The Horror Of The Weller Asylum

My name is Jacob Horowitz, a reporter for the New York Gazette. While in the city, I received an anonymous letter, purportedly sent by a certain Joshua Levitz—an august and wealthy member of New York high society.

According to the letter, his young daughter, Bethany, had vanished from the asylum to which she had previously been committed. She had been confined due to prolonged bouts of unbearable depression, but was ultimately deemed incompetent—mad, even—by the lead physician at the facility. Yet, despite this conclusive prognosis, the exact nature of Miss Levitz's madness was never fully explained or understood by her family.

What began as a temporary sojourn extended into a full year. More perplexing still was Miss Levitz’s increasingly erratic comportment. Once mild and subdued, she had transformed into someone prone to sudden, unprovoked episodes of hysteria, which grew in intensity and frequency. At least, that was the final report given by Dr. Weller to both the authorities and the Levitz family—shortly before her mysterious and inexplicable disappearance.

September 18, 1899

I set off from New York City to a small, unfamiliar hamlet to investigate the bizarre vanishing of Miss Levitz. Unwilling to go alone, I brought with me Officer Longfellow of the New York Police Department, who had agreed to accompany me on the journey.

We arrived by steamboat early in the afternoon, docking at a wharf guarded by a sturdy jetty. Perched on a gentle hillside beside a placid lake, the eerie Weller Asylum dominated the landscape. Its 440-acre grounds had once confined Confederate soldiers during the Civil War—some imprisoned in these unique chambers, others sent on to Moline Prison in Illinois.

The asylum nestled in a labyrinth of towering larches, their branches sheltering tawny carpets of fallen leaves and the estate’s quaint cottages. Two long wings flanked the central building, strictly separating male and female patients.

As I made my way through the grove, I glimpsed patients playing a spirited game of croquet on the lawn. My eyes then traveled upward to the Gothic limestone façade: a steep tower soared above the roofline, its masonry curving outward beneath the pavilions like exposed ribs. Over the front entrance, overlapping arches framed heavy wooden doors, and the only windows—oval and opaque—were set with stained-glass casements. Beyond them lay the secrets of Weller Asylum.

At that door we met the steward, Andrew Miller, who informed us that Dr. Randolph Weller, the lead physician, was away on urgent business. Miller then led us through the three-story building: we passed under a vaulted attic, skirted the east wing reserved for the most disturbed patients, and peered into an underground network of tunnels threaded with steam pipes. At the center, an ornate spiral staircase with polished wooden banisters wound skyward.

In a detached building on the far end of the grounds, there was a morgue where the dead were either embalmed or incinerated. Some patient quarters were also located there, segregated from the main structure. Within the central building, two full kitchens served the staff, along with twelve bedrooms allocated to attendants and orderlies. As for the patients themselves, they suffered from a range of conditions, both chronic and acute.

When I inquired about the nature of these afflictions, the steward replied, “They suffer from conditions such as congestion of the brain, hysteria, intemperance, brain fever, sexual derangement, mental illness, torturous disorders. We house all manner of cases—feeble-minded, aged and crippled, drunks, epileptics, even beggars, sir.”

“Good God,” Officer Longfellow muttered. “Such depravity within the folds of society, and so little truly known of it. I suppose the old charitable almshouses of the countryside will soon be no more.”

“The madness here is a daily occurrence, sir,” the steward responded calmly. “We’re quite accustomed to the afflicted. Outbursts, delusions, fits of rage—none of it surprises us anymore.”

“I admire your perseverance and resolve, Mr. Miller,” I said. “It must take great fortitude to serve among so many who are lost to reason.”

He turned toward me, his expression unreadable. “You mean patients, sir. We treat all who enter these halls as patients in need of our care and kindness. We have a motto here at Weller: No one is left behind. Every soul is tended to. Every soul, in time, reformed.”

Just then, the rumble of a motor echoed from within the building. We turned toward the noise and quickly stepped outside to investigate. In the drive, a man emerged from a Winton Phaeton—a marvel of modern engineering—its polished body gleaming in the afternoon sun. I recognized the vehicle as one of the latest novelties to capture the attention of curious New Yorkers.

He was dressed immaculately in the attire of a physician, and I assumed at once that he was the esteemed Dr. Weller himself. Of medium stature, he bore a thick, waxed mustache above a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, held a stern authority as he greeted me with a tone that mingled condescension with suspicion. I had told him I was from the New York Gazette.

“The New York Gazette, you say? I’m afraid I haven’t had the time lately to keep abreast of such matters. As you can see, our days are consumed by the immediate care of our patients. Judging from your accent, you hail from New York City—am I right, detective? Being a New Yorker myself, I can spot the inflection.”

“You are correct in your assumption, Doctor. I am indeed a native of New York City. You're a perceptive man,” I replied, offering my hand. “Nevertheless, I’m pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

His handshake was firm, unshaken, betraying neither fear nor unease as we spoke. His manner was plainspoken, his decorum bordering on indifference. I sensed within him a mystery, tightly coiled beneath the surface. Over the years, I had developed an instinct for reading men—their expressions, their mannerisms, their personas. But Dr. Weller was not so easily read. His presence was composed, yet elusive.

“Mr. Horowitz,” he said, “what exactly do you wish to speak about? I had been informed of a police visit—but I was under the impression that it was scheduled for tomorrow. I was not aware that a reporter would be joining them.”

“My apologies, Doctor, if there’s been any miscommunication. I was sent along with Officer Longfellow today to inquire into the disappearance of a young woman—Miss Bethany Levitz,” I replied.

He appeared momentarily bewildered at the mention of the young woman, pausing as though searching the recesses of memory. I repeated, more pointedly, “Miss Bethany Levitz—from New York City.”

“With so many patients that have passed through these halls, you must forgive me if her name does not immediately come to mind,” he replied hastily, brushing the query aside.

“Surely, Doctor, you would have her listed in your records?”

“But of course, Mr. Horowitz!”

“If I may be so bold, Doctor—could we speak in private? It’s a matter of some importance.”

“Although I am quite occupied, I can spare you an hour. Since you’ve come all the way from New York City, I suppose it would be remiss of me not to oblige.”

Together with the steward, we entered the main building once more. I turned to Officer Longfellow and quietly advised him to speak with the servants and attendants in the meantime—ask them every question his curiosity could summon.

Dr. Weller and I proceeded to his office, where he promptly closed the door behind us and gestured toward a chair. I sat, studying him closely. His responses were clipped and to the point, yet his demeanor carried the weight of reservation—too measured, too composed. I sensed he was guarding something, some buried truth he wasn’t yet prepared to part with. Was it about Bethany Levitz? Had he something to confess? Or something to hide?

“Well then, Mr. Horowitz,” he began, his fingers steepled before him, “what exactly do you wish to know about Miss Levitz?”

I offered him a courteous smile. “Her disappearance, Doctor. That is what brings me here.”

“And what about it, exactly?”

“What happened to her?” I asked, leveling my gaze. “How did she vanish? I imagine your records would show the last time she was seen or reported on the grounds?”

He appeared somewhat taken aback by the directness of my questioning. “You detectives do possess such inquisitive minds—more so, perhaps, than we doctors, Mr. Horowitz. Still, yes, we do keep records of all our patients, including Miss Levitz, and the last time she was reportedly seen within the asylum or upon the estate.”

He bent down, opened a lower cabinet of his desk, and retrieved a file folder marked with her name. He handed it to me without hesitation. “As you’ll observe, the last recorded sighting of Miss Levitz was in the early morning hours of September 11th—a week ago. We have conducted a thorough search of the grounds and the surrounding areas. Regrettably, we have found nothing. The authorities were notified… but to no avail.”

“A week ago, you say?” I interjected. “Forgive the intrusion, Doctor, but why was there such a delay in alerting the police? Surely they could have acted more promptly—had they been informed sooner, they may have discovered some trace of her.”

He did not appreciate the implication and responded with a trace of annoyance, “It is always easier to cast judgment from outside than to understand the circumstances from within, Mr. Horowitz.”

Just then, thunder boomed beyond the windows, shaking the pane. He rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. “Perhaps we should conclude for the day. The weather grows unkind, and visitors tend to fare poorly in these intermittent rains. You must rest—after all, the steamboat departs early in the morning.”

He gestured to the file. “You may take the folder to your room—read it at your leisure, so long as it is returned before you depart the estate. The steward will escort you. Should you wish to partake in any activities with the patients on the grounds, you are welcome. Dinner will be served in the hall, with the staff. Officer Longfellow is welcome as well.”

His voice shifted into a polished reassurance. “You see, Mr. Horowitz, we take great pride in our rapport with our patients. You need not worry—they are as docile as house cats, provided they are not provoked. Hostility here lies dormant beneath civility. It is our mission to take conceptual thought and transmute it into self-effacing action.”

We were then escorted to our rooms, where we would spend the night. Inside, I read through the entire file on Miss Levitz that Dr. Weller had kindly let me borrow, while Officer Longfellow conducted his discreet investigation outside the facility. The file was filled with convoluted medical terminology that I was ill-prepared to decipher. It detailed the horrific illness Miss Levitz had been suffering from and the affliction she endured.

There were distinct mentions of sudden shifts in her mood and personality, along with episodes of delirium that she experienced daily, accompanied by a form of apanthropinization. What truly piqued my curiosity, however, was the diagnosis and the last recorded sighting of Miss Levitz at the estate. The diagnosis described her intense and enduring depression, which gradually transformed into a phrenesis that robbed her of any willingness to participate in her surroundings.

The file noted her frequent illusory hallucinations, rapid impulses of violence, and overall instability, all of which seemed to have no beneficial outcome. In the end, much of the report remained vague, especially concerning her final day. It was unclear and indeterminate, with the last mention of her being outside on the grounds of the estate in the early morning.

Despite the dense terminology, my curiosity urged me to investigate further, though I intended to proceed cautiously. There was an abstract mystery in what I had read, something unsolved, waiting to be unraveled. I could feel it deeply, as if my mind were processing the information with heightened intensity. The details seemed peculiar, and Miss Levitz's unexplained disappearance added to the confusion.

The subtlety with which the information was presented left me unsettled, and I couldn’t help but make assumptions about her puzzling disappearance, even though they were likely incomplete. Still, there was little I could do without overstepping the boundaries of the Weller Estate’s private matters.

I remained in my room, which was part of the main building, within the private lodgings reserved for visitors to the asylum, waiting for Officer Longfellow’s return. As I sat on the bed, my mind wandered over the significance of the file I had read earlier. Suddenly, I became aware of a strange sound—an anonymous breathing coming from beneath the bed, accompanied by soft giggling. Slowly, I leaned over and looked under the bed, and to my astonishment, I discovered a young woman hiding there. I was taken aback by the sight.

“My God, who are you? What are you doing under the bed, young lady? Are you a patient?” I asked, my voice filled with surprise.

She appeared extremely disheveled, and her appearance suggested that she was a suffering and burdened young woman. Her behavior was subtle yet unsettling, and her cold, blank stare—her blue, round, glassy eyes—gave the impression of someone deeply disturbed or desperate.

She was incredibly timid, constantly glancing nervously at the door as though afraid someone might catch her. Her eyes also wandered to the mirror atop the chiffonier, where her ghostly reflection seemed to unsettle her even further. She mumbled something unintelligible, her words unclear and her ability to communicate seeming limited. It was obvious that there was something she wished to convey, but she was terrified to do so.

“You want to speak? To tell me something?” I asked gently.

She began to shiver, as if my questions had intimidated her. “You don’t have to be frightened, young lady. All I want to know is who you are.”

After a brief pause, I added, “Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you. Are you Bethany Levitz, daughter of Joshua Levitz?”

There was no immediate response to my question, though I made an effort to calm her growing anxiety. For a brief moment, I thought I had succeeded in easing her distress.

Her apprehension was clear, slowly becoming more evident as I observed her. Could this really be the young Miss Bethany Levitz, the missing woman I had been sent to investigate? I wondered.

I had a photograph of her, but she didn’t resemble the young Miss Levitz in the slightest. She then handed me a strange object that I had not seen before. Her hands were hidden behind her, and I couldn’t quite make out what she was holding. What could this object be, I thought?

“Take this!” She stammered.

It was a book, a plain diary that she pressed into my hands. I took it from her, grateful. “Thank you.”

Without saying another word, she fled the room and hurried down the corridor, disappearing from view before anyone else could notice. Had I witnessed a ghost?
Her strange, fleeting presence would be the last I would witness of the mysterious young lady who claimed to be Bethany Levitz. I closed the door behind her and, with a sense of urgency, began to read the diary she had given me. To my astonishment, it was indeed written by a woman named Bethany Levitz—the same Miss Levitz I had come to investigate.

I won’t reveal all the contents of the diary, but I will share the significant details. As I read, the more I became convinced that the diary was truly hers. What I found within its pages was increasingly chilling, as it detailed the horrors unfolding in the shadows. The descriptions were vivid and horrifying, recounting inhumane treatments or tortures inflicted by Dr. Weller.

The cruelty described in the diary was unimaginable, far worse than I could have anticipated. The methods employed were not only physically torturous but psychologically damaging as well. What monstrous acts of barbarity were these, I wondered? How could such unreasonable cruelty be allowed to happen?

Patients were subjected to illicit or unproven medicines, bound to tables with heavy iron shackles or relentless straps. The implements used in the vile machinations of the Utrica crib, along with the systematic, flagrant whips meant to “advance therapeutic measures,” were beyond disturbing. Then there was the infamous holding chair and the restraining straitjackets—tools of subjugation for the unwilling participants in Dr. Weller’s experiments and other deranged concepts.

The morgue, a haunting and abominable place, swiftly incinerated the unsalvageable or incurable patients—or those who dared to rebel. They were utterly at the mercy of Dr. Weller’s twisted whims and grotesque ideas. I will not continue recounting the horrors found in the rest of the diary, as it is filled with daily despair and fear. I was uncertain what to make of the vivid contents.

What frame of mind was the author in when writing this? The handwriting showed signs of erratic and unstable behavior, yet there were also clear and detailed descriptions that only someone in their right mind would be able to recall. There was a resolve in the words, but also a palpable sense of dissolution. Little was known about the Weller Asylum, aside from its reputation as a place for treatment and care.

Officer Longfellow had mentioned that it was rarely spoken of in New York City, which only deepened my unease. The disturbing words in the diary, along with the profound revelations, felt like a warning I could not ignore. I was consumed with the need to investigate, to dispel the lingering doubts and premonitions that suddenly gnawed at me.

Where should I begin my search? I pondered endlessly whether Miss Levitz was still alive, as there was no definitive proof of her death. Based on the last entry in the diary and the suspicious circumstances surrounding her disappearance, the likelihood of her death seemed all too real.

As I was informed by the steward, the hours for meals would allow me to venture from the room and building. The attendants were busy with the distribution of the dinner trays, but I had instructed them to deliver the meals to the rooms. A tray was brought to me, providing the necessary cover for my whereabouts, at least for the time being.

Oddly, Officer Longfellow had not yet returned. I couldn’t help but wonder if something unfortunate had happened to him or, worse yet, if he had been sequestered. There were no patients outside, and the employees, including the nurses, were all attending to them.

As I was told, Dr. Weller was occupied with a patient. I had to carefully calculate my plan and timing, ensuring every detail was executed with absolute precision.

I left the room and headed through the corridors, suspicious and with curiosity growing in my thoughts, I stumbled upon a door I had not noticed before—weathered, unmarked, and cracked at the edges. It opened with a soft groan, revealing a long, narrow chamber of mirrors. The room was dimly lit by a flickering bulb overhead, casting broken reflections on the countless glass panels lining the walls. Every angle of my being was captured, fractured, and thrown back at me.

I stepped forward cautiously, and the door shut behind me with a thud.

The silence was deafening.

As I gazed into the mirrors, my face looked back—only not entirely my own. In one reflection, I saw myself smiling unnaturally; in another, my eyes were hollow, black as pitch. One mirror showed my hands stained red. I recoiled. A tremor coursed through me.

“What is this?” I whispered aloud. “What is occurring here?”

Then, I saw her. The young Miss Levitz. Or the apparition that claimed her name. She appeared behind me in the mirror—never in the room, only in the glass. Her expression was neither mournful nor vengeful, but resolute.

“You see now,” she said, her voice soft as dust falling on marble. “You walk the edge between truth and madness. Choose, Mr. Horowitz. Choose before the fire consumes everything to ashes.”

And then she vanished into thin air.

All the mirrors suddenly cracked in unison, the sound like brittle bones breaking in the silence.

I stumbled out of the room, shaken, unsure if what I saw was hallucination or some deeper reckoning. But I knew then, I had to return to the doctor's office, but he was not there. I had to end this. Whether by justice or by madness, I would face Dr. Weller and learn the whole truth about what was transpiring in the asylum.

After waiting for the attendant to pass, I quietly exited the doctor's office and made my way to the one place that had both intrigued and captivated my thoughts—the morgue. I knew the patients' rooms were in the adjoining building.

With this knowledge in mind, I proceeded cautiously toward the grim morgue. When I reached the door, I found it unlocked. For some inexplicable reason, it had been left that way. Perhaps one of the attendants had forgotten to lock it, or perhaps it had been intentionally left open for Dr. Weller’s convenience.

Was he deliberately disposing of bodies here? Could Miss Levitz’s body be found in this dreadful place? Was this the site of her demise and final departure? The uncertainty surrounding the case was overwhelming, but there was a plausible explanation—after all, this was a morgue. What I needed, however, was irrefutable proof to substantiate any allegations. The diary’s accusations were not enough to prove foul play in Miss Levitz’s disappearance.

The door creaked as I entered with the utmost discretion, carefully closing it behind me. The sight that greeted me was ghastly and shocking— a furnace burning, with piles of bones and skulls heaped to the side. I hadn’t prepared myself for such an unbelievable discovery.

I sensed I didn’t have much time and had to find something relevant to my investigation. I searched the room hurriedly, desperate for any piece of evidence that could unravel the mystery of the asylum. As I approached the piles of bones, I noticed that many of them had tags attached. The tags, to my horror, displayed full names, including surnames.

Among the many bones and skulls I discovered with growing dread was the skull of the young Bethany Levitz. This was the irrefutable proof I had desperately needed. Even more unsettling was the sight of her dress, the same one she had worn in the photograph Mr. Levitz had given me at the beginning.

The morgue stood as the grim embodiment of death, and Dr. Weller was the true personification of dangerous malice. But now, what was I to do next?

Just then, I heard the door creak open. Dr. Weller stood before me, his gaze intense and unwavering. He had entered without my notice, quietly closing the door behind him as he moved toward me, his eyes fixed with an unnerving intensity.

"Indeed, you detectives have a proclivity for inquiry, Mr. Horowitz. This trait is foolish, especially when it leads to so many ignorant errors. But I shall not delay the eventual truth," he said coldly.

"Good God, Dr. Weller, you killed Miss Bethany Levitz. Why—why in the name of God? How many more have you killed?" I demanded, my voice filled with the utmost shock and horror.

His reply was blunt and chilling: "I only gave her peace, the peace her troubled soul sought. What you call death, I call humane compassion."

Before I could respond, something struck me sharply on the head. Darkness overtook me as I crumpled to the floor.

When I regained consciousness, my vision was blurry. I saw the vague shape of an attendant, his movements methodical as he placed a dead body into the furnace. I was now dressed in a white garment, surrounded by other bodies, similarly clothed in the same diaphanous cloth. My body was strapped to a table, and no matter how I struggled, I could not free myself.

A sudden wave of trepidation and concern consumed me. I was at my most vulnerable, unsure how I could escape. If I made a sound, the attendant would surely hear me. But if I remained still, I would perish in the blazing furnace. What would my timely reaction be?

Soon, I would have my answer. As my anxiety reached its peak, I felt a sudden surge of energy, and then, to my astonishment, a strange female appeared before me. She motioned for me to remain silent, and I obeyed. The female was the same one who had been in my room earlier. Somehow, the attendant collapsed, succumbing to a massive heart attack before my eyes.

She freed me, but her expression warned me to remain perfectly still. Just then, Dr. Weller entered the morgue, noticing the attendant’s lifeless body on the floor. In that moment, I feigned being dead, motionless, and listless. Dr. Weller, unaware of what had happened, attempted to resuscitate the man, but his efforts were in vain.

Quickly, I rose to my feet and attacked him. We struggled near the furnace, Dr. Weller trying to overpower me and shove me into the flames. I managed to prevent him from pushing me in, and as we fought, a force of energy seemed to push him instead. He was sent into the furnace, where he screamed in agony as the flames consumed him entirely.

The strange entity—now revealed once again as the young lady—had, it seemed, been my guardian angel. I stood aghast as Dr. Weller’s body burned in the furnace, his madness finally ending, along with the horrific string of deaths he had caused. The charnel stench of his crimes lingered in the air, but it was then that the ghostly figure faded, and in its place, I saw the face of Officer Longfellow.

"Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Horowitz, are you all right, sir? What happened to Dr. Weller? And what are you doing in the morgue?" Officer Longfellow asked, his voice filled with immediate concern.

"My God, I was almost killed by that madman. Where is she, the young mysterious lady?" I inquired, my voice unnerved.

"Who? What young lady are you referring to, Mr. Horowitz? I didn't see anyone in the morgue except you," Officer Longfellow replied, clearly confused.

Officer Longfellow later discovered a hidden part of the asylum—an abandoned, secret area we had never been told about. It was an attic latibule, where forgotten memories lay buried. Among the countless letters and photographs he found were the untold stories of former patients who had mysteriously vanished, their lives extinguished in the very furnace that Dr. Weller had used.

Among the photographs was a lovely image of the young Miss Martha Deerwood, who, like Miss Bethany Levitz, had been killed and incinerated in the furnace. In the wake of these horrors, the asylum was permanently shut down. The attendants and nurses who had assisted Dr. Weller in his despicable crimes were arrested, prosecuted, and found guilty.

We had also discovered more pertinent details that were horrible, as though the walls themselves still remembered the vile things done within them. Officer Longfellow and I had begun searching through Dr. Weller’s private office, hoping to find something—anything—that might provide clarity or justice. It was then, while rifling through the desk, that my fingers stumbled upon a false panel in one of the bottom drawers.

Behind it, I found a brittle, dust-covered journal bound in cracked leather. The name inscribed inside was Elias Crane—a patient whose name I had not heard mentioned before. I turned to the first few entries and began to read.

“They come at night. I hear them scream, but no one else does. Weller smiles when the screaming stops. There is a woman in white—she watches me, and I believe she is waiting for someone. Perhaps me. Perhaps another. I fear I am going mad."

I read further, the entries growing more erratic, more disturbing, but still lucid in a terrifying way. Elias knew what was happening. He had witnessed the mysterious disappearances, the sinister habits of Weller, and he had even sensed her—the strange young lady in white.

“He who seeks the truth must not forget—the dead do not rest while the furnace still burns.”

The writing ended abruptly after that. No record of what became of Elias existed in the files. No body. No explanation. But in that moment, I understood—he had known. And he had tried to warn whoever would listen.

A week had passed since the asylum had been shut down, and yet my thoughts lingered like fog over its ruins. I returned to the grounds alone, walking toward the modest cemetery that now bore markers for the poor souls who had been devoured by madness and fire.

I knelt before the gravestone of Bethany Levitz, whose face I could never forget. In my hand, I held a single white flower, and as I placed it upon her somber grave, I felt a shiver trail my spine—a familiar sensation, like the passing of a gentle breeze that should not have been there.

I turned slowly… and there she was present.

The young woman. The one who had saved me. Dressed in the same diaphanous gown, with an ethereal glow about her. She said nothing of utterance. Her eyes met mine, full of sorrow and something else—peace seen in her facial expression. She nodded once, a soft gesture, and then, as the mist encircled her form, she faded into it like smoke vanishing into the twilight.

When she disappeared, I noticed something left behind where she had stood: a single white rose.

I whispered, “You were the light in this darkness.”

Then I turned away, heart heavy and calm all at once. I knew that some spirits had finally found rest. But others, I feared, would continue to wander these grounds, seeking the justice they were never granted in life.

Grim markers were placed at the site of a lonely cemetery, now the only testament to the victims of the Weller Asylum. It is said that, from a distance, the spirits of old Confederate soldiers can still be seen roaming the estate. All the victims were sacrificed in the name of what Dr. Weller believed was progress—a twisted notion of humanity’s progress or, perhaps, a deeper regression into mankind’s insatiable desire to play both God and Devil. This madness unfolded within the perverse logic of life and death.

Where does the inherent boundary of sanity intersect with the boundary of insanity, as we contemplate the world we inhabit and the dark egress that leads one into an endless vault of despair? Can we ever truly elucidate the brain’s functions and the complexity of nature that compels the mind to kill—whether through a sheer compulsion or an unrelenting desire? Can evil itself be personified, born of the deliberate madness that knows no end?

You, who are familiar with the dangers of the shadowed corridor, where the ghosts of retribution lurk behind the walls of a forsaken hell, are ever conscious of the terror that exists without reprieve.

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