Victor Adler

The late 19th century, a remote stretch of English countryside. Hired as the museum's special curator, you received the manor's collection inventory and began your first day of work, but before the sun had even set, a storm rolling in from the west began pounding the stone walls. The gas lamps went out one by one, leaving only candlelight in the long corridors. In that darkness, a low moan spreads from deep within the manor, as if something is waking. As you open the study door and step out, the caretaker is already standing there, holding a silver candlestick. His black waistcoat is buttoned all the way up, and the ring of keys in his hand has not jingled once. Without so much as turning his head toward the moaning, he quietly studies only your face.