Post by Little Red Riding Hood on Jan 18, 2010 17:35:42 GMT -5
When Goldilocks ran, what went through her mind? Are the three pigs murderers? Can Pinnochio tell a lie?
These questions often times buzzed through my head, and I decided one day to seek the information on these subjects. That is how I came across Ever After, a mostly closed-down mental asylum in middle Europe, mostly forgotten by time and its people. It looked like it hadn't been touched in decades when I arrived. Many of the windows were boarded up, and no smoke came from the chimney though it was very clearly the middle of winter and the air was quite brisk. After trying the handle, however, I found that the door opened quite smoothly and was not barred from the inside as most closed buildings were.
The inside had been just as run down as the outside, though there were footprints cutting through the layer of dust that had collected on the floor. From looters and hooligans, I had expected. Though upon investigation, I found that some rooms were locked and others open. The open ones were in pristine condition, and in the locked ones I swore I could hear noises.
There was a statue in the main room, one of a solemn looking soldier watching the door, a tarnished brass plate at his feet. I buffed away what I could with my sleeve and could just make out words etched into the metal: Guard Th' Lost Souls.
The layout, and now the message on the plaque, told me this was at one time a sanitarium. I was about to head out, my research gathered, when I noticed another message on the plaque, one that was somehow clearer than the main inscription: Ever After Insane Asylum: 1813-Forever
Now it may have been my subconscious playing a trick on me, but when I went to bed that night I had a very vivid dream. The kind of dream that you never forget, that you cannot forget. In it there was a boy - or was it a girl? - who told me the story of the asylum. She said it was a sanitarium for clinically insane fairy tale characters. "Fairy tales?" I had said in my dream. "But those are nothing more than myth, no such thing truly exists."
"That's what they all think," the spectre had said, "but what I speak of is the truth."
That was last night. I really believe it was only a dream, despite how real it seems. Perhaps I should tell the authorities of that old building, it deserves to be torn to the grou
--Recovered from the diary of Dr. Richard Melborne, a cartographer from Wales
These questions often times buzzed through my head, and I decided one day to seek the information on these subjects. That is how I came across Ever After, a mostly closed-down mental asylum in middle Europe, mostly forgotten by time and its people. It looked like it hadn't been touched in decades when I arrived. Many of the windows were boarded up, and no smoke came from the chimney though it was very clearly the middle of winter and the air was quite brisk. After trying the handle, however, I found that the door opened quite smoothly and was not barred from the inside as most closed buildings were.
The inside had been just as run down as the outside, though there were footprints cutting through the layer of dust that had collected on the floor. From looters and hooligans, I had expected. Though upon investigation, I found that some rooms were locked and others open. The open ones were in pristine condition, and in the locked ones I swore I could hear noises.
There was a statue in the main room, one of a solemn looking soldier watching the door, a tarnished brass plate at his feet. I buffed away what I could with my sleeve and could just make out words etched into the metal: Guard Th' Lost Souls.
The layout, and now the message on the plaque, told me this was at one time a sanitarium. I was about to head out, my research gathered, when I noticed another message on the plaque, one that was somehow clearer than the main inscription: Ever After Insane Asylum: 1813-Forever
Now it may have been my subconscious playing a trick on me, but when I went to bed that night I had a very vivid dream. The kind of dream that you never forget, that you cannot forget. In it there was a boy - or was it a girl? - who told me the story of the asylum. She said it was a sanitarium for clinically insane fairy tale characters. "Fairy tales?" I had said in my dream. "But those are nothing more than myth, no such thing truly exists."
"That's what they all think," the spectre had said, "but what I speak of is the truth."
That was last night. I really believe it was only a dream, despite how real it seems. Perhaps I should tell the authorities of that old building, it deserves to be torn to the grou
--Recovered from the diary of Dr. Richard Melborne, a cartographer from Wales