Through hallowed halls the enlisted edge towards secrets divined by troubled minds.  These walls hold nothing but a promise. Nothing, from a premise. Premise born, promise delivered. But who is the giver? Behind which door lies the puppeteer? What strange machinations grind these ghostly gears? Or is it the mind that steers?

A thousand clues whisper a thousand lies which we fumble for with mask-clad eyes. From the shadows, the audience is surveiled. Spirits walking among us, then suddenly spirited away. The more we search the more we're led astray. In the bowels of this house a darkness stirs - an animalian energy, wild curiosity primal and erotic, a beating heart which beckons us. But this shuttered heart tells no tales. At least none but those that exist in the dawning of our knowledge - the ones we've most suppressed. From arrest comes unrest and in the belly of the beast those stories are released. Louder and louder they beat. Bull bleats. Bloody infant kicks her feet. The red queen stares with serpent's eyes as she goads the possessed between her thighs, while all around her bodies writhe. Our masks portray placidity, but in the end that heart beats within us all. And at the final curtain call, as we shuffle from this immoral coil, amidst the murdered sleep, our thoughts run deep - for this mischief, this darkness, this lurid sweeping dance with blood and lust and death excites us. What does that say about us?

In the end, conscience makes cowards of us all - against our own desires we file out through the manor doors lest that conscience sleep no more.