Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work In A SECRET ARCHIVE. This Is Our Strangest Item | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 30, 2023

I work as an archivist for a historical society in a rather large city in the US.        Story from nearlypeaceful  Make sure to check out more of their work at u/nearlypeaceful       ��            Original Post: Strange Findings from The Archives – "Him of The Woods" : r/nosleep  Original YouTube link: I Work In A SECRET ARCHIVE. This Is Our Strangest Item           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I work as an archivist for a historical society in a rather large city in the U.S., so I get to handle a lot of interesting things and a lot of not-so-interesting things. There are a lot of items that have been donated or bought, but the backlog is extensive and some items have been sitting for decades, untouched, and unexamined. I found this particular document hidden in a false bottom of an early colonial chest. The donor is unknown, and I couldn't. find any documentation on when this was obtained by the society. This isn't unusual, though. Also hidden with the parchment was a broken piece of antler, some herbs and flowers in small

apothecary jars, stick bundles, and small iron squares wrapped tightly in remarkably preserved leather, with strange symbols carved in them. It speaks of old gods, ancient ones. Ever since I opened in the chest. I've had a slight headache. So I'll just post this here and see what you all think. Hym of the Woods. Date illegible. Mama says we are the secret keepers for him of the woods, and no other family in our village has that honor, nor will they ever. I asked her when she initiated me why, why just us? We've only lived here since Papa was just a little boy, and grandfather took his family from Boston to settle in the untamed North Woods. Him is ours, just Mama and mine. I know it is not proper grammar, but Prudence Howard, that busybody, isn't here to chastise me like

she does during our lessons, so I'll write how I please, though I do it poorly. I haven't the mind for it, Papa says, but I digress. Him has lived here since forever. And, uh, us only a little bit, so it has not been our secret for long. Someone must have come before us. But we do not know who, and him, will not say. Mama says it is us now, because she doesn't just hold God's word in her heart, but the words of the old nameless gods, before God, her mother and grandmother, and so forth. They're gods, and now I have the words in my heart too. It was likely the tribe of natives that lived here before the settlers before us drove them out. Sometimes I wish they'd return and take over some of the biddings of him so I don't have to rise so early in the morning.

Well, I think what Mama and I must do is blasphemy against God, just as the preachers say, but Mama knows just about everything and says it isn't so. The preachers are just confused on that matter, since they've never known the old gods. So says Mama, and she's almost always right. Almost. And anyways, I've seen him with my own eyes, and haven't seen Our Lord God yet, even though Papa says God is in all things, including slimy toads and the big fat spiders that weave their webs in the rafters of the barn.

I don't think even God loves spiders, or why do they hide away so, if not to shy away from his watchful eye? They are devils and demons, as why, and that's all I have to say on the matter. I do not think God minds the old gods anyway, or Mama would have been struck down deaf or dumb or both long ago, or her mother, or her mother before that. Or if he does, the old gods are more powerful, and God is afraid, and now I wish I did not put that to paper. I do not know either way.

I'm only 11 years old, and not privy to the mystical wanderings of any of the gods. All I know is our harvest is plentiful. Our goats produce sweet milk most of the time, and my brother and sister are healthy as anything. We have no curses or blasphemy. If we are committing some sin, God is blind to it. Papa doesn't know about Him of the Woods, and I bet he would switch both Mama and I probably within an inch of our lives if he did know. But we are very good, and it doesn't take up much time, and Him doesn't allow for our discovery anyways, or we'd all perish. So, I suppose we are all damned or cursed, and it is not specific to Mama nor me.

Or is it nor I. I digress. We aren't witches, if that's what you're thinking. So get that out of your head. Because it isn't so. At least, I don't think we are. And Mama just laughs when I ask and says that witches probably get a more advantageous deal in the end.

We have signed no book, nor exchanged our souls or left newborns. babies as sacrifices to dance naked with Satan or his messengers. Though we do sometimes dance in the woods, but only to our own voices, and certainly never naked. And him is not there, and he doesn't like us to linger long. After we see him sometimes, the air still lingers with a sort of nervous energy. And so we dance and skip until the feeling disappears, and we are back to our old selves. Still, I will hide this little letter well in my trunk and guard it with my life, for I must tell

someone of my secrets, even if it is just scratched onto parchment, or I fear I will burst. Perhaps I will write more letters to no one if I should have need of it. But for now, I will hide this carefully, for our lives depend on it, and I do know it to be Foolish. Mama says her prayers and grace most beautifully and does believe in God's word with all her heart. Just accept the bit about no other gods before him as God has not punished us yet for wickedness and we have seen what him is capable of. He is not demon nor devil, though he would be mistaken for one quite easily. One time, Mama was too ill to take out him's offering, and I was too young and hadn't been told of our arrangements. She was gone for most

of the day, and worried Papa until he came upon her half crawling from the woods with a broken antler in her back and covered in welts, saying a stag came at her out of nowhere, but was spooked away by the guard dog. Papa was furious, not at Mama, though, for he has a special tenderness for her. The next day, all the men in the village went hunting for a stag with a broken antler and found none. But they did bring back a hearty venison feast and we all ate rather well over the next few weeks. It is a tradition now in March, though I put cotton in my ears so I don't have to hear the stag scream.

Mama says, it's only in my head, but I hear them all the same. However, Mama says I'm not to worry. Him is always kind to me, even when angry, and not always to Mama. I do not know why. Once I dreamed I had married him, and we lived in the forest as wild things, and I told Mama. She looked more afraid than I had ever saw her, and she slapped me so hard I heard bells for the rest of the day.

She came to me later that night when the others were asleep. red-eyed and very sorry. I forgave her because she's my mama, though I never shared my dreams with her again. There is another dream that I dare not put into writing for fear that words will make it true. It happens to me sometimes. While others welcome sleep, I dreaded, but I digress once more. I must go to bed. We will be up early in the morning for our offering to him under the guise of cleaning linens at the stream. There's always so much to do, and the little ones are crying for bedtime stories, and oh dear, here they come now. I knew I started this recollection, for some reason, and it is to tell the story today, not the dribbling of yesterday. It has all gone

wrong, and I am to blame. Mama and I went to the woods as the dawn rolled in to our sleepy village, hauling all our dirty linens as usual in Papa's creaky handcart. We dropped the little ones at Goodwife Carpenter's house with day-old loaves as payment. She likes the little ones well enough anyways, especially my little sister, with her cherubic face and soft curls, but Goodwife Carpenter is a greedy thing and won't lift a finger unless she has some benefit. We brought him three fresh rabbits from the traps and some fresh berries I picked along the way, though Mama told me not to dondle so, for the berries were not worth as much effort as I put in gathering them and scolded me for staining my apron with their sticky juices. She forgot we would be doing linen soon anyways,

but she gets terrible nerves before seeing him, and is more irritable than Grandfather's doggy, who is always crossing and biting at someone hateful thing. Him does not frighten me unless angry, but Mama says that may change one day, and I will always be frightened. I hope not. I hope my own daughter will not be frightened when I teach her some day, too. The offering spot is deep in the woods near an old gnarled oak that grows halfway on an old rock. is a lopsided thing, and looks like a giant snake of a tree, swallowing that rock, all tangled

roots weaving this way and that. Him tells me each root is a story, but I don't know how to hear them yet. I don't think I want to know him stories, though. They are old, and not of our world, and I doubt I would understand them anyhow. We left the unskinned rabbits and berries on the stone slab. It is very old and smooth from use, carved into the base of the rock with ancient tools. Once the offering was in place, Mama took out her penknife, rolled up her sleeves, and made a small cut near her elbow where it would be discreet.

It is a different spot every time, otherwise it would look odd and Papa would be suspicious. He thinks Mama and I are thumbs for all the barbs and nettles we get scratched on, or so he thinks. I did the same as Mama, and the knife didn't hurt, but the cut did sting afterwards. We left our bloody drip together on the offerings, only a few drops are needed to mark it for him. It does seem witchy, now that I put it to paper, but it is more of a marking as a dog marks trees, or the like, as Mama says, and not an oath or binding as one does with the devil. I don't know if it has to be blood that we leave, but the alter

alternatives are far more indecent. It must be blood, I think, but I will reflect on this farther, and ask Mama if she is in good enough spirits one day. After we left the offerings, we stood back a few steps and waited. It doesn't take long for him to appear. The roots of the gnarled oak tree began to tremble. Then near the base of the tree, they untangle, as if unfastened some horrid fleshy corset until the tree unfurls to show the blackish-red mass that resides within. From that ooze of red flesh, him of the woods emerges, antlers first, to assess his offerings. The appearance of him is difficult to describe, but I will endeavor to try. He has the antlers and face of a stag, though his snout is much.

more wolfish than servine, with the torso and arms of a man, though covered in thick, dark fur. Him stands upright, towering over Mama and I easily and taller than any man I've seen, balanced on his hind legs that end in padded paws, not hooves, though he has no tail that I've seen. I never cease to wonder how he fits in the tree, or perhaps the tree is some sort of doorway for him, from his own ancient place. It sounds an awkward creature, but him moves so fluidly, like the gentle brook near our village. Around his hips is an odd bit of leather like the natives,

presumably to cover unmentionables, but its purpose I've not discovered, with a pouch on one side, and a long slender knife secured to the other. I have never seen him use it, and wonder if it serves more of a ceremonial purpose than practical. But Mama says I wonder odd things, and I have no argument with that. When Him appeared, Mama prostrated herself before him on the damp earth, and I flung myself next to her in haste. When Him of the Wood speaks, it is not through his mouth as you and I do, but inside one's head. He says things to Mama that I cannot hear, and he says things to me that she cannot. Sometimes it is to both of us.

Your offering is sufficient. Him told us. We continued to bow on the earthen floor, not daring to look up. We hurt snuffling and knew him is eating our offering. Only when the sounds quiet down did we relax and sit up to look at him properly. Have we given enough for winter? It is difficult to get away once the snow set in. Mama wrung her hands and worry.

It is true. Sometimes the snow is too heavy to leave our log house or the blizzards are too strong. Mama tries to build up our offerings to make the winters easier. Him bowed his head slightly. I hear distant chimes when he is near. I don't know the source. Perhaps he has invisible bells and his antlers, ones I cannot see, but can only hear... Nearly. Twice more in a creature larger than rabbit. Then you will rest in winter.

I will stave off the darkness with what you have brought me. We exhale, then relief, in exchange a satisfied glance. Our exchanges are usually brief, though Mama goes without me sometimes to convene with him. I felt his eyes searching me curiously, and my cheeks felt flush. Him asked how I fare, and I answer healthy and well. Him appeared satisfied with my answer, and moved toward his great oak. But alas, a twig snap nearby, and him disappeared so quickly all of all the same. All I felt is wind flurrying my bonnet.

We strayed frozen in place, not daring to move. I heard a struggle nearby, with crunching leaves and branches, and a muffled cry. I eyed Mama and pray it is not the little ones or father come to look for us. They will die if they do. When him returned, he clutched a struggling child with bulging scared eyes. eyes. Mama exhaled in relief. It was not my mischievous brother nor my sister. But, alas, it was Prudence Howard, the nosy, busy body. Had I condemned her by writing her name yesterday at nightfall? My dreams, my thoughts, what I write. Sometimes I feel I conjure things or

make them happen by giving them name. She is a curious. thing, always wandering off where she shouldn't go, but we were deep in the woods, where she shouldn't be. Where's her mother? Is this yours? Mama shook her head. Prudence met my eye, confused and scared. Her eyes burned with something else, too.

Anger, I think. Recognition, perhaps as well. She once called me a witch when I refused to share a witch. a maple sweet with her several years back, and I slapped her in return. I suppose she thought in those moments that perhaps she was right after all, even if accidentally so. Something drips from her foot, and I worry it is blood, but she had wet herself in fear. Him of the woods tightened his grip on her neck until it snapped with an awful crunch, and she dropped lifeless to the ground.

Her body sounded like a sack of flower hitting the ground, a gentle thud to the soft earth. Her eyes were frozen wide in terror, even in death, and a little blood trickles from her nose. I held back tears, and him speaks to me, to only me. Do not be afraid. She would be your ruin. You would die from the word she tells your others. This I saw in her heart.

I nod. I suppose he can see all. Do we put our blood on her? I asked Mama. She looked up at him with fear in her eyes, and after a moment she shakes her head. He does not consume our kind, she said. I thought it a pity as it would save us another trip later on. but then felt guilty when I see Prudence's scared, dead eyes staring back at me.

She was my age, though a great deal smaller, as she was a sickly child. She is sickly no more, I suppose. Him of the woods reached into his satchel and handed me a bundle of small twigs wrapped in dried squirrel gut. At least I think it was squirrel. I thank him, though I didn't want it, nor understood what it is. A talisman, Mama tells me later, that will bring me extra protection and no ill dreams for a little while. Him watched us a moment longer, and I am unsure if he spoke

to Mama, but she said nothing. He turned and disappeared back into the oak tree, the roots closing after him like a thousand spider's layings. I shuddered. Prudence is still there, Dead, and after a moment I turned my head and reched over and over until my belly ached. Mama tried to soothe me, but I didn't hear her words, nor did I want to. She was just as afraid, I think, and I didn't want her to think I won't be able to take over for her when she is too old or too sick. We took Prudence to the huge climbing rock near where the waterfall starts our village stream. It was still too early for children to be playing there.

They were still sleeping or finishing morning chores, and we kept a careful watch for anyone else, but we see no one. Perhaps my talisman was at work. After we finished our horrible task, we swept into the woods again to begin our farce. It will look like a terrible accident, and Prudence was known for wandering where she shouldn't be, a high ledge in this case, to make the broken neck believable. Mama procured our linens from our hiding spot and placed them into our handcart. We emerged from the woods after checking our other traps back near the village and had a decent haul of a few rabbits, one pheasant, and a half

basket of berries. I skinned and dressed our boon while Mama beat the linen in the frigid water. Her Her eyes were half mad, and her cheeks red as she swung at the linen, and I wondered what she was thinking of. Likely, I do not wish to know. She continued her abuse of our bedsheets when cries of alarm are raised, sobbing and screams in the distance. The body was found, broken and bruised from our terrible deed. Mama continued beating the linen, death the world, until I show up.

I shouted her to stop. We must go help the others, or it will look strange, I told her. She looked at me with hollow eyes. I wonder if my eyes will look the same when I am her age. I wonder if I will look much older than my true age from the weight of our secret in the burden it brings. My daughter will share the same burden, and her daughter, too, that. is the way of him. It is not questioned. They would not call us witches if they knew. Our secret is not just him of the woods, but what Him is protecting us from. That is the true burden, and it weighs heavy with the lives of hundreds, thousands even. Would they stone us and burn us as witches if they knew we were saving them?

The cats keep us safe. Today, I don't have an artifact to share, but something about the archive itself. The cats who live here. The internet loves cats, so here I deliver. There are four of them, and no one knows where they came from. My boss is the head curator, Agatha Trimble. pseudonym, but the spirit is still the same. She is a quirky and endearing woman in her 40s or 50s, with a wild sense of fashion.

For instance, today's theme is peacock, which includes a lot of real peacock feathered jewelry, and a matching pillbox hat. Seriously. Miss Tremble is about as mysterious as the archive. I know very little about her personal life, but I imagine that she lives in an old Victorian house filled with weird books, taxidermy animals, and at least a few ghosts that she probably has regular conversations with. But, anyways, this is all to say.

that even Miss Tremble doesn't know where the cats come from. But her motto is, Don't ask, you probably don't want to know anyways. We hear that a lot. The cats, like I said, we don't know where they came from, but there's always four of them. Some of the older volunteers remember different cats, so I think we can rule out immortality as a trait, but always four of them. Miss Tremble leaves food and water out, but to everyone's horror, there's no litter box to be found, and yet there's never been an issue. No one talks about it, but it's just weird. Where do they go? Don't ask. You don't want to know. First, there's Henry the eighth, called Henry, or eight for short. He's a big fat ginger cat, thus so named after the English

king not for any divorced beheaded or dead wives, but simply because he's tubby and ginger, and the reality that cats generally seem to have. Henry lords over the reading room and is the only cat that the public sees. He loves being pet, being fed, and generally just hangs around his basket, or cozy-looking documents, waiting for treats. He's a sweetie. No one usually has the heart to push him off whatever they're trying to read, but he'll move in due time when he feels like it. Good old Henry, He seems useless, but he's great for morale. He's always been known to chase off any member of the public with sticky fingers, sweating coffee cups, or any other offensive thing that might damage documents. That's the only time you'll see him hustle or in a bad mood.

Don't damage the goods, and Henry's your best friend. Cher Khan is our little champ. She's a sleek tortoise shell that can be found stalking the halls at night. She doesn't keep to one area, like most of the cats do. We have the museum floor and the reading room, which are both accessible to the public, some small offices and staff areas, and then several levels of archives, accessible only to staff or volunteers, with the proper clearance, depending on the archive. She's the only one that's ever seen interacting with the other cats, and even then, it's

fairly cordial, almost businesslike. Share is the little hunter. If you find a dead mouse or the dreaded moss lying in a doorway, it was her. She keeps the riffraff down. We rarely, if ever, have pest troubles. It's an old building, so she's a busy girl. She doesn't like to be touched for the most part, but she's been known to curl around your ankles for a rare pet. When I'm alone in the building, I know she's near, even if I can't see her. It's kind of nice. She has spotted some of our more unusual activity often before we do, our canary when needed. There's the white one. No one can remember its name, but we all have a different name for it. No one remembers what color its eyes are, or

whether it's a boy or girl, or even how big it is, or where it usually haunts, or where it guards, or, or, or, or. Lastly, there's Bast. Not everyone gets to see her, but since I have a high-level clearance into the lower levels, I've seen this shadow cat. Bast is the one that frightens me. She is big, larger than a normal house cat, but not as large as the panther she resembles a little too much. It's the ears. In the amber eyes, you can see them. Even in the blackest dark. I'll be in the blue room, which houses the more rare or delicate unlisted objects, locating some secret thing for some high a person, and Bast will be there.

Two glittering green eyes in the dark watching me from the sturdy upper shelves. There's artifacts and files up there that no one can access. Not that anyone wants to with Bast up there. The other odd thing is, the blue rum is always locked. She lives in there, behind a locked door. No food, no water that I can see anyway. She guards the red room, too. No one goes into the red rum.

I don't even know why it's called the red room, except the door is red. The blue room has beautiful blue wallpaper, the old kind you can't find in any hardware store. with a blue door, so I guess we all assume the red room is red inside. I don't think Miss Trembal goes in the red room, and she's the head of the archive. She's rarely ever afraid of anything, and we've had plenty to be afraid of. Stories. For another time. And she's afraid of the red room.

There's chains on the door to the red room, multiple heavy-duty chains, new ones, old ones, Ancient ones. Locks too. There's sounds that come from the red room, quiet sounds, whispers, muffled sounds, gentle tapping, moans, groans, wails. It's worse when there's nothing. Silence. There's a peephole in the red room, not looking into the room, looking out.

If you get too close, bast growls. Low, that low rumble of danger. Makes your belly churn. I've never gotten farther than too close. I heed her warning. Miss Tremble sings the highest praises to the guardian cats. They keep us safe. I don't ask.

Because I don't want to know the answer. God save us. or the devil. The following are letters that were donated by a couple who found these in the attic of an old house they'd inherited. The curator's notes simply indicate the couple wished to burn them at first, but instead brought them to the archives in case they held some sort of historical value. We've not been able to locate any information about the contents of the letters, except to confirm an unusual amount of disappearances in the town mentioned in the letter, redacted, for safety purposes.

March 7, 1872. Dearest Mary, Fie and Fiddle, it is a somber day for a somber occasion. We laid grandfather's weary bones to rest yesterday, and today we are all in foul moons. We are all in the big old house together now, dear Mama and Papa,

George, the dreaded Harrison, Molly and Oliver the twins, who were just six as of last week. They say they miss you the most, and I allow it, but really it is me who misses you most. June. Lovely June has been set away to Auntie Harriet's, for she is too wild of a young lady, and Auntie Harriet will tame her with that wretched etiquette school. Do you remember balancing books? Yours were always perfect. I had to pin my hair so that the thing stayed on my head. Though the house is big, it's too full of things and people and noises. I thought grandfather came to Missouri with just the clothes on his back. Though

he prospered in trade and languished in love, he has accumulated more than a lifetime of things. There are two rooms just stuff full of clothes and shoes. It is no wonder that we were only allowed in the parlor and dining room. Mama is going through. them to see what can be donated. There are so many poor after the war, and good shoes are hard to come by. Papa says, there are more rooms that we cannot even see for excess of things. Can you imagine? I hope you are living fat and well as a married young woman, dear sister. I miss when we would lay under the covers at night and whisper the names of our future loves into seashells, in hopes that someday the sea would bring us the sea.

them. I am glad that yours came true. I fear I am too old now. Though 23 is not so old, says George. Harrison says I might as well jump off Pickety Bridge, and I hold my tongue that it is far more tempting to push him off it. His moods grow fowler, and he stinks of drink. It is lucky he isn't the eldest son, or Papa would have him locked away in shame.

Now that we have the means, he may do just that. The other day, he pinched me so hard under my arm for being a sass that it drew blood. I ran and cried to Papa, and it started a thunderstorm of shouting. Anyways, you don't want to hear all of that in your happy newlywed home. I hope California treats you well, and it should if the stories of gold-paved roads are true. Forever your sister, and always your friend. Paulette April 28, 1872.

Darling, Mary, how well you sound in your last letter. I've laughed so hard I cried when you told of the fiasco at the hotel. I can't imagine whose bloomers those must have been in that poor donkey. Imagine. I have news of this house. We have cleared so many things and still there is more. Trinkets. Of all kinds.

Jewelry. None of it particularly fine. watches with inscriptions and pipes strewn about. Mama wondered if perhaps soldiers lived here for a spell perhaps after the war, but none of us can remember any mention of it. The neighbors are miles away and only saw Grandpapa here, occasionally with drifters passing through doing labor for chores. Perhaps these are their payment in exchange for food and bored. Next to the barn is a slaughtering shed hidden behind piles of lumber. Foul, foul, thong. There are no cows or pigs anymore, but Papa has a mind to purchase some and build us a nice flock.

Papa, who can barely remember to feed himself, let alone animals. It will be Mama's work, as always, from Papa's ideas. We are having a poor time finding help. Mama has sent inquiries all over town, and no locals are up to the task. She has has given up and put in an advert in the redacted paper and Auntie Harriet is sending over a girl or two that she deems suitable. The rest of the family is fine, except for Harrison, of course. He refuses to sleep in the house, saying it has bad bones. It does not. The timber is the finest that can be found. He said he has half a mind to live elsewhere, so do not answer any of his letters or you'll soon find his own foul spirit haunting your halls. I'm certain he is the one who spat in all the bonnets,

foul thing. Oh, Mary, halfway through writing this letter a terrible scream shook the house. We all went running. My hand is trembling still. And after yelling and yelling to find the source, we located Mama dragging the twins out of a little half door in one of the bedrooms she's been clearing out. They were covered, head to toe, and soot and and dust, and little Ollie was holding a skull in his hand. A human skull painted a deep red. Oh, it is a horrible looking thing, but curious as well. The skull has golden teeth and sockets painted white. The lower jaw is sewn onto the upper one, with twine laced through its teeth. The top is removed, so that it appears to be some sort of bowl or chival, or chile,

chalice, though all that was in there, says Ali, was a dead mouse. Harrison took it from Mama while she went to go clean the children up and began chasing me with the horrible thing until dear Papa intervened. Hateful, young man. I asked Papa to hide it away. I can't stand looking at it. I feel like it is looking back. What wretched findings? Why on earth would grandfather have such a thing? your horrified sister, Paulette. May 7th, 1872, Sister Mary, all are ill, the twins first, than the rest of us. If we aren't running to the privy, we are sequestered in our rooms, clutching buckets and chamber pots. Mama thinks it is in the water, and it all must be boiled, a hard task, carrying water to the house.

Harrison refuses to come into the house and care for us, the foul beast. He leaves us water buckets on the porch, though, a small comfort. I do not think it is the water. It must be the food. Something has turned. We have scoured the pantry, in between dashing to buckets. No one can eat a morsel without becoming ill. It is a misery to pick up this pen, but write you I must.

I will beg Harrison to mail my letter and send for a doctor if we are not well by tomorrow. I hope you are well. Much love. So much love. Paulette May 9th, 1872. Mary. The doctor will not come.

He told Harrison. He fears it to be cholera and sent some remedies to administer which he left on the porch. I watched him go to the fields with a shovel and spade and begin tilling the fields. Does he dig our graves? He may never send these letters, if so. Paulette. P.S. I write this hours later.

The twins are dead. Perhaps Harrison is wiser than I give him credit for. I love you. May 21, 1872. Mary, I am well enough to write again. We are saved, and we are in hell. It was the sight of Little Ollie that set Papa's mind in motion. The skull, he kept saying, it's the skull. He placed it above the mantle and put a candle in the horrible thing, then lit a fire in the fireplace beneath it. He spoke to the fire, but I heard no replies. It should have frightened me,

but I don't feel fear anymore, just an empty sort of numbness. George was running half-naked through the hallways like an animal, snarling and scratching at the walls. Mama has been crying and pulling out her hair in the room with a little half-door, wailing for her babies, then trying to eat the big clumps of hair. I tried to stop her at first, but it is no matter. We are all mad now, I suppose. I burned all the food in the pantry. It's useless to us now. The meat tasted too good. We all cried when we ate. The twins. The twins, they have saved us, free from whatever hell lies ahead. We understand the closed now, the trinkets. Harrison figured it out too, when he dug up the graveyard out back.

Hundreds of bones. So many. The deep knife gouges on the bones. I wonder if grandfather took them to the slaughtering shed or did it in the kitchen. Why does flesh taste so sweet and good? It is my sucker now. God save us. Or the dead. devil. It makes no difference to me now. We need more. If we do not feed, then we will turn on one another. Papa and George are going at it now, trying to decide what happens next. George wants to die. Papa says he will help. Mama has locked herself away on the third floor, and we cannot find the key. Grandfather, lived alone. It was the only way. Do not visit.

I will not write again. I hope the help come soon. We will need them. The Cheer Up Johnny's. Work has been crazy, but here's a little ditty for you. The Cheer Up Johnny's. In the blue room of the archives, staff only, there is a collection of musical trinkets, one of which is labeled as the Cheer Up Johnny's.

It's a ceramic piece that appears to be modeled after a moderate, popular Barbershop Quartet, named as the label States, in the early 1900s. There are five dapper dandies in the classic barbershop outfit, striped vest, slacks, and formal straw hats, all standing on a bandstand. It sounds pretty tame, but the singers have wild two big eyes and wild two big smiles on some of them. It's forbidden to touch it without gloves. Personally, I hate looking at the thing. We have many of those, and I swear they switch places sometimes. Their mouths are supposed to be singing or smiling, but they have too many teeth, or their

mouths are just black void pits. I've compiled some of the curator notes below. Artifact P-145, Curator Harrison, June 1947, description omitted. Artifact brought in by Redacted due to interagency agreement, added to musical item lists that must remain locked. Gloves are mandatory when handling artifact. Redacted is not original owner of Peace, but reported locating a few identical boxes from commemorative annual Barbershop Quartet event that Peace was created for. Other boxes do not have similar disturbing facial expressions, and appear in a purestabre.

appear normal, x-rays, and extensive notes by analyst from redacted provided. It appears that facial expressions are part of ceramic and not from any sort of later alternatives. Note. These notes appear lost, but the x-ray is still in the files for P-145. When key is turned, the musical tune that plays is similar to Buffalo Gals with an altered bridge, Unlike most other music boxes or toys, music starts slow, then speeds up until music is indiscernible, then stops abruptly. Redacted, cautioned against listening to Music Box and recommended welding key so it cannot be turned. Great caution is advised. Object will be kept under lock and key with strict orders not to disturb or handle except by curator permission.

Curator Harrison, August 1948. P-145 has caused some disturbance, so adding some notes to document the events. First observation is P-145 attracts those in low spirits or moods. When someone is feeling a bit blue, they hang around the blue room, unironically, and can get quite unruly when forced away. Redacted had to be taken out by force, only day. days after returning from the birth of her child. When dusting the objects in P-145's cabinet over the weekend, staff member bumped P-145 into P-16, which caused a hairline fracture in the fifth quadrant of P-145.

Staff member reported feeling extreme melancholy and an urge to listen to P-145, and did so, despite strict orders not to turn the key. Staff member was still found standing at the cabinet Monday morning, still listening to the music box and laughing hysterically. After forced removal of P-145 from their hands, staff member collapsed in exhaustion and was rushed to a local hospital. Staff member had clearly soiled themselves standing at the cabinet over the entire weekend. Blue Rum is to be thoroughly cleaned and sanitized. Cabinet was only half-dusted, but I will finish it myself. Hairline fracture will be examined, and if possible, fixed. P-16 was undamaged by the event, as expected, and looked very proud of itself. Moving P-16 to separate case, since it always bloody has it out for other artifacts.

Evening Hairline fracture fixed by Restorationalist on staff under my close supervision. Both of us reported feeling extremely giddy during procedure, almost to the point of being unable to complete fix because of an overwhelming desire to sing and dance around the room. Curator Harrison, December 1948. Restorationalist over P-145 Hairline Fracture reports still feeling residual giddiness from time to time. I myself have occasionally locked my office door to dance about and must contain urge to sing from time to time, although it's less frequent now,

may need to start putting items on danger scale. Redacted mentioned another agency does this, but might raise too many eyebrows here. Curator Harrison, February 1950. Some depressive numbscull Now fired, took P-145 from Case into public reading room and played it over and over. Only four members of public and two staff, excluding Numskull, were in reading room at the time, but by the time I came back from lunch, they were all in there, laughing hysterically and dancing around the tables like a bunch of buffoons. Only redacted was spared, because I suspect he is mostly deaf. Although he did have a ludicrous grin the whole time I was questioning him.

I wonder if whatever resides in this artifact is related to that dancing event in 1518. In Alsace, some village or other had an outbreak where residents could not stop dancing. Now diagnosed as mass hysteria, I can't help but think there was some bobble like this involved to ignite the fire. Scheduling welding of key tonight. I've prolonged it this far to try and preserve artifact, but proves too dangerous. Had to call redacted to come by and take care of members of public so they would only recall a very boring, uneventful trip to the museum.

Still, they all will feel quite overjoyed for the next few months at least. Might be good for donations, at least. Curator Olmsted, May 1968. Night crew in for cleaning reports that the figures have changed around, the short fat one moving around. Confirm this to be true after observation. One night crew forgot glove protocol and touched bare ceramic. Slowly after.

They could not stop laughing. I was phoned to come assist as the rest of the crew was spooked. The poor fool was still hysterically laughing when we heard ribs snapping. I had to keep them all in the back staff room until redacted came to give proper medical attention and memory assistance. Faxed, redacted, later, to see if P-145's placement here is appropriate. Lacky on phone said, and I quote, we don't want that creepy shit here. Most of what they do is creepy.

Idiots. This thing gives me the creeps. I recommend farther curators cover it with a cloth or something, but for some reason, I'm too afraid to do it. The Sailor's Talisman There is an artifact in one of the lower levels of the archive rooms. Just for full disclosure, there are many artifact rooms, but all the main ones were built in a sort of basement over a hundred years ago or so and wallpapered in different colors. Each room has a different clearance for staff and volunteers. Volunteers may only go into the green room.

Green for go. Green meaning easy. Green means safe. Artifacts from the green room may be examined, but not taken by members of the public. Upon request, of course, and they must know what they are looking for in order to ask to examine it. The Sailor's Talisman is in the Purple Room, accessible only to staff and certain high-up people, influential types like authors or Big Bucks donors.

The Talisman is a funny little thing, a sort of mermaid-looking thing carved from wood, perhaps old driftwood. It's a woman with a fish tail, but it's forked off into four fins at the end, not too like your typical mermaid. Her eyes are perfect circles, and her mouth is open slightly with long strands of seaweed slithering down her body. The seaweed covers her breast, but in between them in the sternum area is a symbol, sort of a cross between an onk and a sulfur cross, a rounded top cross, like an

onk sitting on top of a triangle. It's very light to carry, but she is always damp. Not damp, now that I think about it, but water actually seems to leak from the talisman itself. She is kept in a specially built box in a shallow pool of water. She used to be kept next to a dehumidifier until the power went out once. The purple room had about an inch of water in it before someone discovered it. Someone, me, had to sit outside in the garden with her until the electrician came to fix the power. The roses looked fantastic that year, though.

We discovered, purely by accident, that if she is kept in a small pool of water, the talisman will not seep water. An equilibrium of sorts is met. She has an entry log from the previous curator, and I'll end this little story here with the log. I've skipped over the beginning part that also described her, out of vanity for my own far superior description. My additions are in parentheses. Artifact P174, Curator Olmsted, April 1967. Artifact donated by Boston Area Historical Society, who wishes to remain anonymous,

states that they are unable to house the object anymore due to damage of property, rotting wood, in flooding. They claimed caused by object, called the sailors talisman. Donor describes P-174 was thought of as lost for decades, but later found washed up on coast near Maine, exchanged many hands, until donor eventually received it. Origins unknown, but earliest mentions can be found in Things of the Deep by Randall Carter, a collection of legends and myths surrounding ships and sea fair. note, I've not been able to locate copies of this book yet, not for lack of trying. According to legend, there were numerous of these talamans around on the eastern coast of the United States, traced back as far as the early colonial days, possibly further.

Ship captains, according to legend, commissioned their creation by a handful of artisans who had been blessed by some sort of priest. The text is unclear, naming them sea priests. Although I have not been able to corroborate what these priests were, there is no mention of them in historical writings from the coastal towns at the time, and it is unknown from exactly what areas these come from. It is created from driftwood, so the origin is difficult to ascertain. It is fascinating that this is the one surviving talisman. No others have been confirmed. Around the 1920s, the talismans were no longer viewed. viewed as protective, but as destructive, since the ships that had them on board met with horrific,

sometimes freak accidents, or more often, simply disappeared. I suspect most of the remaining talismans, if they are still even in existence, are at the bottom of various bays along the coast. Some ships confirmed, according to Randall Carter, to have the talisman. NANZ Goodbye, estimated 1785, missing, presumed lost at sea. The Laughing Dutchman, estimated 1801, accident, ran into cliffs during a storm. The virtuous maid, estimated 1811, missing, presumed lost at sea. St. George's Fire, estimated 1692, missing, confirmed sighting of wreckage by the But when Royal Navy dispatched to investigate, wreckage was not found.

Fighting sea dog. Date unknown. Accident. Fire while docked in Caribbean. All crew on board presumed dead. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The symbol is odd, though. I've been unable to locate an origin. Perhaps the artisan symbol, or a gild long lost to time. Sometimes a sound seems to emit from P-174 when submerged in water. A haunting sound, almost like a strange song. More like a whale, but faintly melodic. Seemed to put my assistant in a trance,

and he began to leave the room with the talisman before Esther. His wife, an assistant curator at the time, threw a book at his head. I do not recall these events, though Esther says I was present. Recommend item for the purple room due to issue with flooding and legend of cursed nature, as well as potential hypnotic side effect. When handling, minimum of two staff needed, one female preferably. Do not allow near-watercraft of any kind as a precaution, of course.

Entry ends here. I haven't heard the singing. mentioned in the entry, although the male staff have mentioned being unnerved by it when they come into the purple room. As a precaution, only female staff are allowed in the purple room alone. Oddly, this isn't the only object we have that seem to affect the sexes differently. The orange room has the opposite effect. No unaccompanied female staff. Another story. For another time, Her eyes are haunting, though. They're round, so round.

Perfect circles, like a fish's eye. And what is that symbol? I don't think it's the mark of a guild or an artisan signature. I feel I've seen it before. Here within the archive, in some documentation somewhere, something that talks more about these mysterious sea priests. I don't think they were priests of the Christian faith, but something much older. Her eyes.

They're so round, though. Perfect circles. Perfect.