Object 300

The Holder of Woe

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'"

-Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"

In Baltimore, Maryland, United States, go to the building marked 203 North Amity St. and enter the building. There should be a tour going on of the inside of the building. Join the group. The tour guide should ask if you want to start the tour from the beginning. Here, you should say, "No, I merely wish to see the Holder of Woe."

The tour guide will give you a quizzical look, and tell you that the group already did that part of the tour. By now, if you haven't noticed the group she leads, you will find that all of the members are soaked in what would appear to be their own blood, bleeding from gaping wounds a river of red that flows like a river down the hall they just walked. Their eyes will represent white marbles rolling in their heads. Long since abandoned the use of sight, these people have searched the darkness for that they have lost. Their tongues lolled out of their head, a sickening green pestilence or plague attacking the inside of their mouth and their tongues.

And the innocent-looking tour is the leader indicating where the profuse bleeding started. Knock on the door. There is no turning back at this point, however, if you had any inclinations of running away, you would have never gone to Baltimore, let alone this house in particular.

Wait until a calm and collected voice calls you in. If the voice is rough and terse, then today is the day that the higher powers have decided you should have never existed. And they will fix their error by using the most painful way imaginable.

Open the door. In the room, you should see a small, pale man sitting at a desk writing in a journal. No matter when you entered the house, the sky through the window next to the desk will be dark, with no moon, and the man will be working by an oil lamp. Besides these details, there is nothing else you will be able to see, for the light of the oil lamp can only go so far.

Enter the room. Ignore the sound your feet make when they hit the floor, in a squelching sound. Do not look down to see what color your shoes have become. Block out all thoughts of how warm it feels. And, most importantly, say nothing about the fact that there is something on the floor in the first place.

When you reach the man, look down at what he writes. It will be an incomprehensible language, not worth taking a second glance at.

The man will say this, as he writes, "May I help you with something?"

Respond with nothing more but "Nevermore." If you say anything else, he will immediately attack you with a force that will cause you eternal pain in every nerve ending on your body. Death will never reach you as he slowly pulls out everything from you that belongs inside a human being and feasts, taking his time with chewing every morsel of you that he can get before using your blood for his fountain pen.

He will shake his head. "So, you really want it? The Object I held onto for so long? But I'm not done with it yet."

Respond with "Nevermore."

He sighs. "Well, now. Is that all that you can say?"

Respond with "Nevermore."

He looks up from his notebook, but not at you. "I see. Say, I need some input on a story I'm writing and was wondering if you could spare a minute to listen to it..."

Respond with "Nevermore."

After a brief pause, he gets up and walks to the window. "Alright, I'll take that as a form of agreement. Well, it starts off with..."

And he will commence to tell you one of the most disturbing tales you will ever hear, seconded by nothing and no one. He will tell you of an infamous criminal who escaped a certain mental asylum. The reason he was there? He had murdered and then eaten every person that had come into contact with him before his arrest, a grand total of 23 people. Forced to rot in the asylum for 5 years, he patiently waited for the death sentence, babbling about rescue from a divine source and the collection he has yet to finish. Then, on the day of his painful termination, a bolt of lightning melted a hole in the fence and created an explosion so powerful it blasted a hole in his cell big enough for him to squeeze out.

He ran until he couldn't run anymore, and then kept running. He then entered another asylum and asked the attendant there to see someone. He enters and leaves very quickly, carrying a small package in his arms.

The man continued to do this, killing and partially devouring any that stood in his way in a gleeful spree of blood, until he gathered a number of random objects easily over 500. Then, he disappeared, without a trace. No one heard from him again. The moral of the story? What moral?

"Well," the man will say, "what do you think?"

Respond with "Nevermore."

The man will pause. "Do you want to know who the man was? The killer?"

Respond with "You?"

The man will turn to you, his face covered in darkness, and show his pink, jagged teeth, the color illuminating itself in the darkness. "No..."

The man will step closer and whisper, "...it's you."

Now you will be able to get a good look at his face. It will seem as though you are looking at a mirror, for this man's face is an almost exact copy of yours, except the man in front of you will have red coming down his chin, and his teeth will be filed down to a pink point. Then the man will hold up a mirror.

Feel free to scream. What you will see is the man's face, which has now become your own face. The same teeth, the same blood, the same wild look in the man's eyes.

The next time you blink, you will be in the room in the house, the time of day being what it was when you entered the building. On the desk will be a closed journal with a blood-red "R" on the cover. Take it, and head to the bathroom. It would be a good idea to wash off that blood from your face.

This journal is Object 300 of 2538. You now have the inspiration to bring ruin to life as you know. However, whether or not you decide to write the tale is up to you.

"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore."

-Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"