Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange stretch of road.


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Musuem "Written in Blood"

Near my home is a museum with a large collection of local artifacts. Some of the items come from some of the more grotesque cases I have looked into, donated by the investigating police. I few weeks ago I discovered an old journal hidden in my home, and so I took it to the museum in the hope someone may be able to tell me more about it. Within a few minutes someone approached me, pointing me to one of the local curators. What he told me has been devastating.

As I was being brought to the back to talk, I noted an old, oddly shaped knife, along with some broken carnival mirrors. After heading through a series of offices I ended up in a back room, illuminated by a set of old lamps. The man and I sat down, and I gave him the journal to review. After a few minutes, he looked up from the leather bound work to address me. His face was pale. He asked me if I was the man who had been doing the investigations of Wellington Street. I admitted I was, but this only seemed to frighten him more.

“You don't seem to understand what you have been looking into. This place is dangerous, and if you are not careful you will get hurt. I know for a long time you have been wondering about your home, about the husband and wife who lived there. About the wife who was murdered there along with her unborn child. The truth is, the man knew very little about his wife's activities. That she was part of the Wellington Street Historical Society, and that she had been looking into the history of this place. That her investigating likely cost her her life.

She was like you. She thought that it was important that these stories become shared. So she began collecting the evidence, talking to people much as you have. We tried to convince her that she was going to get hurt, but she wouldn't listen.

I asked him why he thought she needed to be warned. He continued, but in hushed tones.

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