The Statement of Darryl Wilson
The interview room was narrow, its single window barred and covered with chicken wire. A cold metal table sat in the center. Handcuffed to it was forty‑five‑year‑old Darryl Wilson, admitted to Peace Meadows Mental Asylum after police discovered him wandering the ruins of the Marc‑Grace house outside Tirol. Alongside Wilson, investigators recovered the remains of two other individuals, identities pending.
Across from him sat Dr. Finley Wallace, Chief Medical Officer of Peace Meadows. Beside him, Nurse Chara Osborne prepared to take notes. Wallace looked exhausted, his clothes rumpled, his face unshaven, his pen tapping against the table as he tried to draw Wilson out.
“Mr. Wilson,” Wallace said, voice flat. “Tell me the story you gave the police.”
Wilson kept his head bowed, silent.
“I’m waiting,” Wallace pressed.
Minutes passed before Wilson finally raised his eyes. “What’s the point? You won’t believe me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wallace replied, pen poised.
Wilson exhaled. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.”
“It began last week. At least, I think it did. Time doesn’t mean much anymore. I’m a student at Pickford University, majoring in history and classical art. Ancient places, ancient works. I’ve traveled Dane County, studied ruins, seen things most people wouldn’t believe.
I went to Pernrith, beyond the Pinewood Mountains, where the women mate only to devour their men. I walked Roselake by the Thessason Sea, its marble palaces hiding horrors beneath the waves. I crossed the perfume jungles of Garthroth, found the lost city of Taall, and fled the slime hordes of Griedoru. I climbed the Koppaburg mountains of Hythe, heard the cries in the white mist beyond. All of that was terrible, yes. But none of it prepared me for the Marc‑Grace house.”
Wallace leaned forward. “Stay with the house, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson nodded. “I was invited by my friend Samuel Baxter. He wanted me, my girlfriend Amy, and his girlfriend Kelly to explore the ruins. I hesitated, but Amy convinced me. We arrived to find Sam and Kelly already arguing. Still, we went in together.”
“The place was wrong from the start. A heavy wooden door, cobwebs thick as rope, a spiral staircase rising into shadow. Sam mocked me for hesitating, said I was scared. I told him about Pernrith, Roselake, Taall — places that would break most men. But this house… it felt alive. Watching.
Sam pulled candles from his pack. Kelly lit them. We stepped inside. The staircase split into halls above. Doors lined the walls. Dust lay thick. The webs clung to us as we moved. Sam wanted to go upstairs. I argued for the ground floor. Amy sided with him. Kelly sided with me. Amy suggested we split up. So we did.”
Wallace scribbled notes. “Sam and Amy upstairs. You and Kelly downstairs.”
Wilson’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”
“Kelly and I searched the parlor. Furniture under sheets. A mirror uncovered. But it didn’t reflect us. It showed Sam and Amy climbing the stairs. The mirror was watching them. We fled the room, shaken. Then came the scream. From above. Cut short. Silence after.
Kelly begged to leave. But the front door was gone — replaced by wall and webs. We tried the cellar. The stench was unbearable. In the dark, something moved. Not human. Not animal. A puddle of slime trying to stand. Kelly dropped her candle. Darkness swallowed her. When I relit mine, she was gone. No trace. Only the slime retreating into cracks.”
“I ran. Hallways folded back on themselves. Stairs led nowhere. I called their names. No answer. Only whispers. Finally, I stumbled into the front hall again. The staircase was empty. The mirror shattered. The door stood open. I fled. Behind me, the house collapsed into ruins. By the time I reached the road, it was gone.”
Dr. Wallace tapped his pen. “Mr. Wilson, police found two bodies in those ruins. They weren’t erased. They were there. Burned. Broken. Real.”
Wilson’s eyes widened. “Two? Only two?”
“Yes,” Wallace said. “Two. Your companions.”
Wilson shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. The house doesn’t leave bodies. It takes them. If you found remains, they were husks. Echoes. The house keeps the rest.”
Nurse Osborne shifted uneasily. Wallace pressed. “So you claim Sam and Kelly weren’t truly dead?”
“I claim they weren’t truly gone,” Wilson whispered. “Two bodies, yes. But three souls. And the house still has them.”
Silence filled the room. Wilson lowered his head, voice breaking.
“That’s why I’m here, Doc. Because I walked out. And I shouldn’t have.”
The interview ended with Wilson returned to his cell. His statement remains inconsistent with physical evidence. The Marc‑Grace house collapsed into ruins, leaving only two bodies. Whether Wilson’s account is delusion, trauma, or something far worse remains unresolved.
Across from him sat Dr. Finley Wallace, Chief Medical Officer of Peace Meadows. Beside him, Nurse Chara Osborne prepared to take notes. Wallace looked exhausted, his clothes rumpled, his face unshaven, his pen tapping against the table as he tried to draw Wilson out.
“Mr. Wilson,” Wallace said, voice flat. “Tell me the story you gave the police.”
Wilson kept his head bowed, silent.
“I’m waiting,” Wallace pressed.
Minutes passed before Wilson finally raised his eyes. “What’s the point? You won’t believe me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wallace replied, pen poised.
Wilson exhaled. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.”
“It began last week. At least, I think it did. Time doesn’t mean much anymore. I’m a student at Pickford University, majoring in history and classical art. Ancient places, ancient works. I’ve traveled Dane County, studied ruins, seen things most people wouldn’t believe.
I went to Pernrith, beyond the Pinewood Mountains, where the women mate only to devour their men. I walked Roselake by the Thessason Sea, its marble palaces hiding horrors beneath the waves. I crossed the perfume jungles of Garthroth, found the lost city of Taall, and fled the slime hordes of Griedoru. I climbed the Koppaburg mountains of Hythe, heard the cries in the white mist beyond. All of that was terrible, yes. But none of it prepared me for the Marc‑Grace house.”
Wallace leaned forward. “Stay with the house, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson nodded. “I was invited by my friend Samuel Baxter. He wanted me, my girlfriend Amy, and his girlfriend Kelly to explore the ruins. I hesitated, but Amy convinced me. We arrived to find Sam and Kelly already arguing. Still, we went in together.”
“The place was wrong from the start. A heavy wooden door, cobwebs thick as rope, a spiral staircase rising into shadow. Sam mocked me for hesitating, said I was scared. I told him about Pernrith, Roselake, Taall — places that would break most men. But this house… it felt alive. Watching.
Sam pulled candles from his pack. Kelly lit them. We stepped inside. The staircase split into halls above. Doors lined the walls. Dust lay thick. The webs clung to us as we moved. Sam wanted to go upstairs. I argued for the ground floor. Amy sided with him. Kelly sided with me. Amy suggested we split up. So we did.”
Wallace scribbled notes. “Sam and Amy upstairs. You and Kelly downstairs.”
Wilson’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”
“Kelly and I searched the parlor. Furniture under sheets. A mirror uncovered. But it didn’t reflect us. It showed Sam and Amy climbing the stairs. The mirror was watching them. We fled the room, shaken. Then came the scream. From above. Cut short. Silence after.
Kelly begged to leave. But the front door was gone — replaced by wall and webs. We tried the cellar. The stench was unbearable. In the dark, something moved. Not human. Not animal. A puddle of slime trying to stand. Kelly dropped her candle. Darkness swallowed her. When I relit mine, she was gone. No trace. Only the slime retreating into cracks.”
“I ran. Hallways folded back on themselves. Stairs led nowhere. I called their names. No answer. Only whispers. Finally, I stumbled into the front hall again. The staircase was empty. The mirror shattered. The door stood open. I fled. Behind me, the house collapsed into ruins. By the time I reached the road, it was gone.”
Dr. Wallace tapped his pen. “Mr. Wilson, police found two bodies in those ruins. They weren’t erased. They were there. Burned. Broken. Real.”
Wilson’s eyes widened. “Two? Only two?”
“Yes,” Wallace said. “Two. Your companions.”
Wilson shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. The house doesn’t leave bodies. It takes them. If you found remains, they were husks. Echoes. The house keeps the rest.”
Nurse Osborne shifted uneasily. Wallace pressed. “So you claim Sam and Kelly weren’t truly dead?”
“I claim they weren’t truly gone,” Wilson whispered. “Two bodies, yes. But three souls. And the house still has them.”
Silence filled the room. Wilson lowered his head, voice breaking.
“That’s why I’m here, Doc. Because I walked out. And I shouldn’t have.”
The interview ended with Wilson returned to his cell. His statement remains inconsistent with physical evidence. The Marc‑Grace house collapsed into ruins, leaving only two bodies. Whether Wilson’s account is delusion, trauma, or something far worse remains unresolved.