 I work as an archivist for a historical society in a rather large city in the US, so I get to handle a lot of interesting things, and a lot of not so interesting things. There are a lot of items that have been donated or bought, but the backlog is extensive and some items have been sitting for decades, untouched and unexamined. I found this particular document hidden in a false bottom of an early colonial chest. The donator is unknown, and I couldn't find any documentation on when this was obtained by the society. This isn't unusual, though. Also hidden with a parchment was a broken piece of antler, some herbs and flowers in small apothecary jars, stick bundles and small iron squares wrapped tightly in remarkably preserved leather with strange symbols carved in them. It speaks of old gods, ancient ones. Ever since I opened the chest, I've had a slight headache, so I'll just post this here, and see what you all think. Hymn of the woods, date, eligible. Mama says we are the secret keepers for Hymn of the woods, and no other family in our village has that honor nor will they ever. I asked her when she initiated me why. Why just us? We've only lived here since Papa was just a little boy, and grandfather took his family from Boston to settle in the untamed Northwoods. Hymn is ours, just Mama and mine. I know it is not proper grammar, but Prudence Howard, that busybody, isn't here to chastise me like she does during our lessons, so I'll write how I please, though I do it poorly. I haven't the mind for it, Papa says, but I digress. Hymn has lived here since forever, and us only a little bit, so it has not been our secret for long. Someone must have come before us, but we do not know who, and Hymn will not say. Mama says it is us now, because she doesn't just hold God's word in her heart, but the words of the old nameless gods, before God, her mother and grandmother, and so forth, their gods, and now I have the words in my heart, too. It was likely the tribe of natives that lived here before the settlers before us drove them out. Sometimes I wish they'd return and take over some of the biddings of him so I don't have to rise so early in the morning. Well, I think what Mama and I must do is blaspheme against God, just as the preachers say, but Mama knows just about everything, and says it isn't so. The preachers are just confused on that matter, since they've never known the old gods. So says Mama, and she's almost always right, almost. And anyways, I've seen him with my own eyes, and haven't seen our Lord God yet, even though Papa says God is in all things, including slimy toads and the big fat spiders that weave their webs in the rafters of the barn. I don't think even God loves spiders, or why do they hide away so if not to shy away from his watchful eye? They are devils and demons is why, and that's all I have to say on the matter. I do not think God minds the old gods anyway, or Mama would have been struck down deaf or dumb or both long ago, or her mother, or her mother before that. Or if he does, the old gods are more powerful, and God is afraid, and now I wish I did not put that to paper. I do not know either way, I'm only eleven years old and not privy to the mystical wanderings of any of the gods. All I know is our harvest is plentiful. Our goats produce sweet milk most of the time, and my brother and sister are healthy as anything. We have no curses or blasphemy. If we are committing some sin, God is blind to it. Papa doesn't know about him of the woods, and I bet he would switch both Mama and I probably within an inch of our lives if he did know. But we are very good, and it doesn't take up much time, and him doesn't allow for our discovery anyways, or we'd all perish. So I suppose we are all damned or cursed, and it is not specific to Mama nor me, or is it nor I? I digress. We aren't witches, if that's what you're thinking, so get that out of your head, because it isn't so. At least I don't think we are, and Mama just laughs when I ask and says that witches probably get a more advantageous deal in the end. We have signed no book nor exchanged our souls or left newborn babies as sacrifices to dance naked with Satan or his messengers. Though we do sometimes dance in the woods, but only to our own voices, and certainly never naked. And him is not there, and he doesn't like us to linger long. After we see him sometimes, the air still lingers with a sort of nervous energy, and so we dance and skip until the feeling disappears and we are back to our old selves. Still, I will hide this little letter well in my trunk and guard it with my life, for I must tell someone of my secrets, even if it is just scratched on a parchment, or I fear I will burst. Perhaps I will write more letters to no one if I should have need of it. But for now, I will hide this carefully, for our lives depend on it, and I do know it to be foolish. Mama says her prayers in grace most beautifully and does believe in God's word with all her heart, just accept the bit about no other gods before him as God has not punished us yet for wickedness, and we have seen what him is capable of. He is not demon nor devil, though he would be mistaken for one quite easily. One time, Mama was too ill to take out him's offering, and I was too young and hadn't been told of our arrangements. She was gone for most of the day, and worried Papa until he came upon her half-crawling from the woods with a broken antler in her back and covered in welts, saying a stag came at her out of nowhere but was spooked away by the guard dog. Papa was furious, not at Mama though, for he has a special tenderness for her. The next day, all the men in the village went hunting for a stag with a broken antler and found none, but they did bring back a hearty venison feast and we all ate rather well over the next few weeks. It is a tradition now in March, though I put cotton in my ears so I don't have to hear the stag scream. Mama says, it's only in my head, but I hear them all the same. However, Mama says I'm not to worry. Him is always kind to me, even when angry, and not always to Mama. I do not know why. Once I dreamed I had married him, and we lived in the forest as wild things, and I told Mama. She looked more afraid than I had ever saw her, and she slapped me so hard I heard bells for the rest of the day. She came to me later that night when the others were asleep, red-eyed, and very sorry. I forgave her, because she's my Mama, though I never shared my dreams with her again. There is another dream that I dare not put into writing, for fear that words will make it true. It happens to me sometimes, while others welcome sleep. I dread it, but I digress once more. I must go to bed, we will be up early in the morning for our offering to him under the guise of cleaning linens at the stream. There's always so much to do, and the little ones are crying for bedtime stories and, oh dear, here they come now. I knew I started this recollection for some reason, and it is to tell the story today, not the dribbling of yesterday. It has all gone wrong, and I am to blame. Mama and I went to the woods as the dawn rolled in to our sleepy village, hauling all our dirty linens as usual in Papa's creaky handcart. We dropped the little ones at Goodwife Carpenter's house with day old loaves' payment. She likes the little ones well enough anyway, especially my little sister, with her cherubic face and soft curls, but Goodwife Carpenter is a greedy thing and won't lift a finger unless she has some benefit. We brought him three fresh rabbits from the traps and some fresh berries I picked along the way, though Mama told me not to dawdle so, for the berries were not worth as much effort as I put in gathering them and scolded me for staining my apron with their sticky juices. She forgot we would be doing linen soon anyways, but she gets terrible nerves before seeing him and is more irritable than grandfather's donkey, who is always crossing and biting at someone, hateful thing. Him does not frighten me unless angry, but Mama says that may change one day, and I will always be frightened. I hope not. I hope my own daughter will not be frightened when I teach her someday too. The offering spot is deep in the woods near an old gnarled oak that grows halfway on an old rock. It is a lopsided thing, and looks like a giant snake of a tree swallowing that rock, all tangled roots weaving this way and that. Him tells me each root is a story, but I don't know how to hear them yet. I don't think I want to know him stories though. They are old and not of our world, and I doubt I would understand them anyhow. We left the unskin rabbits and berries on the stone slab. It is very old and smooth from use, carved into the base of the rock with ancient tools. Once the offering was in place, Mama took out her pen knife, rolled up her sleeves, and made a small cut near her elbow where it would be discreet. It is a different spot every time, otherwise it would look odd and Papa would be suspicious. He thinks Mama and I are thumbs for all the barbs and nettles we get scratched on, or so he thinks. I did the same as Mama, and the knife didn't hurt, but the cut did sting afterwards. We left our bloody drip together on the offerings, only a few drops are needed to mark it for him. It does seem witchy now that I put it to paper, but it is more of a marking as a dog marks trees, or the like as Mama says, and not an oath or binding as one does with a devil. I don't know if it has to be blood that we leave, but the alternatives are far more indecent. It must be blood, I think, but I will reflect on this farther, and ask Mama if she is in good enough spirits one day. After we left the offerings, we stood back a few steps and waited. It doesn't take long for him to appear. The roots of the gnarled oak tree began to tremble. Then near the base of the tree, they untangle as if unfastening some horrid fleshy corset until the tree unfurls to show the blackish red mass that resides within. From that ooze of red flesh, him of the woods emerges, antlers first, to assess his offerings. The appearance of him is difficult to describe, but I will endeavor to try. He has the antlers and face of a stag, though his snout is more wolfish than sirvine, with the torso and arms of a man, though covered in thick dark fur. Him stands upright, towering over Mama and I easily and taller than any man I've seen, balanced on his hind legs that end in padded paws, not hooves, though he has no tail that I've seen. I never cease to wonder how he fits in the tree, or perhaps the tree is some sort of doorway for him, from his own ancient place. It sounds an awkward creature, but him moves so fluidly like the gentle brook near our village. Around his hips is an odd bit of leather like the natives, presumably to cover unmentionables but its purpose I've not discovered, with a pouch on one side and a long slender knife secured to the other. I have never seen him use it, and wonder if it serves more of a ceremonial purpose than practical. But Mama says I wonder odd things, and I have no argument with that. When him appeared, Mama prostrated herself before him on the damp earth and I flung myself next to her in haste. When him of the wood speaks, it is not through his mouth as you and I do, but inside one's head. He says things to Mama that I cannot hear, and he says things to me that she cannot. Sometimes it is to both of us. Your offering is sufficient. Him told us, we continue to bow on the earthen floor, not daring to look up. We hurt snuffling, and knew him is eating our offering. Only when the sounds quiet down, did we relax and sit up to look at him properly. Have we given enough for winter? It is difficult to get away once the snow set in. Mama rung her hands in worry. It is true, sometimes the snow is too heavy to leave our log house, or the blizzards are too strong. Mama tries to build up our offerings to make the winters easier. Him bowed his head slightly. I hear distant chimes when he is near, though I don't know the source. Perhaps he has invisible bells in his antlers, ones I cannot see, but can only hear. Nearly twice more in a creature larger than rabbit, then you will rest in winter. I will stave off the darkness with what you have brought me. We exhaled in relief and exchanged a satisfied glance. Our exchanges are usually brief, though Mama goes without me sometimes to convene with him. I felt his eyes searching me curiously, and my cheeks felt flush. Him asked how I fare, and I answer healthy and well. Him appeared satisfied with my answer, and moved toward his great oak. But alas, a twig snapped nearby, and him disappeared so quickly, all I felt is wind flurrying my bonnet. We strayed frozen in place, not daring to move. I heard a struggle nearby, with crunching leaves and branches, and a muffled cry. I eyed Mama, and prayed it is not the little ones or father come to look for us. They will die if they do. When him returned, he clutched a struggling child with bulging scared eyes. Mama exhaled in relief. It was not my mischievous brother nor my sister. But alas, it was Prudence Howard, the nosy busybody. But I condemned her by writing her name yesterday at nightfall. My dreams, my thoughts, what I write. Sometimes I feel I conjure things or make them happen, by giving them name. She is a curious thing, always wandering off where she shouldn't go, but we were deep in the woods where she shouldn't be. Where's her mother? Is this yours? Mama shook her head. Prudence met my eye, confused and scared. Her eyes burned with something else, too, anger, I think, recognition, perhaps as well. She once called me a witch when I refused to share a maple suite with her several years back and I slapped her in return. I suppose she thought in those moments that perhaps she was right after all, even if accidentally so. Something drips from her foot and I worry it is blood, but she had wet herself in fear. Him of the woods tightened his grip on her neck until it snapped with an awful crunch and she dropped lifeless to the ground. Her body sounded like a sack of flour hitting the ground, a gentle thud to the soft earth. Her eyes were frozen wide in terror, even in death and a little blood trickles from her nose. I held back tears and him speaks to me, to only me. Do not be afraid. She would be your ruin. You would die from the words she tells your others. This I saw in her heart. I nod. I suppose he can see all. Do we put our blood on her? I asked Mama. She looked up at him with fear in her eyes and after a moment she shakes her head. He does not consume our kind, she said. I thought it a pity as it would save us another trip later on, but then felt guilty when I see prudence's scared dead eyes staring back at me. She was my age, though a great deal smaller as she was a sickly child. She is sickly no more, I suppose. Him of the woods reached into his satchel and handed me a bundle of small twigs wrapped in dried squirrel gut, at least I think it was squirrel. I thank him, though I didn't want it, nor understood what it is. A talisman, Mama tells me later, that will bring me extra protection and no ill dreams for a little while. Him watched us a moment longer and I am unsure if he spoke to Mama, but she said nothing. He turned and disappeared back into the oak tree, the roots closing after him like a thousand spider's legs. I shuddered, prudence is still there, dead and after a moment I turned my head and retched over and over until my belly ached. Mama tried to soothe me, but I didn't hear her words nor did I want to. She was just as afraid, I think, and I didn't want her to think I won't be able to take over for her when she is too old or too sick. We took prudence to the huge climbing rock near where the waterfall starts our village stream. It was still too early for children to be playing there, they were still sleeping or finishing morning chores, and we kept a careful watch for anyone else, but we see no one. Perhaps my talisman was at work. After we finished our horrible task, we swept into the woods again to begin our farce. It would look like a terrible accident and prudence was known for wandering where she shouldn't be, a high ledge in this case, to make the broken neck believable. Mama procured our linens from our hiding spot and placed them into our hand cart. We emerged from the woods after checking our other traps back near the village and had a decent haul of a few rabbits, one pheasant, and a half basket of berries. I skinned and dressed our boon while Mama beat the linen in the frigid water. Her eyes were half mad and her cheeks red as she swung at the linen and I wondered what she was thinking of. Likely, I do not wish to know. She continued her abuse of our bedsheets when cries of alarm are raised, sobbing and screams in the distance. The body was found, broken and bruised from our terrible deed. Mama continued beating the linen, deaf the world, until I shouted her to stop. We must go help the others or it will look strange, I told her. She looked at me with hollow eyes. I wonder if my eyes will look the same when I am her age. I wonder if I will look much older than my true age from the weight of our secret in the burden it brings. My daughter will share the same burden and her daughter too. That is the way of him. It is not questioned. They would not call us witches if they knew our secret is not just him of the woods but what him is protecting us from. Is the true burden and it weighs heavy with the lives of hundreds, thousands even. Would they stone us and burn us as witches if they knew we were saving them? The cats keep us safe. Today, I don't have an artifact to share but something about the archive itself. The cats who live here, the internet loves cats so here I deliver. There are four of them and no one knows where they came from. My boss is the head curator, Agatha Trimble, pseudonym but the spirit is still the same. She is a quirky and endearing woman in her forties or fifties with a wild sense of fashion. For instance, today's theme is peacock which includes a lot of real peacock feathered jewelry and a matching pillbox hat. Seriously, Miss Trimble is about as mysterious as the archive. I know very little about her personal life but I imagine that she lives in an old Victorian house filled with weird books, taxidermy animals and at least a few ghosts that she probably has regular conversations with. But anyways, this is all to say that even Miss Trimble doesn't know where the cats come from but her motto is, don't ask, you probably don't want to know anyways. We hear that a lot. The cats, like I said, we don't know where they came from but there's always four of them. Some of the older volunteers remember different cats so I think we can rule out immortality as a trait but always four of them. Miss Trimble leaves food and water out but to everyone's horror there's no litter box to be found. And yet, there's never been an issue. No one talks about it but it's just weird. Where do they go? Don't ask, you don't want to know. First there's Henry the Eighth, called Henry or Eighth for short. He's a big fat ginger cat thus so named after the English king not for any divorce beheaded or dead wives but simply because he's tubby and ginger and the reality that cats generally seem to have. Henry lords over the reading room and is the only cat that the public sees. He loves being pet, being fed and generally just hangs around his basket or cozy looking documents waiting for treats. He's a sweetie. No one usually has the heart to push him off whatever they're trying to read but he'll move and do time when he feels like it. Good old Henry. He seems useless but he's great for morale. He's always been known to chase off any member of the public with sticky fingers, sweating coffee cups or any other offensive thing that might damage documents. That's the only time you'll see him hustle or in a bad mood. Don't damage the goods and Henry's your best friend. Cher Khan is our little champ. She's a sleek tortoise shell that can be found stocking the halls at night. She doesn't keep to one area like most of the cats do. We have the museum floor and the reading room which are both accessible to the public. Some small offices and staff areas and then several levels of archives accessible only to staff or volunteers with the proper clearance depending on the archive. She's the only one that's ever seen interacting with the other cats and even then it's fairly cordial almost business like share is the little hunter. If you find a dead mouse or the dreaded moss lying in a doorway it was her. She keeps the riffraff down. We rarely if ever have pest troubles. It's an old building so she's a busy girl. She doesn't like to be touched for the most part but she's been known to curl around your ankles for a rare pet. When I'm alone in the building I know she's near even if I can't see her. It's kind of nice. We have spotted some of our more unusual activity often before we do our canary when needed. There's the white one. No one can remember its name but we all have a different name for it. No one remembers what color its eyes are or whether it's a boy or girl or even how big it is or where it usually haunts or where it guards or or or or. Lastly there's Bast. Not everyone gets to see her but since I have a high level clearance into the lower levels I've seen this shadow cat. Bast is the one that frightens me. She is big larger than a normal house cat but not as large as the panther she resembles a little too much. It's the ears and the amber eyes. You can see them even in the blackest dark. I'll be in the blue room which houses the more rare or delicate unlisted objects locating some secret thing for some higher person and Bast will be there. Two glittering green eyes in the dark watching me from the sturdy upper shelves. There's artifacts and files up there that no one can access. Not that anyone wants to with Bast up there. The other odd thing is the blue room is always locked. She lives in there behind a locked door. No food, no water that I can see anyway. She guards the red room too. No one goes into the red room. I don't even know why it's called the red room except the door is red. The blue room has beautiful blue wallpaper the old kind you can't find in any hardware store with a blue door. So I guess we all assume the red room is red inside. I don't think Miss Tremble goes in the red room and she's the head of the archive. She's rarely ever afraid of anything and we've had plenty to be afraid of stories for another time and she's afraid of the red room. There's chains on the door to the red room multiple heavy duty chains new ones old ones ancient ones locks too. There's sounds that come from the red room quiet sounds whispers muffled sounds gentle tapping moans groans whales it's worse when there's nothing silence. There's a peephole in the red room not looking into the room looking out if you get too close best growls low that low rumble of danger makes your belly churn I've never gotten farther than too close I heed her warning Miss Tremble sings the highest praises to the guardian cats they keep us safe. I don't ask because I don't want to know the answer God save us or the devil the following are letters that were donated by a couple who found these in the attic of an old house they'd inherited the curators note simply indicate the couple wish to burn them at first but instead brought them to the archives in case they held some sort of historical value we've not been able to locate any information about the contents of the letters except to confirm an unusual amount of disappearances in the town mentioned in the letter redacted for safety purposes March 7th 1872 dearest Mary fine fiddle it is a somber day for a somber occasion we laid grandfather's weary bones to rest yesterday and today we are all in foul moons we are all in the big old house together now dear mama and papa George the dreaded Harrison Molly and Oliver the twins who are just six as of last week they say they miss you the most and I allow it but really it is me who misses you most June lovely June has been set away to anti Harriet's for she is too wild of a young lady and anti Harriet will tame her with that wretched etiquette school do you remember balancing books yours were always perfect I had to pin my hair so that the thing stayed on my head though the house is big it's too full of things and people and noises I thought grandfather came to Missouri with just the clothes on his back though he prospered in trade and languished in love he has accumulated more than a lifetime of things there are two rooms just stuff full of clothes and shoes it is no wonder that we were only allowed in the parlor and dining room mama is going through them to see what can be donated there are so many poor after the war and good shoes are hard to come by papa says there are more rooms that we cannot even see for excess of things can you imagine I hope you are living fat and well as a married young woman dear sister I miss when we would lay under the covers at night and whisper the names of our future loves into seashells in hopes that someday the sea would bring us them I am glad that yours came true I fear I am too old now though 23 is not so old says George Harrison says I might as well jump off pickety bridge and I hold my tongue that it is far more tempting to push him off it his moods grow fowler and he stinks of drink it is lucky he is in the eldest son or papa would have him locked away in shame now that we have the means he may do just that the other day he pinched me so hard under my arm for being a sass that it drew blood I ran and cried to papa and it started a thunderstorm of shouting anyways you don't want to hear all of that in your happy newlywed home I hope California treats you well and it should if the stories of gold paved roads are true forever your sister and always your friend Paulette April 28th 1872 darling Mary how well you sound in your last letter I've laughed so hard I cried when you told of the fiasco at the hotel I can't imagine whose bloomers those must have been in that poor donkey imagine I have news of this house we have cleared so many things and still there is more trinkets of all kinds jewelry none of it particularly fine watches with inscriptions and pipes strewn about mama wondered if perhaps soldiers lived here for a spell perhaps after the war but none of us can remember any mention of it the neighbors are miles away and only saw grand papa here occasionally with drifters passing through doing labor for chores perhaps these are their payment in exchange for food and board next to the barn is a slaughtering shed hidden behind piles of lumber foul foul thing there are no cows or pigs anymore but papa has a mind to purchase some and build us a nice flock papa who can barely remember to feed himself let alone animals it will be mama's work as always from papa's ideas we're having a poor time finding help mama has sent inquiries all over town and no locals are up to the task she has given up and put in an advert in the redacted paper an anti Harriet is sending over a girl or two that she deems suitable the rest of the family is fine except for Harrison of course he refuses to sleep in the house saying it has bad bones it does not the timber is the finest that can be found he said he has half a mind to live elsewhere so do not answer any of his letters or you'll soon find his own foul spirit haunting your halls I'm certain he is the one who spat in all the bonnets foul thing oh Mary halfway through writing this letter a terrible scream shook the house we all went running my hand is trembling still and after yelling and yelling to find the source we located mama dragging the twins out of a little half door in one of the bedrooms she's been clearing out they were covered head to toe in soot and dust and little Ollie was holding a skull in his hand a human skull painted a deep red oh it is a horrible looking thing but curious as well the skull has golden teeth and sockets painted white the lower jaw is sewn onto the upper one with twine laced through its teeth the top is removed so that it appears to be some sort of bowl or chalice though all that was in there says Ali was a dead mouse Harrison took it from mama while she went to go clean the children up and began chasing me with a horrible thing until dear papa intervened hateful young man I asked papa to hide it away I can't stand looking at it I feel like it is looking back what wretched findings why on earth would grandfather have such a thing your horrified sister Paulette May 7th 1872 sister Mary all are ill the twins first than the rest of us if we aren't running to the privy we are sequestered in our rooms clutching buckets and chamber pots mama thinks it is in the water and it all must be boiled a hard task carrying water to the house Harrison refuses to come into the house and care for us the foul beast he leaves us water buckets on the porch though a small comfort I do not think it is the water it must be the food something has turned we have scoured the pantry in between dashing the buckets no one can eat a morsel without becoming ill it is a misery to pick up this pen but right you I must I will beg Harrison to mail my letter and send for a doctor if we are not well by tomorrow I hope you are well much love so much love Paulette May 9th 1872 Mary the doctor will not come he told Harrison he fears it to be cholera and sent some remedies to administer which he left on the porch I watched him go to the fields with a shovel and spade and begin tilling the fields does he dig our graves he may never send these letters if so Paulette PS I write this hours later the twins are dead perhaps Harrison is wiser than I give him credit for I love you May 21st 1872 Mary I am well enough to write again we are saved and we are in hell it was the sight of little Ollie that set Papa's mind in motion the skull he kept saying it's the skull he placed it above the mantle and put a candle in the horrible thing then lit a fire in the fireplace beneath it he spoke to the fire but I heard no replies it should have frightened me but I don't feel fear anymore just an empty sort of numbness George was running half naked through the hallways like an animal snarling and scratching at the walls mama has been crying and pulling out her hair in the room with a little half-door wailing for her babies then trying to eat the big clumps of hair I tried to stop her at first but it is no matter we are all mad now I suppose I burned all the food in the pantry it's useless to us now the meat tasted too good we all cried when we ate the twins the twins they have saved us free from whatever hell lies ahead we understand the clothes now the trinkets Harrison figured it out too when he dug up the graveyard out back hundreds of bones so many the deep knife gouges on the bones I wonder if grandfather took them to the slaughtering shed or did it in the kitchen why does flesh taste so sweet and good it is my sucker now God save us or the devil it makes no difference to me now we need more if we do not feed then we will turn on one another Papa and George are going at it now trying to decide what happens next George wants to die Papa says he will help mama has locked herself away on the third floor and we cannot find the key grandfather lived alone it was the only way do not visit I will not write again I hope the help comes soon we will need them the cheer up Johnny's work has been crazy but here's a little ditty for you the cheer up Johnny's in the blue room of the archives staff only there is a collection of musical trinkets one of which is labeled as the cheer up Johnny's it's a ceramic piece that appears to be modeled after a moderately popular barbershop quartet named as the label states in the early 1900s there are five dapper dandies in the classic barbershop outfit striped vest slacks and formal straw hats all standing on a bandstand it sounds pretty tame but the singers have wild too big eyes and wild too big smiles on some of them it's forbidden to touch it without gloves personally I hate looking at the thing we have many of those and I swear they switch places sometimes their mouths are supposed to be singing or smiling but they have too many teeth or their mouths are just black void pits I've compiled some of the curator notes below artifact P 145 curator Harrison June 1947 description emitted artifact brought in by redacted due to interagency agreement added to musical item lists that must remain locked gloves are mandatory when handling artifact redacted is not original owner of peace but reported locating a few identical boxes from commemorative annual barbershop quartet event that peace was created for other boxes do not have similar disturbing facial expressions and appear normal x-rays and extensive notes by analysts from redacted provided it appears that facial expressions are part of ceramic and not from any sort of later alternatives note these notes appear lost but the x-ray is still in the files for P 145 when key is turned the musical tune that plays is similar to buffalo gals with an altered bridge unlike most other music boxes or toys music starts slow then speeds up until music is indiscernible then stops abruptly redacted caution against listening to music box and recommended welding key so it cannot be turned great caution is advised object will be kept under lock and key with strict orders not to disturb or handle except by curator permission curator Harrison august 1948 P 145 has caused some disturbance so adding some notes to document the events first observation is P 145 attracts those in low spirits or moods when someone is feeling a bit blue they hang around the blue room unironically and can get quite unruly when forced away redacted had to be taken out by force only days after returning from the birth of her child when dusting the objects and P 145 cabinet over the weekend staff member bumped P 145 into P 16 which caused a hairline fracture in the fifth quadrant of P 145 staff member reported feeling extreme melancholy and an urge to listen to P 145 and did so despite strict orders not to turn the key staff member was still found standing at the cabinet Monday morning still listening to the music box and laughing hysterically after forced removal of P 145 from their hands staff member collapsed in exhaustion and was rushed to a local hospital staff member had clearly soiled themselves standing at the cabinet over the entire weekend blue room is to be thoroughly cleaned and sanitized cabinet was only half dusted but I will finish it myself hairline fracture will be examined and if possible fixed P 16 was undamaged by the event as expected and looked very proud of itself moving P 16 to separate case since it always bloody has it out for other artifacts evening hairline fracture fixed by restoration list on staff under my close supervision both of us reported feeling extremely giddy during procedure almost to the point of being unable to complete fix because of an overwhelming desire to sing and dance around the room curator Harrison December 1948 restoration list over P 145 hairline fracture reports still feeling residual giddiness from time to time I myself have occasionally locked my office door to dance about and must contain urge to sing from time to time although it's less frequent now may need to start putting items on danger scale redacted mentioned another agency does this but might raise too many eyebrows here curator Harrison February 1950 some depressive numbskull now fired took P 145 from case into public reading room and played it over and over only four members of public and two staff excluding numbskull were in reading room at the time but by the time I came back from lunch they were all in there laughing hysterically and dancing around the tables like a bunch of buffoons only redacted was spared because I suspect he is mostly deaf although he did have a ludicrous grin the whole time I was questioning him I wonder if whatever resides in this artifact is related to that dancing event in 1518 in Alsace some village or other had an outbreak where residents could not stop dancing now diagnosed as mass hysteria I can't help but think there was some bobble like this involved to ignite the fire scheduling welding of key tonight I've prolonged it this far to try and preserve artifact but proves too dangerous had to call redacted to come by and take care of members of public so they would only recall a very boring uneventful trip to the museum still they all will feel quite overjoyed for the next few months at least might be good for donations at least curator Olmstead may 1968 night crew in for cleaning reports that the figures have changed around the short fat one moving around confirm this to be true after observation one night crew forgot glove protocol and touched bare ceramic slowly after they could not stop laughing I was phoned to come assist as the rest of the crew was spooked the poor fool was still hysterically laughing when we heard ribs snapping I had to keep them all in the back staff room until redacted came to give proper medical and memory assistance faxed redacted later to see if p145 placement here is appropriate lackey on phone said and I quote we don't want that creepy shit here most of what they do is creepy idiots this thing gives me the creeps recommend farther curators cover it with a cloth or something but for some reason I'm too afraid to do it the sailors talisman there is an artifact in one of the lower levels of the archive rooms just for full disclosure there are many artifact rooms but all the main ones were built in a sort of basement over a hundred years ago or so and wallpapered in different colors each room has a different clearance for staff and volunteers volunteers may only go into the green room green for go green meaning easy green means safe artifacts from the green room may be examined but not taken by members of the public upon request of course and they must know what they're looking for in order to ask to examine it the sailors talisman is in the purple room accessible only to staff and certain high-up people influential types like authors or big bucks donors the talisman is a funny little thing a sort of mermaid looking thing carved from wood perhaps old driftwood it's a woman with a fishtail but it's forked off into four fins at the end not two like your typical mermaid her eyes are perfect circles and her mouth is open slightly with long strands of seaweed slithering down her body the seaweed covers her breast but in between them in the sternum area is a symbol sort of a cross between an onk and a sulfur cross a rounded top cross like an onk sitting on top of a triangle it's very like to carry but she is always damp not damp now that I think about it but water actually seems to leak from the talisman itself she is kept in a specially built box in a shallow pool of water she used to be kept next to a dehumidifier until the power went out once the purple room had about an inch of water in it before someone discovered it someone me had to sit outside in the garden with her until the electrician came to fix the power the roses looked fantastic that year though we discovered purely by accident that if she is kept in a small pool of water the talisman will not seep water in equilibrium of sorts is met she has an entry log from the previous curator and I'll end this little story here with the log I've skipped over the beginning part that also described her out of vanity for my own far superior description my additions are in parenthesis artifact p174 curator Olmsted april 1967 artifact donated by boston area historical society who wishes to remain anonymous states that they are unable to house the object anymore due to damage of property rotting wood and flooding they claimed caused by object called the sailors talisman donor describes p174 was thought of as lost for decades but later found washed up on coast near main exchanged many hands until donor eventually received it origins unknown but earliest mentions can be found in things of the deep by randall carter a collection of legends and myths surrounding ships and seafaring note I've not been able to locate copies of this book yet not for lack of trying according to legend there were numerous of these taliments around on the eastern coast of the united states traced back as far as the early colonial days possibly further ship captains according to legend commission their creation by a handful of artisans who had been blessed by some sort of priest the text is unclear naming them sea priests although I have not been able to corroborate what these priests were there is no mention of them in historical writings from the coastal towns at the time and it is unknown from exactly what areas these come from it is created from driftwood so the origin is difficult to ascertain it is fascinating that this is the one surviving talisman no others have been confirmed around the 1920s the talismans were no longer viewed as protective but as destructive since the ships that had them on board met with horrific sometimes freak accidents or more often simply disappeared I suspect most of the remaining talismans if they are still even in existence are at the bottom of various bays along the coast some ships confirmed according to randall carter to have the talisman nans goodbye estimated 1785 missing presumed lost at sea the laughing dutchman estimated 1801 accident ran into cliffs during a storm the virtuous maid estimated 1811 missing presumed lost at sea st george's fire estimated 1692 missing confirmed sighting of wreckage by the mary's crown but when royal navy dispatched to investigate wreckage was not found fighting sea dog date unknown accident fire while docked in caribbean all crew on board presumed dead et cetera et cetera et cetera the symbol is odd though I've been unable to locate an origin perhaps the artisan symbol or a guild long lost to time sometimes a sound seems to emit from p 174 when submerged in water a haunting sound almost like a strange song more like a whale but faintly melodic seem to put my assistant in a trance and he began to leave the room with the talisman before ester his wife an assistant curator at the time through a book at his head I do not recall these events though ester says I was present recommend item for the purple room due to issue with flooding and legend of cursed nature as well as potential hypnotic side effect when handling minimum of two staff needed one female preferably do not allow near watercraft of any kind as a precaution of course entry ends here I haven't heard the singing mentioned in the entry although the male staff have mentioned being unnerved by it when they come into the purple room as a precaution only female staff are allowed in the purple room alone oddly this isn't the only object we have that seemed to affect the sexes differently the orange room has the opposite effect no unaccompanied female staff another story for another time her eyes are haunting though they're round so round perfect circles like a fish's eye and what is that symbol I don't think it's the mark of a guild or an artisan signature I feel I've seen it before here within the archive in some documentation somewhere something that talks more about these mysterious sea priests I don't think they were priests of the Christian faith but something much older her eyes they're so round though perfect circles perfect hey everyone remember to like and subscribe if you enjoyed today's video I've been very fortunate to find some really well written longer stories recently and I'm going to continue posting a longer story every Sunday if you'd like to support me further there's a link to my patreon in the description and I hope you have a wonderful beginning to 2021 thanks for listening