baby Blackwood Beloved Son nineteen twenty
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three to nineteen twenty three rocked gently back and forth,
as if some one was soothing the infant within. The
giggling grew louder, more insistent, and I thought I heard
whispered words, come play with us, Come play forever. I
backed away from the door, my hands trembling. That night,
pale children invaded my dreams, calling my name with voices
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like wind through autumn leaves. They wanted me to unlock
the door to join their eternal games. In the nursery
where time had stopped. In nineteen twenty three, I woke
drenched in sweat, the sound of children's laughter still echoing
in my ears. Thursday introduced a new horror temptation. Missus
Corvin had returned, a pharmaceutical heiress whose previous visit had
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ended with her offering increasingly large sums to hear the
Victorian room's music box play. Tonight, she was back with
determination gleaming in her eyes. Surely we can come to
an arrangement, she said, cornering me after the formal tour
had ended. Her perfume was expensive, but couldn't mask something
rotten underneath. Twenty thousand dollars cash just to wind the
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box once I thought of my student loans, my maxed
out credit cards, the eviction noticed that had started this
entire nightmare. Twenty thousand dollars would solve everything, but Missus
Vale's warning echoed in my mind. The rules exist for survival.
I'm sorry, Missus Corvin. Museum policy is very strict about
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handling antique pieces. Her face twisted with frustration and something darker.
You stupid little man. Do you have any idea who
I am? What I could do to you? Before I
could respond. The music box began playing on its own.
The lid popped open, revealing tiny dancing figures that spun
to a haunting lullaby that seemed older than sorrow itself.
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Every person in the room began weeping uncontrollably, tears streaming
down faces, shoulders shaking with inexplicable grief. Even Missus Corvin,
for all her threats and bluster, stood sobbing like a
lost child. The melody wrapped around my heart and squeezed,
pulling up memories of every loss, every disappointment, every moment
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of despair I'd ever experienced. The other guests wept openly,
their masks of wealth and power dissolving in the face
of profound, inexplicable sadness. When the box finally closed, silence
fell like a heavy curtain. The guests wiped their eyes,
embarrassed by their public display of emotion, and quickly dispersed.
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Missus Corvin shot me a look of pure hatred before
stalking out, But the lullaby followed me to my apartment
that night. Weaving through my dreams and waking thoughts, I
found myself humming it unconsciously, the melody taking root in
my mind like a parasite. Friday brought the impossible. I
was guiding a group of tech moguls through their tour
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when the Grandfather clock in the main hall began to chime.
Nothing unusual about that. It was eight o'clock, closing time
for the Bone Garden exhibit according to rule three. But
the clock didn't stop at eight chimes, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Then, impossibly,
a thirteenth chime rang out, its deep bronze tone, seeming
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to shake the very found dayations of the building. Rule
five was crystal clear. If the Grandfather clock chimes thirteen times,
escort all guests to the main hall immediately. I didn't hesitate.
Ladies and gentlemen, If you could please follow me to
the main hall for refreshments, I announced, my voice, somehow steady,
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despite the terror clawing at my chest. As we walked
through the corridors, I could hear the building itself groaning
and settling in ways that defied architectural logic. The walls
seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting like living flesh. Portrait
eyes followed our progress, and the temperature dropped noticeably with
each step. Missus Vale was waiting in the main hall
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with a silver service of wine and delicate pastries, as
if she had been expecting us. Her smile was serene,
but her eyes held depths. I didn't want to explore.
Please enjoy the refreshments while you take in the view,
she said, gesturing toward the tall wind windows that overlooked
the estate's grounds. I looked outside and felt my sanity
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slip another notch. The forest was writhing, ancient pines bent
and twisted like rubber, their branches reaching toward the windows
with what looked like gnarled fingers. The moon cast shadows
that moved independently of their sources, dancing across the snow
in patterns that hurt to watch. In the distance, I
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could swear I saw figures moving between the trees, tall,
impossibly thin shapes that seemed to glide rather than walk.
The guests sipped their wine and made appreciative comments about
the incredible special effects and immersive atmosphere. They had no
idea they were witnessing something genuinely supernatural, something that could
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probably tear them apart without effort remarkable showmanship. One commented,
the investment in these illusions must be extraordinary. I wanted
to scream at them, to shake them and force them
to see what was really happening. But what would be
the point. They lived in a world where everything could
be bought, controlled, explained, they couldn't conceive of forces beyond
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their influence. After an hour, the forest returned to normal.
The trees stood straight and still, the shadows behaved as
shadows should, and the thirteenth chimes echo finally faded from
the air. Missus Vale graciously escorted the guests to their vehicles,
and I was left alone with questions I was afraid
to ask. That night, I lay in my luxurious prison
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of an apartment, staring at the ceiling and trying to
process what was happening to me. The rules weren't arbitrary
policies designed to add atmosphere. They were warnings, barriers between
the museum's visitors and something that wanted to break free,
but barriers against what I was beginning to understand, that
the Blackwood Estate Museum existed in the spaces between the
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world I knew and something else entirely. The rules weren't
just protecting the guests from the exhibits. They were protecting
everyone from the hungry darkness that lived in the walls,
fed on suffering and waited patiently for someone to make
a mistake. Each violation had consequences. Each broken rule invited
something terrible. A little closer, the weeping woman's painted eyes
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had shown me they were watching, always watching. The children
in the nursery wanted playmates for their eternal games. The
music box sought to drown the world in sorrow. The
grandfather clock measured time that shouldn't exist, and I was
trapped here, walking the razor's edge between following rules that
made no sense and unleashing horrors that made too much sense.
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Missus Vale's words haunted my dreams. The rules exist for survival,
not showmanship. I was starting to understand that survival might
be more complicated than I'd imagined, and that the worst
violations might yet be ahead of me. As I finally
drifted toward an uneasy sleep, the children's laughter echoed softly
through the walls, and somewhere in the distance, a music
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box played its sorrowful tune. The weeping Woman's painted tears
felt real against my dreams, and thirteen chimes counted down
to something I didn't want a name. The rules were
all that stood between me and the darkness. But how
long could I keep following them before the darkness found
another way? In the weekend passed in a haze of
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sleepless nights and haunted thoughts. By Monday of my second week,
the false comfort I'd found and following the rules had
evaporated like morning mist. The museum's whispers followed me everywhere,
soft voices that spoke in languages I didn't recognize, footsteps
in empty corridors, and the constant sensation of being watched
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by invisible eyes. I found myself drawn to forbidden places
with increasing frequency, my rational mind losing the battle against
a curiosity that had become an obsession. The RULs that
had once seemed like simple guidelines now felt like prison bars,
and with each passing hour I understood less about my
situation while becoming more deeply entangled in it. It was
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Tuesday night when I discovered the basement. Unable to sleep,
I wandered the corridors in my pajamas, hoping exhaustion might
finally claim me. The Grandfather Clock's steady ticking echoed through
the halls, marking time that felt increasingly meaningless In this
place where past and present blurred together like water colors
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and rain. My bare feet made no sound on the
marble floors, and the portraits seemed to track my progress
with their painted eyes. That's when I noticed the basement door,
standing slightly ajar. The heavy iron slab carved with twisted
vines and staring eyes that seemed to follow my movement
had always been locked tight. Rule six was explicit the
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basement level was off limits to tours, redirect any guest interest.
But tonight, cold air seeped through the crack, carrying scents
of damp earth and something metallic that made my stomach
turn and my mouth fill with saliva in that way
that precedes vomiting. My rational mind screamed warnings, but curiosity
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had become a hunger. I couldn't ignore. The door groaned
on ancient hinges as I pushed it open, the sound
echoing through the building like a death rattle. Stone steps
descended into absolute darkness, each one worn smooth by centuries
of footsteps. The air grew colder with every step, and
I could hear something dripping in the distance, a steady
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rhythm like a heart beat. Each step creaked under my
weight as I made my way down, my phone's flashlight
cutting through the gloom like a knife through black velvet.
The basement was vast, far larger than the building's footprint
should have allowed. Gothic arches supported a vaulted ceiling that
disappeared into shadow, and the air was thick with an
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oppressive way that made breathing difficult. Condensation formed on the
stone walls, running down in patterns that looked disturbingly like tears.
But it was the display cases that stopped my heart.
Arranged throughout the space like some twisted museum exhibition, dozens
of glass coffins stood illuminated by an eerie green light
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that seemed to emanate from within the cases themselves. The
light pulsed slowly rhythmically, like a massive heart beating somewhere
in the darkness and inside each one. Dear God, I whispered,
the words, echoing in the silence and coming back to
me distorted, as if the building itself was mocking my prayer.
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Living people lay within those cases, their eyes wide and aware,
following my movement with desperate intensity. Their skin had taken
on a waxy preserved quality, pale as candlewax, but with
an underlying translucence that revealed veins and arteries beneath. They
were undeniably alive, their chests rising and falling in shallow breaths,
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but trapped in some horrific state between life and death.
Their mouths moved silently, forming words I couldn't hear, but
understood instinctively. Help us, please, don't leave us here. Some
had been there so long that their hair had grown
out in wild tangles, and their finger nails had extended
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into claw like points from scratching uselessly at their glass prisons.
Others looked fresher, their expressions still holding traces of the
shock and disbelief that must have accompanied their entrapment. Small
brass plaques adorned each case, polished to a mirror shine
that reflected the green light in nauseating patterns. I read
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them with growing horror, my hands shaking so badly I
could barely hold my phone steady. Former staff member James Morrison,
Acquired nineteen eighty seven. Violation attempted escape, disobedient guest miss
As Catherine Holt, vintage twenty nineteen. Violation Excessive cruelty to servants.
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Tour guide Maria Santos collected two thousand three violation breaking
rule four night Watchmen David Chen preserved nineteen ninety five
violation accessing basement level. The plaques went on and on,
each one documenting a life cut short, a soul claimed
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by this terrible place. I realized, with mounting dread, that
every person who had crossed the museum's mysterious boundaries, who
had violated its rules or outlived their usefulness, ended up here.
This wasn't a museum displaying historical artifacts. It was a
collection of living trophies, evidence of the estate's insatiable hunger
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for human suffering. I stumbled backward, my phone, slipping from
trembling fingers and clattering across the stone floor. The light
spun wildly before settling, casting dancing shadows that made the
preserved figures seem to writhe in their glass prisons. In
that chaotic moment, I could swear I heard them all screaming,
a chorus of agony that existed just below the threshold
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of human hearing. Footsteps echoed from the floor above. Missus
Vale was making her nightly rounds, her heels clicking against
marble in a rhythm. I had come to know and dread,
heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it
might burst. I grabbed my phone and fled up the
stairs three at a time, closing the basement door as
silently as possible. But as I crept back to my
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apartment on legs that felt like water, I felt those
desperate eyes following me, pleading silently for a salvation I
couldn't provide. Their silent screams followed me into my dreams,
and I woke with tears on my cheeks that I
couldn't remember shedding. Wednesday brought confirmation of my worst fears.
I was leading a group of pharmaceutical executives through the
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Bone Garden when I noticed something wrong. The tour had
start arded with twelve guests, all of them wearing expensive
suits and discussing the latest stock prices, with the casual
indifference of people for whom human suffering was merely a
line item on a balance sheet. But as we prepared
to exit the garden, I counted only eleven. Missus Corvin,
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the heiress who had tried to bribe me over the
music box, was missing. I counted again, then a third time,
my panic rising with each recount She had been there
moments ago, making crude jokes about the skull displays and
commenting on how she might like to add similar decorations
to her own estate. Now she was simply gone, as
if she had never existed at all, missus Vail, I said, quietly,
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approaching the curator, who had appeared at the garden's entrance,
as if summoned by my distress. She stood perfectly still
in her black dress, hands folded in front of her,
like a funeral director. One of our guests seems to
have wandered off her pale lips curved in what might
have been a smile, but there was no warmth in it,
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only the cold satisfaction of a spider watching a fly
struggle in its web. Sometimes, she said, in her whisper
soft voice, the collection acquires new pieces. A chill ran
down my spine like ice water. What do you mean?
Missus Corvin showed a particular cruelty toward her employees, didn't
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she spoke of disposing of problems like they were nothing
more than inconvenient objects. Missus Vale's eyes never left mine,
and I saw in them a depth of knowledge that
stretched back decades, perhaps centuries. She bragged about forcing pregnant
women to work during labor, about denying medical care to
save money. The museum has little patience for such callousness.
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The remaining guests chatted among themselves, completely oblivious to their
companion's disappearance. They discussed merger opportunities and hostile takeovers with
the same casual tone they might use to discuss the weather,
their expensive watches glinting in the lamplight as they gestured
dismissively about human lives. That night, I accessed the security
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footage from my apartment's computer terminal. What I saw would
haunt me forever. The cameras showed Missus Corvin examining the
bone displays with obvious delight, making crude jokes about the
arrangement of skulls and femurs in artistic patterns. She picked
up a child's skull, turning it over in her manicured hands,
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while commenting on its perfect proportions and wondering aloud if
she could commission similar pieces for her garden parties. Then,
as she leaned close to read a placard describing the
skull's origin, skeletal hands emerged from the shadows beneath the
central mausoleum. They moved with impossible fluidity, like liquid bone
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flowing upward from the earth itself. The hands, impossibly strong
and covered in rotting flesh that peeled away in wet strips,
grasped her ankles and pulled. Missus Corvin's scream was cut
short as she disappeared into darkness so complete it seemed
to swallow the camera's light. The shadows writhed for a moment,
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then settled back into stillness, as if nothing had happened.
The skull she had been holding rolled across the floor
and came to rest against a display case, its empty
sockets staring directly into the camera lens. The other guests
continued their tour, completely oblivious to their companion's fate. They
stepped around the spot where she had vanished without a
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second glance, their conversation never faltering. Thursday night, I tried
to leave. I packed my belongings in desperate silence, my
hands shaking as I folded clothes and gathered what few
possessions I'd brought to this cursed place. The memory of
those glass cases burned in my mind like acid. I
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had to escape before I joined their ranks. Before I
became another brass placard marking a life cut short by
forces beyond and comprehension. But the Blackwood Estate had other plans.
I loaded my car under cover of darkness, moving as
quietly as possible to avoid detection. The forest seemed unusually still,
as if even the animals sensed something unnatural stirring. My
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headlights cut through the darkness as I drove down the
winding road. But something was wrong. The trees looked different,
twisted into shapes that hurt to look at directly. The
road seemed to curve in directions that defied geometry, bending
back on itself in impossible ways. No matter which road
I took, I found myself driving in circles. The GPS
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spun uselessly, showing impossible roots that led nowhere and everywhere
at once. The compass in my car spun wildly, never
settling on any direction for more than a few seconds.
Dense fog rolled in from the forest, so thick I
could barely see the hood of my car. It tasted
of decay and old blood, coating my tongue with a
(35:02):
metallic flavor that made me gag. When the fog finally cleared.
I was back in the museum's circular driveway, as if
i'd never left at all. My car's odometer showed I
had driven nearly a hundred miles. But here I was
returned like a dog to its master. Missus Vale was
waiting for me, her black dress fluttering in a wind.
(35:22):
I couldn't feel. The fabric moved with a life of
its own, writhing like liquid shadow around her thin frame.
Going somewhere, mister Mercer, I quit, I said, trying to
inject authority into my voice, despite the terror that made
my knees shake. I'm done with this place. She held
up a familiar document, my employment contract. In the moonlight.
(35:46):
The red ink seemed to pulse with life, flowing across
the page like living blood. The paper itself looked different,
now older, stained with substances. I didn't want to identify you.
Sign this in blood, not ink, she said, calmly, her
voice carrying the certainty of absolute truth. Such contracts carry
(36:09):
bindings that transcend the merely legal. You belong to this
place now, as surely as the exhibits belong to their cases.
The museum has claimed you body and soul. I stared
at the signature I'd made so casually on my first day,
remembering how the pen had felt warm in my hand,
how the ink had seemed to flow with unusual thickness.
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That's impossible, is it? After everything you've seen, the weeping portrait,
the laughing children, the music box that plays sorrow itself?
Do you still cling to what you once thought possible?
Her laugh was like wind through dead leaves, brittle and cold.
There is no escape, John. The sooner you accept that,
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the easier things will be, fight it, and you'll find
yourself in the basement much sooner than necessary. Friday brought
a new horror. My reflection began to disobey me. I
first noticed it in the bathroom mirror as I shaved
my hands, still trembling from the previous night's failed escape attempt.
My reflection raised the razor a fraction of a second
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after I did, as if it were copying my movements
rather than mirroring them. When I stopped midstroke, Confused and disturbed,
my reflection continued shaving, its movements, becoming more deliberate, more independent.
Throughout the day, the phenomenon worsened. In hallway mirrors, my
reflected self would smile when I frowned, turn its head
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when I looked straight ahead, sometimes lingering in the glass,
even after I'd walked away. Worst of all, it began
to look healthier than I felt, its eyes brighter, its
complexion clearer, as if it were drawing vitality from my
increasingly hollow shell. Remembering Rule eight, I sought out Missus
Vale in her office, a cluttered room filled with ancient
(37:58):
books bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, and
artifacts that hurt to look at directly. Candles burned with
flames that cast no shadows, and the air was thick
with incense that smelled of grave dirt and dying flowers.
It's beginning, she said, without surprise when I described what
was happening, not even looking up from the ledger she
(38:20):
was writing in with a pen that left marks the
color of dried blood. Prolonged exposure to the Museum's influence
causes what we call spiritual splitting. Your reflection is becoming autonomous,
preparing to replace you, entirely replace me. The museum feeds
on souls, mister Mercer. It takes them gradually, layer by layer,
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like peeling an onion. First, your free will, then your memories,
then your very essence, until nothing remains but an empty
shell performing its duties for eternity. Your reflection shows you
what you're becoming, or rather what you've already become. That afternoon,
I returned to the Bone Garden with new understanding. The
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centerpiece statue, a beautiful woman, reaching desperately toward the ceiling,
her marble face frozen in eternal anguish tears, carved with
such skill they seemed wet. Wasn't art at all. She
was my predecessor, missus Vale said, appearing beside me as
if she'd read my thoughts. Her voice carried a note
(39:24):
of something that might have been sadness, though it was
hard to tell through the layers of resignation and acceptance.
Margaret Ashford, she tried to expose what happens here, tried
to save the exhibits and warn the world. She even
managed to contact a journalist, convinced him to investigate. The
museum's response was definitive. How long have you been here?
(39:47):
Time loses meaning in a place like this. Long enough
to see many guides come and go, each one thinking
they could be the exception, long enough to learn that
resistance only brings suffering, and that acceptance, while bitter, is
the only path to any kind of peace. Saturday night,
I finally understood the children in the nursery. Unable to
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bear their laughter any longer, It had grown louder and
more insistent, seeping through the walls at all hours. I
spent hours in the museum's small library, pouring over family
records and historical documents. The books seemed to write themselves
as I read words, appearing and disappearing on pages that
smelled of old blood and older secrets. The truth was
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worse than I'd imagined. The children weren't just spirits. They
were Cornelius Blackwood's own descendants, sacrificed in occult rituals designed
to power the estate's supernatural abilities. Each child had been
killed on their fifth birthday, their innocent souls trapped in
eternal torment while their life force was channeled into the
(40:54):
building itself. They were forced to play games with invisible companions,
while their angery wish fed the museum's hunger for human suffering.
Each ritual had made Blackwood more powerful, more connected to
forces beyond human understanding, but the price was the souls
of his own children doomed to an existence of perpetual
(41:14):
childhood nightmares. The nursery was their prison, and their laughter
was actually screaming joy and terror blended into something that
human ears could barely process. The museum wasn't just displaying horrors,
It was powered by them, sustained by the collected agony
of everyone who had ever crossed its threshold. As I
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sat surrounded by dusty tomes and crumbling photographs, I realized
the full scope of my situation. This wasn't a job
I could quit or a contract I could break. I
was already becoming part of the collection. My soul slowly
consumed to fuel this monument to human cruelty and supernatural hunger.
(41:59):
My reflection in the life Library's tall windows smiled back
at me with increasing independence, its eyes holding knowledge I
didn't want to possess. Somewhere in the walls, children laughed
with voices like breaking glass, and in the basement dozens
of prisoners waited in their glass cases for a rescue
that would never come. The worst part was knowing that
(42:19):
tomorrow would bring new guests, new victims, drawn by wealth
and boredom to witness wonders They couldn't comprehend, and I
would guide them through their final tour, just as others
had guided me, perpetuating a cycle of horror that stretched
back generations. The museum had claimed another soul, and there
was nothing left to do but accept my fate and
(42:40):
count the days until my own reflection replaced me entirely.
Sunday arrived with a weight that pressed against my chest
like a gravestone. My reflection had grown stronger over night,
moving independently for minutes at a time. While I stood frozen,
watching my body perform actions I hadn't chosen. The mirror
showed me brushing my teeth while I stood motionless, combing
(43:03):
my hair while my hands hung at my sides. Missus
Veal appeared at my door without knocking, as she always did.
Now tonight is special, she said, her voice carrying undertones
I'd learned to fear. Our most distinguished guests are arriving
individuals who've paid not just for tours, but for participation,
(43:23):
participation in what the rituals that sustain this place. They
believe their purchasing entertainment, but they're actually feeding the museums
hunger directly. You'll guide them through their final experience. As
she spoke, I felt my reflection smile in the hallway
mirror behind her. It's expression holding knowledge I didn't possess.
(43:47):
The splitting was accelerating my spiritual self, preparing for complete replacement.
Each guest tonight has committed atrocities that demand cosmic justice,
missus Veal continued. A weapons man manufacturer who tests products
on children, a human trafficking coordinator who ships victims like cargo.
(44:07):
A pharmaceutical executive who knowingly sells contaminated medicine to maximize profits.
They've come seeking new forms of cruelty to explore. The
irony wasn't lost on me. The ultra wealthy, in their
pursuit of exclusive horrors, had stumbled into their own judgment.
Saturday evening brought my final tour. Twelve guests arrived in
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armoured vehicles, their faces bearing the cold satisfaction of predators
who'd never known consequences. They spoke casually about human suffering
as entertainment, discussing their previous experiences like restaurant reviews. The
last private exhibition in Dubai was disappointing. One commented, adjusting
diamond cuff links the subjects died too quickly. We need
(44:52):
something with more sustainability. I led them through the familiar rooms,
but tonight felt different. The exhibits pulsed with malevolent energy,
responding to the guest's presence, like plants turning towards sunlight.
The weeping woman's tears flowed more freely, the children's laughter
grew louder, and the grandfather clock's ticking seemed to count
(45:15):
down to something final. In the Blue room, I made
my choice. Instead of averting my gaze, I stared directly
at the weeping woman's portrait. Her painted eyes met mine
with recognition, and blood began streaming from the frame. In Torrents,
but this time I didn't look away. Rule one, I
(45:37):
announced to the startled guests, never look directly at the
weeping woman. I'm breaking it. Deliberately. Moving to the nursery,
I unlocked the door, despite the children's frantic laughter echoing
from within. Rule too, I called out. If you hear
children laughing, leave immediately. But tonight we're staying. The vict
(46:00):
Torrian room's music box was next. I wound it with
deliberate ceremony, its haunting melody filling the air as every
person began weeping uncontrollably. Rule four, never touch the music box,
consider it touched. I broke every rule, systematically, turning the
museum's protective barriers into weapons. The Grandfather clock chimed thirteen
(46:22):
times as I led everyone toward the basement. Rule six.
I shouted over the supernatural chaos erupting around us. Basement
off limits, let's visit anyway. The building convulsed like a
living thing. Walls bled, portraits screamed, and shadows gained substance
and malevolence. The wealthy guests, for the first time in
(46:45):
their lives, experienced genuine terror as their money and power
proved useless against forces beyond human control. But in the
moment of apparent triumph, truth crashed over me like ice water.
The basement door swung open, revealing not the glass cases
I remembered, but a single mirror reflecting impossible depths in
(47:06):
its surface. I saw myself lying motionless on the museum floor,
my body pale and still. A brass placard near by
read tour guide John Mercer deceased weak one cause spiritual consumption.
I had died during my first week. Everything since the
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rule violations, the escalating horrors. My growing fear and desperate
escape attempts had been elaborate fantasies created by the museum
as it fed on my soul. My experiences weren't memories.
They were spiritual sustenance being slowly digested. The reflection in
every mirror hadn't been trying to replace me. It had
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been showing me the truth. I was already dead, and
my reflection was actually my living spirit being consumed peace
by peace. Missus Vale appeared beside me, no longer the
mysterious curator, but revealed as the Museum's avatar, a construct
designed to shepherds souls through their spiritual feeding. Now you understand,
(48:13):
she said, her voice echoing with the accumulated anguish of centuries.
Welcome to your eternal role. The wealthy guests dissolved like smoke.
They had been phantoms all along, projections created to give
my dying mind something to focus on while the museum
consumed my essence. The tours, the rules, the supernatural encounters,
(48:38):
all carefully crafted illusions designed to maximize the spiritual nourishment
extracted from my soul. I accepted my fate with something
approaching relief. The cycle became clear. The museum lured desperate
individuals with promises of financial salvation, then fed on their
souls while creating elaborate fantasy scenarios to stain their consciousness
(49:01):
during consumption. Each guide eventually recognized the truth and became
part of the feeding mechanism, shepherding new victims through the
same process. My reflections stepped out of the mirror, now
fully autonomous, ready to continue the cycle. I watched myself
become a hollow shell that would perform the curator role
(49:21):
for future victims, maintaining the illusion while the museum digested
their spiritual essence. New applicants would respond to the job
posting drawn by desperation and the promise of easy money.
They would sign contracts in blood, thinking it was ink.
They would dismiss the rules as eccentricities. They would gradually
realize the supernatural truth while their souls were slowly consumed.
(49:44):
The pattern was perfect, eternal, inescapable. As my consciousness faded
into the museum's collective hunger, I understood my final purpose.
I became part of the feeding mechanism. Another voice whispering
in the walls, Another set of eyes watching from portraits,
Another guardian of the rules that both protected and trapped.
The living time ceased to have meaning. New guides arrived regularly,
(50:10):
struggling art historians, desperate teachers, unemployed museum workers, all drawn
by the same posting that had captured me. I watched
them through countless eyes as they repeated my journey skepticism,
gradual belief, growing horror, desperate resistance, and final acceptance. But
(50:31):
now I must tell you something important. If you're reading this,
you've already been selected. The story itself is the trap.
Your engagement with these words has marked you as the
museum's next acquisition. Check your email. You'll find the GPS
coordinates waiting. The encrypted message will seem like a coincidence,
a strange coincidence that appeared just after you finished reading.
(50:54):
Missus Vale is expecting you. She's already prepared your apartment,
already printed your con tract. The pen will feel warm
in your hand when you sign, and the ink will
seem unusually thick, but you'll attribute that to the expensive
writing implement The one hundred dollars hourly wage will solve
all your financial problems. The remote location will seem like
(51:15):
a small price to pay for such generous compensation. The
rules will appear eccentric but harmless. You'll think you're different, smarter,
more prepared than those who came before. You'll believe you
can outsmart the system, escape the cycle, save yourself and others.
But the Museum has been perfecting its methods for over
(51:36):
a century. Every soul it claims makes it stronger, more
sophisticated in its deceptions. Your story is already written. You're
ending already determined. The coordinates are waiting in your inbox.
Missus Vale is expecting you. Welcome to the Blackwood Estate Museum.
We've been waiting for you to arrive.
I should have known something was wrong when they offered
me one hundred dollars an hour to give tours. But
when you're three months behind on rent and your student
loan payments are piling up faster than snow in a
Montana blizzard, you don't ask too many questions about good fortune.
The eviction notice had been taped to my door for
two weeks, mocking me every time I came home to
(00:25):
my studio apartment that smelled like mold and broken dreams.
The job posting appeared on a Tuesday morning, buried deep
in the classified section of an obscure employment website I'd
never heard of before. Specialized tour guide position, private museum
one hundred dollars per hour. Discretion required serious inquiries only
(00:48):
no company name, no location, just an encrypted email address
and a warning that applications would only be considered for
forty eight hours. I sent my resume a meeting. The
interview came three days later, via an encrypted video call.
The screen showed only a dark room with a single
lamp illuminating a woman's hands as she shuffled through papers.
(01:11):
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, with an accent.
I couldn't place, mister Mercer, she said, pronouncing each syllable
with deliberate precision. Your educational background in art history is adequate.
Tell me what would you do if a guest insisted
on touching an exhibit despite clear instructions not to. I'd
(01:32):
explain the importance of preservation and gently redirect their attention
to other pieces, I answered, trying to sound professional despite
the bizarre setup. And if they offered you money, a
substantial amount, the question caught me off guard. I I
would maintain the museum's policies regardless of financial incentives. A pause,
(01:54):
papers rustling, very good. Are you prepared to relocate? Immediately relocate?
The position requires on site residence, full room and board
provided in addition to your hourly wage. The location is
quite remote. I thought of my mounting bills, my empty refrigerator.
(02:14):
The landlord's increasingly aggressive voice mails, yes, I can relocate. Excellent.
You'll receive GPS coordinates within the hour, pack light, everything
you need will be provided. The line went dead. The
coordinates led me through three hours of winding mountain roads
(02:35):
deeper into Montana wilderness than I'd ever traveled. My aging
Honda struggled with the elevation changes, and I began to
worry I'd made a terrible mistake. The last gas station
had been fifty miles back, and my cell phone showed
no signal. Then I saw it. The Blackwood Estate emerged
from the forest like something from a Gothic novel, three
(02:57):
stories of dark stone and wrought iron, with towers and
gargoyles that seemed to watch my approach. Tall windows gleamed
in the late afternoon sun, and perfectly manicured gardens surrounded
the building. Despite the remote location, I parked in a
circular driveway paved with black stone and grabbed my single
duffel bag. Before I could knock, the massive oak door
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swung open. Mister Mercer, the woman from the video call
stood before me. Though I still couldn't see her face clearly,
she was tall and thin, dressed in a severe black
suit that seemed decades out of fashion. Her skin was
pale as parchment, and when she spoke, I noticed she
never seemed to blink. I am Missus Cordelia Veil, curator
(03:44):
of this establishment. Welcome, Thank you for the opportunity, Missus Veil,
this place is incredible. Indeed, she stepped aside gesturing for
me to enter. Follow me. The interior was even more
impressive than the exterior. Marble floors reflected light from crystal chandeliers,
(04:04):
and oil paintings in heavy gold frames lined the walls.
The air smelled of old wood and something else I
couldn't identify, something sweet and cloying that made my stomach
turn slightly. The museum opens only on Saturday evenings, Missus
Vale explained, as we walked through corridors that seemed to
stretch forever six o'clock precisely. Our clientele is quite exclusive,
(04:28):
individuals who appreciate unique experiences and can afford the fifty
thousand dollars admission fee. I nearly stumbled fifty thousand per visit.
Her voice carried no emotion. They come seeking what conventional
museums cannot provide, authenticity, genuine historical artifacts with provenance. We
(04:51):
climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, then another
to the third. Missus Veil opened a door at the
end of a long hallway your quarters. The apartment was luxurious,
beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Hardwood floors, a king sized bed,
a fully stocked kitchen, and windows overlooking the forest. A
(05:13):
sixty five inch television dominated one wall and bookshelves lined another.
This is incredible, I said, setting down my bag. But
I notice there's no internet connection and my phone has
no signal. The isolation is intentional, Missus Vale replied. Our
guests value privacy above all else you'll find everything you
(05:34):
need here. Meals are provided in the staff dining room
on the first floor. She handed me a laminated card.
These are the house rules. Study them carefully. I read
the eight rules printed in neat black text. Never look
directly at the weeping woman portrait in the Blue room
during tours. If you hear children laughing from the nursery,
(05:55):
immediately leave and lock the door. The Bone Garden exhibit
closes at eight pm sharp, no exceptions. Never touch the
music box in the Victorian Room, even if guests request it.
If the Grandfather clock chimes thirteen times, escort all guests
to the main hall immediately. The basement level is off
(06:15):
limits to tours. Redirect any guest interest. Always count your
tour group before and after each room. If you notice
your reflection behaving independently, inform Missus Veil immediately. I looked up,
expecting an explanation, but missus Vale was already at the door.
These rules were developed over decades of operation, she said,
(06:37):
without turning around. They exist for survival, not showmanship. Breakfast
is served at seven. Your first tour begins tomorrow evening.
She closed the door, leaving me alone with questions and
growing unease. Saturday arrived faster than I expected. I spent
Friday exploring the museum's public areas, familiarizing myself the exhibits
(07:00):
that would be part of my tours. Each room had
a theme, and the artifacts were unlike anything I'd seen
in traditional museums. The Blue Room contained European paintings from
the Renaissance through Victorian eras. The centerpiece was a portrait
of a woman in white tears streaming down her painted cheeks.
Even glancing at it peripherally made me uncomfortable, though I
(07:23):
couldn't explain why. The nursery was filled with antique dolls,
children's toys, and a small white coffin labeled Baby Blackwood
Beloved Son nineteen twenty three to nineteen twenty three. The
dolls seemed to watch me as I moved through the room,
their glass eyes following my movements. The bone Garden was
(07:43):
perhaps the most unsettling exhibit. It was actually indoors designed
to look like a Victorian cemetery garden. Marble statues stood
among carefully arranged displays of human bones and skulls, some
dating back centuries according to their placards. The centerpiece was
a beautiful statue of a woman reaching toward the ceiling,
(08:03):
her marble face frozen in eternal anguish. The Victorian room
felt more conventional, furnished with period pieces, including an ornate
music box on the central table. Its surface was decorated
with intricate carvings of dancing figures, and I found myself
wanting to wind it just to hear the melody. At
(08:23):
six o'clock sharp, the first guests arrived. They came in
expensive cars with tinted windows, a group of twelve individuals
who spoke in hushed tones and wore clothing that cost
more than my annual salary. I recognized none of them,
but their bearings suggested serious wealth and power. Missus Vale
introduced me simply as your guide for this evening's experience,
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and I led them through the exhibits. They listened to
my prepared presentations with polite attention, asking occasional questions about
provenance and historical significance. What struck me most was their
casual cruelty. During a discussion about medieval torture devices, one
guest laughed about employees who needed motivation. Another made off
(09:08):
hand comments about disposing of problems that made my skin crawl.
They spoke of human suffering as entertainment, of pain as
a commodity to be purchased. But they seemed harmless enough,
just wealthy people with twisted senses of humor. The evening
passed without incident, and I began to relax. The second
day's tour group was smaller, but equally wealthy Russian oligarchs,
(09:32):
according to missus Vale, who appreciated historical extremes. They were
particularly interested in the bone garden, asking detailed questions about
the origin of each skull and bone fragment. Are these genuine?
One asked, examining a display case containing what appeared to
be fresh organs in glass jars. All our exhibits are authentic,
(09:54):
I replied, though something about those organs bothered me. They
looked too fresh, too real. As we moved through the
Victorian room, I was careful to steer guests away from
the music box, remembering rule four. One of the Russians
noticed my avoidance. What's in the box? He asked, A
lovely music box from the eighteen eighties. I said, unfortunately,
(10:17):
it's too fragile for handling. He nodded, seemingly satisfied, though
I caught him staring at it longingly as we left
the room. Both tours ended successfully, with guests expressing satisfaction
and missus Vale's approval evident in her slight nod. I
began to think the rules were simply eccentric policies designed
to maintain atmosphere for thrill seeking millionaires. How wrong I was.
(10:42):
As I settled into my apartment that second night, I
felt confident about my new position. The work was easy,
the pay was excellent, and despite the isolation, I was
finally getting ahead financially. The rules seemed manageable, just quirky
policies to add mystique to an already atmospheric experience. I
had no idea they were the only things standing between
(11:04):
me and something far more terrible than I could imagine.
I fell asleep that night, thinking I'd finally caught a break.
I should have paid more attention to the way the
exhibits seemed to watch me. Should have wondered why the
tears on the Weeping Woman's cheeks looked wet despite being
painted centuries ago. Should have questioned why children's toys in
the nursery occasionally moved when I wasn't looking directly at them.
(11:27):
But I was desperate, grateful, and wilfully blind to the
signs tomorrow would change everything. The third day at the
Blackwood Estate Museum started like any other, but I should
have known my false sense of security wouldn't last long.
Tuesday morning found me rehearsing tor presentations in the empty halls,
my voice echoing off marble floors and oil painted ancestors.
(11:50):
The Russian oligarchs were scheduled to arrive that evening, and
Missus Vale had emphasized their particular interest in authentic historical experiences.
I was in the blue room practicing my discussion of
Renaissance portraiture when curiosity overcame caution. The Weeping woman portrait
drew my gaze like a magnet. Despite Rule one's clear warning,
(12:12):
I found myself looking directly into her painted eyes. Time
seemed to freeze the woman's eyes, which had been staring
demurely downward in the classic portrait pose, slowly lifted to
meet mine. Her painted pupils dilated with impossible life, and
black tears began streaming down her pale cheeks. The tears
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weren't just paint anymore. They were wet, real, flowing down
the canvas and pooling on the ornate gold frame. My
heart hammered against my ribs as the metallic scent of
blood filled the air. Dark red liquid began seeping from
behind the frame, trickling down the wall in thin rivulets.
You should not have looked. A voice whispered, though the
(12:56):
painted lips never moved. I stumbled backward, my hands shaking,
and fled the room, just as footsteps approached from the corridor.
Mister Mercer, missus Veil appeared at the doorway, her pale
face showing no surprise at the blood streaked portrait behind me,
preparing for this evening's guests. I see the painting. It
(13:17):
was bleeding. The eyes moved. Yes. She stepped past me
with a white cloth, calmly cleaning the blood from the
wall and frame. Rule one exists for precisely this reason.
The guests appreciate authentic supernatural experiences, but they assume its
all theatrical effects. You, however, know better now. As she worked,
(13:41):
the painted woman's eyes had returned to their downward gaze.
The tears once again mere brushstrokes, but I could feel
her watching me still, even when I wasn't looking. The
rules exist for survival, not showmanship, missus Vale said, her
voice carrying a chill that made me shiver. Remember that
(14:03):
that evening's tour proceeded without incident, though I kept my
eyes carefully averted from the weeping woman. The Russian guests
seemed particularly entertained by my obvious discomfort in the blue room,
chuckling among themselves in their native language. Guide seems nervous,
one commented, in accented English, makes experience more authentic. They
(14:27):
had no idea how authentic it truly was. Wednesday brought
the children's laughter. I was alone in the nursery, dusting
display cases and rearranging the antique dolls when I heard it,
soft giggling like young children at play. The sound seemed
to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the walls
(14:47):
in a way that made my skin crawl following rule two,
I immediately left the room and turned the key in
the lock. But instead of walking away, I found myself
compelled to look through the old fashioned cakes key hole.
What I saw defied explanation. The dolls were moving, not
all at once, but in subtle, co ordinated ways that
(15:09):
suggested intelligence. A porcelain girl with golden ringlets turned her
head to smile at something I couldn't see. A boy
in sailor suit sat up in his display case and
clapped his hands silently. They were playing with invisible companions,
their glass eyes reflecting a light that wasn't there. The
small white coffin labeled Baby Blackwood Beloved Son nineteen twenty
(15:33):
three to nineteen twenty three rocked gently back and forth,
as if some one was soothing the infant within. The
giggling grew louder, more insistent, and I thought I heard
whispered words, come play with us, Come play forever. I
backed away from the door, my hands trembling. That night,
pale children invaded my dreams, calling my name with voices
(15:56):
like wind through autumn leaves. They wanted me to unlock
the door to join their eternal games. In the nursery
where time had stopped. In nineteen twenty three, I woke
drenched in sweat, the sound of children's laughter still echoing
in my ears. Thursday introduced a new horror temptation. Missus
Corvin had returned, a pharmaceutical heiress whose previous visit had
(16:19):
ended with her offering increasingly large sums to hear the
Victorian room's music box play. Tonight, she was back with
determination gleaming in her eyes. Surely we can come to
an arrangement, she said, cornering me after the formal tour
had ended. Her perfume was expensive, but couldn't mask something
rotten underneath. Twenty thousand dollars cash just to wind the
(16:44):
box once I thought of my student loans, my maxed
out credit cards, the eviction noticed that had started this
entire nightmare. Twenty thousand dollars would solve everything, but Missus
Vale's warning echoed in my mind. The rules exist for survival.
I'm sorry, Missus Corvin. Museum policy is very strict about
(17:05):
handling antique pieces. Her face twisted with frustration and something darker.
You stupid little man. Do you have any idea who
I am? What I could do to you? Before I
could respond. The music box began playing on its own.
The lid popped open, revealing tiny dancing figures that spun
to a haunting lullaby that seemed older than sorrow itself.
(17:29):
Every person in the room began weeping uncontrollably, tears streaming
down faces, shoulders shaking with inexplicable grief. Even Missus Corvin,
for all her threats and bluster, stood sobbing like a
lost child. The melody wrapped around my heart and squeezed,
pulling up memories of every loss, every disappointment, every moment
(17:52):
of despair I'd ever experienced. The other guests wept openly,
their masks of wealth and power dissolving in the face
of profound, inexplicable sadness. When the box finally closed, silence
fell like a heavy curtain. The guests wiped their eyes,
embarrassed by their public display of emotion, and quickly dispersed.
(18:14):
Missus Corvin shot me a look of pure hatred before
stalking out, But the lullaby followed me to my apartment
that night. Weaving through my dreams and waking thoughts, I
found myself humming it unconsciously, the melody taking root in
my mind like a parasite. Friday brought the impossible. I
was guiding a group of tech moguls through their tour
(18:35):
when the Grandfather clock in the main hall began to chime.
Nothing unusual about that. It was eight o'clock, closing time
for the Bone Garden exhibit according to rule three. But
the clock didn't stop at eight chimes, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Then, impossibly,
a thirteenth chime rang out, its deep bronze tone, seeming
(18:58):
to shake the very found dayations of the building. Rule
five was crystal clear. If the Grandfather clock chimes thirteen times,
escort all guests to the main hall immediately. I didn't hesitate.
Ladies and gentlemen, If you could please follow me to
the main hall for refreshments, I announced, my voice, somehow steady,
(19:19):
despite the terror clawing at my chest. As we walked
through the corridors, I could hear the building itself groaning
and settling in ways that defied architectural logic. The walls
seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting like living flesh. Portrait
eyes followed our progress, and the temperature dropped noticeably with
each step. Missus Vale was waiting in the main hall
(19:43):
with a silver service of wine and delicate pastries, as
if she had been expecting us. Her smile was serene,
but her eyes held depths. I didn't want to explore.
Please enjoy the refreshments while you take in the view,
she said, gesturing toward the tall wind windows that overlooked
the estate's grounds. I looked outside and felt my sanity
(20:05):
slip another notch. The forest was writhing, ancient pines bent
and twisted like rubber, their branches reaching toward the windows
with what looked like gnarled fingers. The moon cast shadows
that moved independently of their sources, dancing across the snow
in patterns that hurt to watch. In the distance, I
(20:26):
could swear I saw figures moving between the trees, tall,
impossibly thin shapes that seemed to glide rather than walk.
The guests sipped their wine and made appreciative comments about
the incredible special effects and immersive atmosphere. They had no
idea they were witnessing something genuinely supernatural, something that could
(20:49):
probably tear them apart without effort remarkable showmanship. One commented,
the investment in these illusions must be extraordinary. I wanted
to scream at them, to shake them and force them
to see what was really happening. But what would be
the point. They lived in a world where everything could
be bought, controlled, explained, they couldn't conceive of forces beyond
(21:12):
their influence. After an hour, the forest returned to normal.
The trees stood straight and still, the shadows behaved as
shadows should, and the thirteenth chimes echo finally faded from
the air. Missus Vale graciously escorted the guests to their vehicles,
and I was left alone with questions I was afraid
to ask. That night, I lay in my luxurious prison
(21:36):
of an apartment, staring at the ceiling and trying to
process what was happening to me. The rules weren't arbitrary
policies designed to add atmosphere. They were warnings, barriers between
the museum's visitors and something that wanted to break free,
but barriers against what I was beginning to understand, that
the Blackwood Estate Museum existed in the spaces between the
(21:58):
world I knew and something else entirely. The rules weren't
just protecting the guests from the exhibits. They were protecting
everyone from the hungry darkness that lived in the walls,
fed on suffering and waited patiently for someone to make
a mistake. Each violation had consequences. Each broken rule invited
something terrible. A little closer, the weeping woman's painted eyes
(22:22):
had shown me they were watching, always watching. The children
in the nursery wanted playmates for their eternal games. The
music box sought to drown the world in sorrow. The
grandfather clock measured time that shouldn't exist, and I was
trapped here, walking the razor's edge between following rules that
made no sense and unleashing horrors that made too much sense.
(22:46):
Missus Vale's words haunted my dreams. The rules exist for survival,
not showmanship. I was starting to understand that survival might
be more complicated than I'd imagined, and that the worst
violations might yet be ahead of me. As I finally
drifted toward an uneasy sleep, the children's laughter echoed softly
through the walls, and somewhere in the distance, a music
(23:08):
box played its sorrowful tune. The weeping Woman's painted tears
felt real against my dreams, and thirteen chimes counted down
to something I didn't want a name. The rules were
all that stood between me and the darkness. But how
long could I keep following them before the darkness found
another way? In the weekend passed in a haze of
(23:28):
sleepless nights and haunted thoughts. By Monday of my second week,
the false comfort I'd found and following the rules had
evaporated like morning mist. The museum's whispers followed me everywhere,
soft voices that spoke in languages I didn't recognize, footsteps
in empty corridors, and the constant sensation of being watched
(23:49):
by invisible eyes. I found myself drawn to forbidden places
with increasing frequency, my rational mind losing the battle against
a curiosity that had become an obsession. The RULs that
had once seemed like simple guidelines now felt like prison bars,
and with each passing hour I understood less about my
situation while becoming more deeply entangled in it. It was
(24:11):
Tuesday night when I discovered the basement. Unable to sleep,
I wandered the corridors in my pajamas, hoping exhaustion might
finally claim me. The Grandfather Clock's steady ticking echoed through
the halls, marking time that felt increasingly meaningless In this
place where past and present blurred together like water colors
(24:31):
and rain. My bare feet made no sound on the
marble floors, and the portraits seemed to track my progress
with their painted eyes. That's when I noticed the basement door,
standing slightly ajar. The heavy iron slab carved with twisted
vines and staring eyes that seemed to follow my movement
had always been locked tight. Rule six was explicit the
(24:55):
basement level was off limits to tours, redirect any guest interest.
But tonight, cold air seeped through the crack, carrying scents
of damp earth and something metallic that made my stomach
turn and my mouth fill with saliva in that way
that precedes vomiting. My rational mind screamed warnings, but curiosity
(25:15):
had become a hunger. I couldn't ignore. The door groaned
on ancient hinges as I pushed it open, the sound
echoing through the building like a death rattle. Stone steps
descended into absolute darkness, each one worn smooth by centuries
of footsteps. The air grew colder with every step, and
I could hear something dripping in the distance, a steady
(25:38):
rhythm like a heart beat. Each step creaked under my
weight as I made my way down, my phone's flashlight
cutting through the gloom like a knife through black velvet.
The basement was vast, far larger than the building's footprint
should have allowed. Gothic arches supported a vaulted ceiling that
disappeared into shadow, and the air was thick with an
(25:59):
oppressive way that made breathing difficult. Condensation formed on the
stone walls, running down in patterns that looked disturbingly like tears.
But it was the display cases that stopped my heart.
Arranged throughout the space like some twisted museum exhibition, dozens
of glass coffins stood illuminated by an eerie green light
(26:19):
that seemed to emanate from within the cases themselves. The
light pulsed slowly rhythmically, like a massive heart beating somewhere
in the darkness and inside each one. Dear God, I whispered,
the words, echoing in the silence and coming back to
me distorted, as if the building itself was mocking my prayer.
(26:40):
Living people lay within those cases, their eyes wide and aware,
following my movement with desperate intensity. Their skin had taken
on a waxy preserved quality, pale as candlewax, but with
an underlying translucence that revealed veins and arteries beneath. They
were undeniably alive, their chests rising and falling in shallow breaths,
(27:03):
but trapped in some horrific state between life and death.
Their mouths moved silently, forming words I couldn't hear, but
understood instinctively. Help us, please, don't leave us here. Some
had been there so long that their hair had grown
out in wild tangles, and their finger nails had extended
(27:24):
into claw like points from scratching uselessly at their glass prisons.
Others looked fresher, their expressions still holding traces of the
shock and disbelief that must have accompanied their entrapment. Small
brass plaques adorned each case, polished to a mirror shine
that reflected the green light in nauseating patterns. I read
(27:44):
them with growing horror, my hands shaking so badly I
could barely hold my phone steady. Former staff member James Morrison,
Acquired nineteen eighty seven. Violation attempted escape, disobedient guest miss
As Catherine Holt, vintage twenty nineteen. Violation Excessive cruelty to servants.
(28:06):
Tour guide Maria Santos collected two thousand three violation breaking
rule four night Watchmen David Chen preserved nineteen ninety five
violation accessing basement level. The plaques went on and on,
each one documenting a life cut short, a soul claimed
(28:27):
by this terrible place. I realized, with mounting dread, that
every person who had crossed the museum's mysterious boundaries, who
had violated its rules or outlived their usefulness, ended up here.
This wasn't a museum displaying historical artifacts. It was a
collection of living trophies, evidence of the estate's insatiable hunger
(28:49):
for human suffering. I stumbled backward, my phone, slipping from
trembling fingers and clattering across the stone floor. The light
spun wildly before settling, casting dancing shadows that made the
preserved figures seem to writhe in their glass prisons. In
that chaotic moment, I could swear I heard them all screaming,
a chorus of agony that existed just below the threshold
(29:11):
of human hearing. Footsteps echoed from the floor above. Missus
Vale was making her nightly rounds, her heels clicking against
marble in a rhythm. I had come to know and dread,
heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it
might burst. I grabbed my phone and fled up the
stairs three at a time, closing the basement door as
silently as possible. But as I crept back to my
(29:34):
apartment on legs that felt like water, I felt those
desperate eyes following me, pleading silently for a salvation I
couldn't provide. Their silent screams followed me into my dreams,
and I woke with tears on my cheeks that I
couldn't remember shedding. Wednesday brought confirmation of my worst fears.
I was leading a group of pharmaceutical executives through the
(29:56):
Bone Garden when I noticed something wrong. The tour had
start arded with twelve guests, all of them wearing expensive
suits and discussing the latest stock prices, with the casual
indifference of people for whom human suffering was merely a
line item on a balance sheet. But as we prepared
to exit the garden, I counted only eleven. Missus Corvin,
(30:17):
the heiress who had tried to bribe me over the
music box, was missing. I counted again, then a third time,
my panic rising with each recount She had been there
moments ago, making crude jokes about the skull displays and
commenting on how she might like to add similar decorations
to her own estate. Now she was simply gone, as
if she had never existed at all, missus Vail, I said, quietly,
(30:43):
approaching the curator, who had appeared at the garden's entrance,
as if summoned by my distress. She stood perfectly still
in her black dress, hands folded in front of her,
like a funeral director. One of our guests seems to
have wandered off her pale lips curved in what might
have been a smile, but there was no warmth in it,
(31:03):
only the cold satisfaction of a spider watching a fly
struggle in its web. Sometimes, she said, in her whisper
soft voice, the collection acquires new pieces. A chill ran
down my spine like ice water. What do you mean?
Missus Corvin showed a particular cruelty toward her employees, didn't
(31:24):
she spoke of disposing of problems like they were nothing
more than inconvenient objects. Missus Vale's eyes never left mine,
and I saw in them a depth of knowledge that
stretched back decades, perhaps centuries. She bragged about forcing pregnant
women to work during labor, about denying medical care to
save money. The museum has little patience for such callousness.
(31:49):
The remaining guests chatted among themselves, completely oblivious to their
companion's disappearance. They discussed merger opportunities and hostile takeovers with
the same casual tone they might use to discuss the weather,
their expensive watches glinting in the lamplight as they gestured
dismissively about human lives. That night, I accessed the security
(32:10):
footage from my apartment's computer terminal. What I saw would
haunt me forever. The cameras showed Missus Corvin examining the
bone displays with obvious delight, making crude jokes about the
arrangement of skulls and femurs in artistic patterns. She picked
up a child's skull, turning it over in her manicured hands,
(32:31):
while commenting on its perfect proportions and wondering aloud if
she could commission similar pieces for her garden parties. Then,
as she leaned close to read a placard describing the
skull's origin, skeletal hands emerged from the shadows beneath the
central mausoleum. They moved with impossible fluidity, like liquid bone
(32:52):
flowing upward from the earth itself. The hands, impossibly strong
and covered in rotting flesh that peeled away in wet strips,
grasped her ankles and pulled. Missus Corvin's scream was cut
short as she disappeared into darkness so complete it seemed
to swallow the camera's light. The shadows writhed for a moment,
(33:12):
then settled back into stillness, as if nothing had happened.
The skull she had been holding rolled across the floor
and came to rest against a display case, its empty
sockets staring directly into the camera lens. The other guests
continued their tour, completely oblivious to their companion's fate. They
stepped around the spot where she had vanished without a
(33:32):
second glance, their conversation never faltering. Thursday night, I tried
to leave. I packed my belongings in desperate silence, my
hands shaking as I folded clothes and gathered what few
possessions I'd brought to this cursed place. The memory of
those glass cases burned in my mind like acid. I
(33:53):
had to escape before I joined their ranks. Before I
became another brass placard marking a life cut short by
forces beyond and comprehension. But the Blackwood Estate had other plans.
I loaded my car under cover of darkness, moving as
quietly as possible to avoid detection. The forest seemed unusually still,
as if even the animals sensed something unnatural stirring. My
(34:16):
headlights cut through the darkness as I drove down the
winding road. But something was wrong. The trees looked different,
twisted into shapes that hurt to look at directly. The
road seemed to curve in directions that defied geometry, bending
back on itself in impossible ways. No matter which road
I took, I found myself driving in circles. The GPS
(34:40):
spun uselessly, showing impossible roots that led nowhere and everywhere
at once. The compass in my car spun wildly, never
settling on any direction for more than a few seconds.
Dense fog rolled in from the forest, so thick I
could barely see the hood of my car. It tasted
of decay and old blood, coating my tongue with a
(35:02):
metallic flavor that made me gag. When the fog finally cleared.
I was back in the museum's circular driveway, as if
i'd never left at all. My car's odometer showed I
had driven nearly a hundred miles. But here I was
returned like a dog to its master. Missus Vale was
waiting for me, her black dress fluttering in a wind.
(35:22):
I couldn't feel. The fabric moved with a life of
its own, writhing like liquid shadow around her thin frame.
Going somewhere, mister Mercer, I quit, I said, trying to
inject authority into my voice, despite the terror that made
my knees shake. I'm done with this place. She held
up a familiar document, my employment contract. In the moonlight.
(35:46):
The red ink seemed to pulse with life, flowing across
the page like living blood. The paper itself looked different,
now older, stained with substances. I didn't want to identify you.
Sign this in blood, not ink, she said, calmly, her
voice carrying the certainty of absolute truth. Such contracts carry
(36:09):
bindings that transcend the merely legal. You belong to this
place now, as surely as the exhibits belong to their cases.
The museum has claimed you body and soul. I stared
at the signature I'd made so casually on my first day,
remembering how the pen had felt warm in my hand,
how the ink had seemed to flow with unusual thickness.
(36:31):
That's impossible, is it? After everything you've seen, the weeping portrait,
the laughing children, the music box that plays sorrow itself?
Do you still cling to what you once thought possible?
Her laugh was like wind through dead leaves, brittle and cold.
There is no escape, John. The sooner you accept that,
(36:54):
the easier things will be, fight it, and you'll find
yourself in the basement much sooner than necessary. Friday brought
a new horror. My reflection began to disobey me. I
first noticed it in the bathroom mirror as I shaved
my hands, still trembling from the previous night's failed escape attempt.
My reflection raised the razor a fraction of a second
(37:15):
after I did, as if it were copying my movements
rather than mirroring them. When I stopped midstroke, Confused and disturbed,
my reflection continued shaving, its movements, becoming more deliberate, more independent.
Throughout the day, the phenomenon worsened. In hallway mirrors, my
reflected self would smile when I frowned, turn its head
(37:37):
when I looked straight ahead, sometimes lingering in the glass,
even after I'd walked away. Worst of all, it began
to look healthier than I felt, its eyes brighter, its
complexion clearer, as if it were drawing vitality from my
increasingly hollow shell. Remembering Rule eight, I sought out Missus
Vale in her office, a cluttered room filled with ancient
(37:58):
books bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, and
artifacts that hurt to look at directly. Candles burned with
flames that cast no shadows, and the air was thick
with incense that smelled of grave dirt and dying flowers.
It's beginning, she said, without surprise when I described what
was happening, not even looking up from the ledger she
(38:20):
was writing in with a pen that left marks the
color of dried blood. Prolonged exposure to the Museum's influence
causes what we call spiritual splitting. Your reflection is becoming autonomous,
preparing to replace you, entirely replace me. The museum feeds
on souls, mister Mercer. It takes them gradually, layer by layer,
(38:42):
like peeling an onion. First, your free will, then your memories,
then your very essence, until nothing remains but an empty
shell performing its duties for eternity. Your reflection shows you
what you're becoming, or rather what you've already become. That afternoon,
I returned to the Bone Garden with new understanding. The
(39:03):
centerpiece statue, a beautiful woman, reaching desperately toward the ceiling,
her marble face frozen in eternal anguish tears, carved with
such skill they seemed wet. Wasn't art at all. She
was my predecessor, missus Vale said, appearing beside me as
if she'd read my thoughts. Her voice carried a note
(39:24):
of something that might have been sadness, though it was
hard to tell through the layers of resignation and acceptance.
Margaret Ashford, she tried to expose what happens here, tried
to save the exhibits and warn the world. She even
managed to contact a journalist, convinced him to investigate. The
museum's response was definitive. How long have you been here?
(39:47):
Time loses meaning in a place like this. Long enough
to see many guides come and go, each one thinking
they could be the exception, long enough to learn that
resistance only brings suffering, and that acceptance, while bitter, is
the only path to any kind of peace. Saturday night,
I finally understood the children in the nursery. Unable to
(40:10):
bear their laughter any longer, It had grown louder and
more insistent, seeping through the walls at all hours. I
spent hours in the museum's small library, pouring over family
records and historical documents. The books seemed to write themselves
as I read words, appearing and disappearing on pages that
smelled of old blood and older secrets. The truth was
(40:34):
worse than I'd imagined. The children weren't just spirits. They
were Cornelius Blackwood's own descendants, sacrificed in occult rituals designed
to power the estate's supernatural abilities. Each child had been
killed on their fifth birthday, their innocent souls trapped in
eternal torment while their life force was channeled into the
(40:54):
building itself. They were forced to play games with invisible companions,
while their angery wish fed the museum's hunger for human suffering.
Each ritual had made Blackwood more powerful, more connected to
forces beyond human understanding, but the price was the souls
of his own children doomed to an existence of perpetual
(41:14):
childhood nightmares. The nursery was their prison, and their laughter
was actually screaming joy and terror blended into something that
human ears could barely process. The museum wasn't just displaying horrors,
It was powered by them, sustained by the collected agony
of everyone who had ever crossed its threshold. As I
(41:37):
sat surrounded by dusty tomes and crumbling photographs, I realized
the full scope of my situation. This wasn't a job
I could quit or a contract I could break. I
was already becoming part of the collection. My soul slowly
consumed to fuel this monument to human cruelty and supernatural hunger.
(41:59):
My reflection in the life Library's tall windows smiled back
at me with increasing independence, its eyes holding knowledge I
didn't want to possess. Somewhere in the walls, children laughed
with voices like breaking glass, and in the basement dozens
of prisoners waited in their glass cases for a rescue
that would never come. The worst part was knowing that
(42:19):
tomorrow would bring new guests, new victims, drawn by wealth
and boredom to witness wonders They couldn't comprehend, and I
would guide them through their final tour, just as others
had guided me, perpetuating a cycle of horror that stretched
back generations. The museum had claimed another soul, and there
was nothing left to do but accept my fate and
(42:40):
count the days until my own reflection replaced me entirely.
Sunday arrived with a weight that pressed against my chest
like a gravestone. My reflection had grown stronger over night,
moving independently for minutes at a time. While I stood frozen,
watching my body perform actions I hadn't chosen. The mirror
showed me brushing my teeth while I stood motionless, combing
(43:03):
my hair while my hands hung at my sides. Missus
Veal appeared at my door without knocking, as she always did.
Now tonight is special, she said, her voice carrying undertones
I'd learned to fear. Our most distinguished guests are arriving
individuals who've paid not just for tours, but for participation,
(43:23):
participation in what the rituals that sustain this place. They
believe their purchasing entertainment, but they're actually feeding the museums
hunger directly. You'll guide them through their final experience. As
she spoke, I felt my reflection smile in the hallway
mirror behind her. It's expression holding knowledge I didn't possess.
(43:47):
The splitting was accelerating my spiritual self, preparing for complete replacement.
Each guest tonight has committed atrocities that demand cosmic justice,
missus Veal continued. A weapons man manufacturer who tests products
on children, a human trafficking coordinator who ships victims like cargo.
(44:07):
A pharmaceutical executive who knowingly sells contaminated medicine to maximize profits.
They've come seeking new forms of cruelty to explore. The
irony wasn't lost on me. The ultra wealthy, in their
pursuit of exclusive horrors, had stumbled into their own judgment.
Saturday evening brought my final tour. Twelve guests arrived in
(44:28):
armoured vehicles, their faces bearing the cold satisfaction of predators
who'd never known consequences. They spoke casually about human suffering
as entertainment, discussing their previous experiences like restaurant reviews. The
last private exhibition in Dubai was disappointing. One commented, adjusting
diamond cuff links the subjects died too quickly. We need
(44:52):
something with more sustainability. I led them through the familiar rooms,
but tonight felt different. The exhibits pulsed with malevolent energy,
responding to the guest's presence, like plants turning towards sunlight.
The weeping woman's tears flowed more freely, the children's laughter
grew louder, and the grandfather clock's ticking seemed to count
(45:15):
down to something final. In the Blue room, I made
my choice. Instead of averting my gaze, I stared directly
at the weeping woman's portrait. Her painted eyes met mine
with recognition, and blood began streaming from the frame. In Torrents,
but this time I didn't look away. Rule one, I
(45:37):
announced to the startled guests, never look directly at the
weeping woman. I'm breaking it. Deliberately. Moving to the nursery,
I unlocked the door, despite the children's frantic laughter echoing
from within. Rule too, I called out. If you hear
children laughing, leave immediately. But tonight we're staying. The vict
(46:00):
Torrian room's music box was next. I wound it with
deliberate ceremony, its haunting melody filling the air as every
person began weeping uncontrollably. Rule four, never touch the music box,
consider it touched. I broke every rule, systematically, turning the
museum's protective barriers into weapons. The Grandfather clock chimed thirteen
(46:22):
times as I led everyone toward the basement. Rule six.
I shouted over the supernatural chaos erupting around us. Basement
off limits, let's visit anyway. The building convulsed like a
living thing. Walls bled, portraits screamed, and shadows gained substance
and malevolence. The wealthy guests, for the first time in
(46:45):
their lives, experienced genuine terror as their money and power
proved useless against forces beyond human control. But in the
moment of apparent triumph, truth crashed over me like ice water.
The basement door swung open, revealing not the glass cases
I remembered, but a single mirror reflecting impossible depths in
(47:06):
its surface. I saw myself lying motionless on the museum floor,
my body pale and still. A brass placard near by
read tour guide John Mercer deceased weak one cause spiritual consumption.
I had died during my first week. Everything since the
(47:27):
rule violations, the escalating horrors. My growing fear and desperate
escape attempts had been elaborate fantasies created by the museum
as it fed on my soul. My experiences weren't memories.
They were spiritual sustenance being slowly digested. The reflection in
every mirror hadn't been trying to replace me. It had
(47:49):
been showing me the truth. I was already dead, and
my reflection was actually my living spirit being consumed peace
by peace. Missus Vale appeared beside me, no longer the
mysterious curator, but revealed as the Museum's avatar, a construct
designed to shepherds souls through their spiritual feeding. Now you understand,
(48:13):
she said, her voice echoing with the accumulated anguish of centuries.
Welcome to your eternal role. The wealthy guests dissolved like smoke.
They had been phantoms all along, projections created to give
my dying mind something to focus on while the museum
consumed my essence. The tours, the rules, the supernatural encounters,
(48:38):
all carefully crafted illusions designed to maximize the spiritual nourishment
extracted from my soul. I accepted my fate with something
approaching relief. The cycle became clear. The museum lured desperate
individuals with promises of financial salvation, then fed on their
souls while creating elaborate fantasy scenarios to stain their consciousness
(49:01):
during consumption. Each guide eventually recognized the truth and became
part of the feeding mechanism, shepherding new victims through the
same process. My reflections stepped out of the mirror, now
fully autonomous, ready to continue the cycle. I watched myself
become a hollow shell that would perform the curator role
(49:21):
for future victims, maintaining the illusion while the museum digested
their spiritual essence. New applicants would respond to the job
posting drawn by desperation and the promise of easy money.
They would sign contracts in blood, thinking it was ink.
They would dismiss the rules as eccentricities. They would gradually
realize the supernatural truth while their souls were slowly consumed.
(49:44):
The pattern was perfect, eternal, inescapable. As my consciousness faded
into the museum's collective hunger, I understood my final purpose.
I became part of the feeding mechanism. Another voice whispering
in the walls, Another set of eyes watching from portraits,
Another guardian of the rules that both protected and trapped.
The living time ceased to have meaning. New guides arrived regularly,
(50:10):
struggling art historians, desperate teachers, unemployed museum workers, all drawn
by the same posting that had captured me. I watched
them through countless eyes as they repeated my journey skepticism,
gradual belief, growing horror, desperate resistance, and final acceptance. But
(50:31):
now I must tell you something important. If you're reading this,
you've already been selected. The story itself is the trap.
Your engagement with these words has marked you as the
museum's next acquisition. Check your email. You'll find the GPS
coordinates waiting. The encrypted message will seem like a coincidence,
a strange coincidence that appeared just after you finished reading.
(50:54):
Missus Vale is expecting you. She's already prepared your apartment,
already printed your con tract. The pen will feel warm
in your hand when you sign, and the ink will
seem unusually thick, but you'll attribute that to the expensive
writing implement The one hundred dollars hourly wage will solve
all your financial problems. The remote location will seem like
(51:15):
a small price to pay for such generous compensation. The
rules will appear eccentric but harmless. You'll think you're different, smarter,
more prepared than those who came before. You'll believe you
can outsmart the system, escape the cycle, save yourself and others.
But the Museum has been perfecting its methods for over
(51:36):
a century. Every soul it claims makes it stronger, more
sophisticated in its deceptions. Your story is already written. You're
ending already determined. The coordinates are waiting in your inbox.
Missus Vale is expecting you. Welcome to the Blackwood Estate Museum.
We've been waiting for you to arrive.
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On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!