Wearing Thin

Those born under Seattle's grey skies know full well that our city is no stranger to tragedy. Whether by some curse of the land itself, or a consequence of its environment, the Emerald City holds a great plethora of ghost stories, locked away in its bosom. Yet, few managed to carve so deep a wound as the Lace & Grey Academy.

Its ruins linger on, as one of many old buildings incorporated into the city's urban housing. For many it is a wholly unremarkable structure. Docile. Innocent, even. A far cry from the crimes committed within. 

But to understand that tale, we first must learn its foundations. 

Of all the figures said to inhabit the halls of East Mercer Asylum, Doctor Sigismund Drumm was by far the worst. Clad all in white, save for a pair of tinted spectacles, the good doctor prowled the halls of his kingdom as a distant specter– always eager to note down the oddities of his patients, but never willing to approach.

East Mercer was not unfamiliar with men such as he. Far from it. Nestled into a cove on Mercer Island, and accessible only through a daily ferry service with the Seattle harbor, the asylum was meant to stand as an isolated refuge for all those seeking peace. What it became, however, was tantamount to a zoo. Between the years of 1863 and 1901 more than a dozen alienists made their bones behind the asylum's thick, concrete walls, knowing full well that they might find all manner of person to study within. For, madness was said to drip from Seattle, just as pus might exude from a wound, and attracted as many cruel souls as it did caring ones. And even still, Dr. Drumm stood alone.

He was an odd fish, and by any stretch of the imagination a lonely one. Said to spend his days walled up in his office, with naught but his notes for company. He had a habit of drowning out the cries of the interred with opera music. Il Trovatore was his favorite, and he kept the record in heavy use. Not a day went by during his tenure, it was said, that the distant clamor of hammers on anvils did not echo from his office, muffling out the screams of the interred.

Only once did a colleague ever dare ask after his wife, motioning to the band he wore as proof of his vow. In way of response, the Doctor Drumm only scoffed, and muttered under his breath "hysterical" before returning to his work, all the sterner. Upon recalling the event years later, the colleague in question was said to have described him:

"As happy as a casket-maker, that one, and as solitary as an oyster."

No matter what anyone thought of the good doctor Drumm, his tenure was not to last forever. Nor were those of his colleagues, or the patients they were sworn to protect. Instead, they were snuffed out, all of them, in the great fire of 1901, which was said to fill the sky over Lake Washington for three nights, before vanishing into the surf without an ember. This blaze, though a footnote in Seattle's history, nonetheless claimed the lives of all the interred within, including the infamous Sigismund Drumm and his patients. 

But not his research. That, it was said, was spared from the flames. Held secure in a safe hidden somewhere in the asylum's grounds. Sigismund Drumm was a paranoid creature, after all, and known to lock away his studies in fear of his rivals stealing his notes in the night. As such, it did not take long for rumors of Doctor Drumm's lost research to flourish. Stories of genius, of madness, of sobering truth; all of them festered, as the world pondered all that may have been lost to the flames.

The first person to claim a copy of Drumm's work was a layman; a certain Michael Von Del, who made his claim in the summer of 1922. His story was not without merit, as he was among the volunteers dispatched to clean the asylum grounds after the fire. Still, why he had chosen to wait over two decades to reveal his discovery was anyone's guess. Furthermore, it was anyone's to doubt. 

"Why only one journal?" one skeptic asked. "Drumm possessed at least fourteen!"

Yet Von Del held firm to his story, and as a way of proof pointed to Dr. Drumm's signature, which accompanied each entry. That, he insisted, was proof enough. 

The fervor died down, with all thoughts of fraud at bay; yet, that is far from where our tale ends. For, more insightful even than the signature was the journal's contents. Though largely overlooked by the press at the time, the entries therein were of a ghostly sort. The kind seldom seen before, or since.

One excerpt reads:

Starvation as a means to subdue the mad, is a most wonderful tool. It is effortless, economical, and just as likely to persuade a gentleman of proper breeding into submission as a vagabond without. After all, food is universal, and even the most base animal will learn to behave if they are not fed.

Consumption, I have found, is the root case of all ailments. One cannot develop frenzy without the calories needed to invite it, much in the same way a machine will not overheat if denied fuel. As the task of the alienist is to rest the mind, and bring it back to proper working order, it falls to reason that such practices as calorie deprivation must be taken seriously as potential avenues for recovery. I myself have seen firsthand great beats of men– convicted of the most heinous offenses– reduced to trembling boys once denied sustenance. Moreover, even among hysteria victims and the grief-stricken, there have been signs of mental regression to a subservient state observed upon those treated through controlled caloric denial. 

I aim to pursue further observation on this subject going forward. Though I fear my peers may not recognize it, I see great potential in this research.

As always,

Dr. Sigismund D. Drumm

It dd not take long for other journals to appear. Some, like Von Del's text, arose from obscurity fully intact, while others reported some degree of damage. Each was passed about for a time, as idle curiosities to be placed in one's windowsill, and confirmed only through the legitimacy of their signatures. All the while the secrets within festered, and grew more desperate by the season. Desperate to be known again, and work their will once more.

Which at last brings us to Wilhelmina Lace; or "Willie" to her friends. Formerly an opera singer, and rich beyond measure, the retired Prima Dona was said to drift about her elder years as a fly on water. Never holding on to one obsession long, but willing to hear any query, no matter how outlandish. So it was that in the Summer of 1923 she posted the following column to the Seattle Times, as a  letter to all who might be of aid:

To All Book Sellers in Seattle 

This is an open request for the purchase of any medical notes or journals related to the late Doctor Sigismund Drumm. I am willing to pay handsomely for each volume collected, as well as reward any who can point me towards further copies of his work. 

Please write to my address Downtown for further inquiries.

Although skeptical at first, the city's collectors eventually came around to the opera singer's request, and began to seek out the Drumm collection far and wide, eager to learn more of the reward their local celebrity promised. In total, twelve of the rumored fourteen volumes passed into Lace's hands. Twenty seven more– all forgeries– were also collected in this period.  Each and every one she accepted and, after appropriate payment, placed in her collection for further study. 

For, Wilhelmina had a plan for her collection. Of that there was no doubt. Even among the maids who tended to her estate, rumors festered over her intentions. Some whispered that their beloved Willie was seeking a path to immortality through the documents, while others instead claimed that she sought a method to reverse the effects of aging on her throat so that she might sing again. Others instead pointed to her granddaughter– a shy mouse of a girl– as the cause of the entire affair. To hear them tell it, the girl longed to follow in her grandmother's footsteps, but lacked the confidence to perform. So it was that Drumm's journals were being sought out as a means of reversing her granddaughter's nature, even if it meant considering his uncouth methods.

Then came the spring of 1925, and with it Eleanor Lace's formal induction to the stage. The girl was the spitting image of her grandmother, so it was said. Willowy in form, and with a soprano so high it could bleed the ear, the girl made waves upon her initial performance in La Traviata such that it still stands as the standard for most modern recreations. Critics beyond counting praised the young girl's voice, with some even claiming that it was the only time they had truly felt the plight of consumption on her character's lips. 

"The ache of despair was as real as any could be that high upon the stage."

So profound was her premier that rumors of her training spilled forth from it after. By the week's end hundreds of letters flew towards the Lace estate. Each was from a young girl who begged Wilhelmina to take them under her tutelage. They offered compensation, free labor, and utter devotion to the aging actress's methods.

And, like the saint she was, Willie accepted.

At least, to a handful of them. Five girls entered her care, with Eleanor making them an even half-dozen. To help house her students Wilhelmina moved her school uptown, to the east side of First Hill, where her friend Francis Grey managed an apartment complex. The accommodations were plain, but not altogether sparse. There were rooms enough for each student, and studios for them to practice their craft and manners. Their furnishings were of the highest quality, and fashioned in the likeness of a boarding house. All that the apartments lacked was a kitchen. Not that it mattered, of course; Wilhelmina had promised she would keep them in peak health, and so she attended to their meals personally. 

And like that, Lace & Grey was born. 

By this point it must be remembered that years had passed since anyone in the larger world had mentioned Sigismund Drumm, or his research. Among those who recalled the doctor's journals, few had truly read the texts, and fewer still could claim to understand his theories. So it was that the journals flourished, lost in the haze of time, their contents ready to be unleashed.

It would not take long. 

Most historians now agree that Susanna Brown was the first to go missing; though, it is hard to pinpoint exactly when. Raised in rural Kansas and with no higher education, she was the poorest of the girls, and had penned her request directly to Wilhemina by hand. Little is known of her home life, save that her family operated a farm in southwestern Kansas. As such, she is often the student passed over the most by contemporary sources. What we do know, however, is that her disappearance was noticeable enough to earn her the following column in the Meade County News, preserved today in the University of Kansas's archives:

Congratulations to Susanna Brown

Our family is happy to inform the public that our very own little starlet, Susie, was just accepted as the fourth student of the prestigious Lace & Grey Academy in Seattle. Those who know our dear Susie know she is always humming a tune and prancing through the barn with a song on her lips, so we are eager to see what tunes she will be singing with proper tutelage. Her going away party is this coming Saturday, so stop by if you wish to give her your love. 

The column was written and paid for by Susanna's elder sister Marianne, whom the aspiring singer had promised to write to every day. So it was that when months passed by and still no letters came, she again published an article to the Meade County News. This time, as a call to action.

Looking for our Susie

To those with connections in Seattle, or those travelling to the Seattle area for business, please be aware that the Brown Family is currently seeking to learn the fate of our youngest sister, Susanna, who travelled to the city last summer to learn the Opera Singer's trade. We are currently offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the return of our dearest Susie, or news of her whereabouts. All attempts to contact the Lace & Grey Academy have been fruitless. All help is appreciated.

Following this no records remain of the Susanna Brown investigation. For, as chilling as the case was, it was in all ways eclipsed by Sophia Daring's escape in the winter of 1928. 

It happened in February, during her third performance of Cleopatra's Night. Around 9PM, sometime during the opera's intermission, the young starlet disappeared from the theater, and took to the Seattle streets in nothing but her dressing gown.

While modern sources agree that this event was likely a misguided attempt to escape her patroness's clutches, it was reported at the time as a potential kidnapping, with all of the Emerald City sent out to comb the streets to return their beloved Willie's ward into her loving arms.

And sure enough, thirteen hours later, they found her. Huddled between two trash cans in an alleyway beside Pike's Place market. Though elated to have found their query unharmed, the police officer who attended the scene was equally disturbed by the nature of the girl he had discovered. In absconding with her typical flowing dress, the singer revealed herself to be abnormally thin, with brittle skin and deep-set eyes that flinched away from his lantern. So horrified was Sophia, it was said, at the prospect of returning to Wilhemina's care that she attempted to climb up the brink wall behind her, and tore off several fingernails in the attempt. Though she was eventually calmed and brought into custody, the photos captured at the scene told a story all their own. One in particular, titled Desperation, is still displayed at the Metropolitan museum in new York, and holds the following description:

Desperation. Kodak SLR. 

Credit: Vincent deLure. 

A young woman, dressed in the finest dressing gown, huddles against a wall in an alleyway, as if begging for help. Despite the richness of her garments, they seem to hang off of her limply, revealing the tautness of her flesh and the brittle state of her skin. In the morning light the camera captures every inch of her emancipated body, which has been smudged and smeared by grime. 

The woman, Sophia Daring, would go on to be one of the four survivors of the Lace & Grey Academy, which operated out of Seattle in the 1920s. This is the first recorded image of her since she entered the school in 1925, and marked the beginning of the Academy's fall from grace. 

Whether due to the sensationalism behind the case, or the horrifying implications present in the photograph, news of Sophia's failed escape soon reached national news. Within a month special editions flooded the streets of New York, Chicago, and even London; each bore the visage of Sophia Daring, emancipated and pale on the streets of Seattle. Abandoned by the world, and desperate for justice.

But despite all that no charges were ever filed, and Sophia Daring never sang again.

During all of this it must be remembered that Eleanor remained Lace & Grey's star student, with her performances providing much of the positive press that carried the school through the twenties, even as questions arose over Wilhemina's strange practices. All the way down the Pacific Coast the opera star sold out theaters, her willowy form showered with praise by critics and movie stars alike for its unrivalled femininity. Even Wilhemina herself, secretive and strict though she was at that time, was known to praise her granddaughter for her performances, stating once:

"She could even outshine me one day, if she bothered to learn some discipline."

That is why her murder made national news. 

On Christmas Day, 1928, Eleanor was found dead in her drawing room of a gunshot wound to the head. The bullet, which had hit her in her left temple, had killed her instantly while sitting at her vanity, and embedded itself in the wall beside her. Upon arriving at the scene, the police quickly found no one else in the residence but Virginia Buchannon– another student at the academy– who willingly admitted to the crime. As one account reads:

Not an hour passed on the scene before progress was made. I had only briefly arrived at the scene before the alleged killer, Virginia Buchannon, was escorted peacefully to an awaiting police vehicle on street level. Looking at her even from a distance there was nothing to mark the girl as a killer. Were it not for the spattering of blood across her ivory-white gown I would be hard pressed to believe anyone that frail and young capable of murder. Yet, that does not mean the scene was entirely without reason.

Readers of this paper may recall the attempted kidnapping of Sophia Daring earlier this year, and the image of her desiccated form circulated in the days after. Though at the time the state of the girl's body was attributed by some to the harsh weather or the stress of her first performances, this new case places the root cause in a different light. For, I tell you now that the state of Virginia Buchannon is just as dire as her fellow student, if not moreso. Her shoulder blades look to be carved of stone, with draped silk placed over in lieu of skin. Her features are sunken, with her figure so slight that she appears nearly unable to stand by her own strength. There can be no argument now that something rotten has occurred behind the doors of this prestigious academy, and I for one refuse to rest until the truth is known.

Therefore, hold tight my readers, for there will be justice for this. That I swear.

That account came from the mouth of one Nathan Wallard, a crime journalist of the Seattle Times. It is through his ongoing reports that the public came to learn of the horrors hidden in Grey & Lace. Of particular note is his account of Detective Matthews and his discovery of the first hidden chamber. Though often overshadowed by later entries, the report paints a vivid picture of the crime scene in the days after the murder.

Investigation is in full swing on the site of Lace & Grey Academy, with every patrolman lacking a direction sent to comb the residence for signs of foul play. Leading the advance is Seattle's very own Patrick Matthews, a detective from city hall known for his gruff demeanor. Not one to stand by listlessly, the detective has thus far made three sweeps of the Academy, with each thus far producing another oddity. Parasites, for one, have been found in great numbers within a secret chamber held adjacent to the master bedroom. Though a full inventory has not yet been completed, spectators have confirmed the presence of leeches, tapeworms, and even a few ticks in this menagerie.

What's more, I have just now been informed that yet another false wall has been discovered, this time beside the mirror in Eleanor's dressing room. Though whispers abounded about it being the location of the murder weapon, this new chamber appears to hold something else entirely. Something far worse. 

A bed, affixed with leather straps, and a rudimentary enema device. That is what the room contained. And upon its hardwood floor an arcane mark was carved. One whose purpose is yet to be deduced. Suffice it to say, the discovery turned the stomachs of those attending. 

In no uncertain terms, this new finding has generated a great shift in the atmosphere here on First Hill. What began as a senseless murder has instead descended into the depths of depravity, with each piece of evidence furthering the weight on everyone's hearts. For the sake of the girls who lived in this abode, I pray this is the last surprise we find in the days to come. 

Throughout all of this, Wilhelmina Lace was silent. She had spent the day before attending a Christmas gala in New York, and had left the academy in Francis Grey's care. Her business partner, however, had spent the night at his fiancé's apartments, and so was absent at the time of the murder. The result of all this was a crime scene filled with secrets, and no one to stop the police from delving further. As said by one onlookers on the fourth day of the search:

"They just can't stop finding false walls in there."

The police were quick to pick up on the brutal conditions Wilhemina forced upon her students. Each was given a quota of songs to master by certain time periods, and vocal exercises to repeat until they went hoarse. Those who misbehaved were punished with her "Lesson Rooms," which varied from isolation to exhaustion and even leeching. Each girl, in their own way, had learned how to behave in time, with none ever daring to disagree with their patroness on any matter. After all, who would believe them? What was their word against that of the illustrious Wilhemina Grey? In the end, perhaps it should have been everything.

Worst of all was Wilhemina's health course. True to Virginia's testimony, the investigation produced eighteen crystal decanters from within the residence. Each held the initials of a Lace & Grey student, and were meant to contain their daily meals. On average, it is believed that each girl subsisted on an average of 500 calories per day during the majority of their time on the property, with some mixtures theorized to have contained as few as 300 calories. Parasites were also used, to varying effect. Each had made their mark on the six students, and their bodies were proof enough.

In total, seven unmarked rooms were discovered on the property. Each held a purpose in the aging singer's curriculum, so Wilhemina claimed in court. Her students, however, told another story. As Willard wrote after interviewing the surviving girls.

Lesson rooms. That is what Wilhemina Lace called the seven torture chambers spread about her academy grounds. They were all plain chambers, invariably claustrophobic, and built for the sole purpose of depriving her students of their body weight, by any means necessary. Sauna treatments, enemas, and leeching were all on the table at Lace & Grey, with participation not only mandatory, but threatened at every occasion.

According to Virgina Buchannon, anything could land one a place in the Lesson Rooms. Even as small a thing as a sneeze or a bad performance could set off their governess. But the most common crime of all? Eating. By all accounts, it appears that there were two luxuries that the Lace & Grey Academy refused to provide to its girls: Food, and basic human decency. 

"Every day Mister Grey brought us three decanters of liquid. One for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for supper. On a good day they'd taste sweet. Like strawberry or lemon. On most days though they tasted like cabbage." Virginia Buchannon admitted to me in a private interview. Though the girl is a self-admitted killer, there is nothing threatening about her. Weighing in at a mere seventy-one pounds, she looks as light as a feather, with a face that is more cheekbones than skin. "Some days I didn't want to drink it. I just wanted to die. Or runaway. On those days Missus Lace would drag us to the Smile Room.

"What was the Smile Room?" I asked. "Can you tell me about that?"

At the question the girl shifts slightly, and I hear her bones press into her chair. 

"We called it the Smile Room because there was nothing in it but this symbol on the ground. It was drawn on with red chalk, and at the right angle it kind of looked like a smiling face? So that's what we knew it for." She clears her throat, and asks for some water. Unflavored, of course. I'm told that the hospital in which she is currently admitted has had a difficult time feeding the girl. I can see why. Even after re-introducing solid food into her body, her digestion seems to have been permanently altered by the torture done to it. Even the slightest of flavors can trigger nausea, it seems, and doctors are unsure if the effects can be reversed. 

"There was nothing to do in the Smile Room," Virginia eventually went on. "There was a lamp affixed to the ceiling, but it was just bright enough to prevent you from sleeping. So, when you were in there you had to learn how to sit. And wait. Sometimes, in the low light, I thought I saw a man standing in the corner. He was always looking at me. And he was always smiling."

When asked why she committed the murder she responded immediately, her eyes the very picture of sorrow. 

"It was the only way out. For all of us." 

Perhaps emboldened by this interview, or perhaps to make up for past mistakes, the Seattle police were quick to charge both proprietors of Lace & Grey with kidnapping, and put out a call for both their arrests. 

The authorities caught up to Francis Grey in Bellingham, where they found him attempting to flee into Canada on foot. The contemptuous landlord was said to have been a pitiful sight when the police dragged him back to Seattle. Through stress or starvation the man trembled like a leaf, and nearly collapsed upon being placed in his cell. As one guard recalled years later:

"If there was any food in that place it certainly didn't go to him."

Which at last brings us back to Wilhelmina. Perhaps thinking to maintain distance to the case in its opening days, the former starlet repeatedly refused requests to make a statement for the press. In the end, this ended up drawing only further scrutiny towards her actions, as she appeared unable– or indeed incapable– of expressing distress towards Eleanor's untimely death. Even after the apartment's hidden rooms were uncovered, even after the press published Virginia's interview, and even after the decanters were collected she maintained her silence. It was only upon Francis Grey's capture that she at last decided to comment, stating:

"Virginia Buchannon is a murderer. Francis may be a fool and a quack, but he did not kill my sweet Eleanor."

What followed was a legal circus the likes of which Seattle has still rarely seen, with charges launched from families and the state alike. Charges of neglect and attempted murder became as common as cod in the Emerald City, and in the midst of it all Wilhemina was forced to give many of her possessions over to the authorities as evidence, including Dr. Drumm's journals, and all they held within. None doubted Virginia's guilt, and none fought for innocence. Not when her timeline fell apart upon further scrutiny, and not when gunpowder residue was found on Eleanor's left hand. To the authorities, it was cruelty to bury, not a mystery to be solved. And so it is that even to this day the truth of Eleanor's murder is in doubt. Though all agree that it was her grandmother who was ultimately at fault.

I will not repeat verbatim the proceedings that followed, or labor over the decisions made by the jury. All that matters is that of the six students taken in by Wilhemina Lace in the spring of 1925, only three returned to their families. Eleanor is believed in this day to have died instantly from her injuries, though no gun was ever found at the scene. Susanna Brown, meanwhile, was discovered to have succumbed to starvation in the spring of 1927, with her body hidden beneath the floorboards for months. Virginia, meanwhile, willingly walked into exile. As women's prisons were not yet standard in the west coast she was instead exiled to a rehabilitation center near Spokane, where she went on to reside for the rest of her years. She spoke rarely to the press, and made but one more statement to the journalists who followed her across the Cascades: 

"I don't want to fight anymore. I'm just tired. And I miss Ellie."

After that, all documentation ceases.

As for the remaining students, Dorothy White and Sable McCollough both returned to their old lives, though refused to speak of their experiences in the years since. Sophia Daring, meanwhile, penned a four page statement for the state prosecution, to be read aloud during sentencing. When news of Virginia's fate reached her ears, she is said to have shed a single tear, but still refused to speak. Francis Grey, for his part, was convicted of neglect, kidnapping, and torture. For his crimes he was thrown into the McNeil Penitentiary, where he died of pneumonia in 1951. Said Nathan Wallard upon hearing the news:

"Really? It's about damn time."

But what of Wilhelmina, you ask? Well that, for many, was the biggest mystery of all. For, though the singer's guilt was agreed upon by many, the extent of her responsibility was another topic altogether. Many at the time cited Francis Grey as the mastermind, not their dear Willie, and were often torn between painting her as a senile fanatic and strict old grandmother; as such she was given a far less intensive sentence for her crimes.

Fifteen years. That is all Wilhemina Grey was sentenced to for her crimes. However, even more tragic than that, was that she only served five of them before her death. Most had passed in house arrest, wherein the frail Wilhemina Lace wandered her state, alone, singing an echoing aria that only her walls might know. When her body was found, limp as a dead flower, not even the flies were said to wish to feed upon it. 

And yet when Sophia heard of it, she laughed. Clear and true, for the first time in years. Even to this day, it is said her spirit still visits Wilhemina's grave, to hum atop it in victory, forevermore.

And so we come at last to Wilhemina's funeral, and the last act of this dreadful saga. 

The service was held in Lake View Cemetery, wherein the deceased Wilhemina was laid to rest beside her dearest Eleanor. Taking place in the late autumn fog, the ceremony was said to drag on for hours, and chilled many of the onlookers to the bone as they patiently watched their beloved Willie descend from the stage one final time. In attendance was Nathan Wallard and the then-retired Detective Matthews, who both saw the funeral as the end of a long saga in their lives.

But they were both mistaken. 

For, they were not the only enemies of the dreadful Wilhelmina Lace in attendance. Far from it. Rather, the ceremony had produced a great plethora of madmen from across the nation, with varying degrees of sympathy for the old woman. Some were critics, who wished to see her burn, but others were rivals, who saw her methods as lacking refinement. Yet, all of them knew of the source of her cruelty, and all of them coveted it. As Nathan Wallard went on to write of the event:

I have never seen a more loathsome collection of zealots and self-styled scholars as those who chose willingly to attend the Lace funeral at Lake View this past morning. Each of them were a spectacle; clad in a mis-match of doctor's robes, mourning attire, and businessware. Even they seemed uncertain as to their purpose in attendance, with some appearing ready to break out into a lecture just as easily as they might make an offer in cash for the old woman's body. When the casket was carried out, and its lid flipped open for one final viewing, I could not help but notice a gasp carry over the crowd at the sight of the woman's withered form.

However, perhaps more tempting to them even than that was the sight of Drumm's Journals, those rumored medical texts that Wilhemina so famously lusted over throughout her retirement. In total about sixteen books were buried alongside her. Though I triple-checked this number several times before the lid closed, I will admit that there is cause to believe perhaps there were more somewhere, perhaps fallen between the gaps in her rigid form. Regardless, the festivities concluded shortly after, with most in attendance choosing to remain until the last dirt was laid atop her. I, for one, was not so sentimental, and so left at my earliest convenience.

I mean to pen a personal description of the event to Virgina Buchannon in Spokane. I do not know if it will bring her any joy, but I pray she will at least be relieved to know that this long chapter of her life has at last come to a close. This journalist certainly is.

But perhaps none of these onlookers become more infamous than a certain businessman from Pennsylvania. One William Drumm, who claimed descent from the same Sigismund Drumm whom Wilhemina had once held in such high regard. The businessman had, in Wilhemina's final years, written extensively to the old woman, asking repeatedly for the chance to purchase back his grandfather's journals for any price. Indeed, as it became clear to investigators soon after the funeral, both William and Wilhemina had been in a bidding war with Michael Von Del for years, with Drumm in possession of his grandfather's final journal. The same one that had seemingly vanished from the world for years prior.

This is why, in the late hours of the morning, 1937, authorities found William Hallow with pickaxe in hand, attempting to rob the Lace family mausoleum like a common bagman. The man was quickly seized, and his stolen contents returned to the earth. In a statement to the police about the event he could say only:

"My grandfather's work should stay with the family. It is ours to use. Ours to preserve."

By this point it must be remembered that all of Seattle had grown exhausted of the Lace & Grey affair. So much so that even as the poor William Hallow was thrown into a penitentiary none listened to his cries of argument. None paid much attention to his warnings of what might be unleashed should be locked away, or his pleas to return him to his home state back east. Like the countless madmen, which his grandfather had ignored, he too was thrown into a pit to rot away, and later buried on prison grounds. Today the site of his grave is unknown, and not asked after either.

For what family did he have to take care of, and what secrets could the rag-laden lunatic truly hold? 

The answer would come quite soon, in the morning of 1937, one month after Wilhemina's funeral. On that day police were called to a residence in rural Pennsylvania, wherein a disturbance had been reported by the neighboring tenants. The residence, which the police quickly noticed was registered to William Drumm, was searched from top to bottom, with every wall and floorboard checked in the pursuit of false walls. In the end, they found exactly what they wished: a cellar door, hidden under a carpet in the back office. What the police found afterwards is still the topic of hushed whispers to this day, and is best documented through the words of Officer Alfred Lowens, who was the first down the ladder:

The cellar was cold. Terribly cold. At first it just looked like a regular storage space, but the stuff kept down there put me on edge. There were shelves, but not a scrap of food to be found. No cans. No preserves. Just these bottles of… Well, I don't know what to call it. Forensics says it's just some veggies and mint, but it smelled rank. There were also a few books scattered here and there, but none stood out at the time. Higgins says we stumbled on some satanist's library with the stuff we found, and honestly I don't know whether he was joking or not. 

Anyway, after clearing that room we continued in deeper. The next chamber was about the same size as the first, and estimated to be directly below the living room. That's where we found the victim, tied to a chair, and unresponsive. 

She was just an old woman. A terribly old woman, to be sure, but it wasn't just that. She was so thin. I thought she was dead at first, but Mackie claims he saw her breathe. So, he just thought she was sleeping. So, you know, he approached, as calm as can be, and attempted to wake her. 

No response. That's when I noticed the state of her skin. It was held taut to her bones, and it looked brittle. The whole woman looked like a piece of glass, ready to shatter. She couldn't have weighed more than fifty pounds, and that's counting the hair that she had matted down her back. Mackie was the first one to notice that she was strapped to the chair. The place where the leather bands met the skin looked raw and red. That's what made me want to release her. I thought it was the right thing to do.

And that's when she lunged for us.

I've never seen anything like it. One moment she was barely breathing, frail as a dove, and the next thing I know she kicks me over and grabs at Mackie's shoulders. Before I can react she throws him to the ground and begins biting at his throat. She moved so clumsily, like a dog with rabies. She looked desperate to sink her teeth into something– anything.

Mackie screamed and struggled, but could not seem to push her away. I tried to tackle her, but she held on with a strength I had never seen. It was as if in lieu of muscle or fat her body was constructed fully of bone, with her tendons locking into place to trap her prey in her grip. 

Then she turned to look at me. She only had seven teeth left, and all of them were covered in blood. Mackie's blood. Part of his cheek was dangling from her mouth, and she looked– I don't know, happy? Elated? I've never seen a smile like that before. 

That's also when I saw the tapeworms. In the dim light they looked like fingers emerging from her throat. My god, there were so many of them. They bit and picked at the bits of Mackie still trapped in her teeth. I was so horrified it took me a moment to realize she was trying to say something. 

At least, I think so. I couldn't make out any of what she said. Her mouth was just so full of those things. Out of instinct I raised my club and threatened her to back down. Instead, she pounced at me. She threw her whole weight on me like an animal, and twisted her legs about my torso like a squirrel trying to latch onto a tree. Her mouth stank of death and cabbage, and a red spittle was running down her chin. Then I felt her teeth sink into my neck. My next thought was "am I about to die?"

That's when Mackie hit her with his club. The whole time I thought my partner was dead, but he had managed to find his footing again and landed a solid blow to the back of the old crone's skull. She fell to the ground after that, limp. I guess she was pretty fragile after all. Still, just to be sure Mackie gave her one more blow between the eyes. The chief didn't like that, but honestly I'm with my partner on that one. Just, the way she moved. And her eyes. They were just… vacant. 

Anyway, I'm turning in my badge tomorrow in solidarity with Officer Mackenzie. Please treat this as my letter of resignation. Thank you. 

What is often emphasized in retellings is the sheer desiccation present in the cadaver found beneath the house. How it writhed and sputtered, and tried under all its power to speak, but could do nothing else but gurgle out sobs from a throat filled with tapeworms. On a desk beside her, the corpse held in her possession the last of Drumm's journals, which the police chose to keep with her person even as the figure was laid to rest.

Following this event, the Pennsylvanian police were quick to declare the matter settled, and so buried the journals' last victim in the soil far from where the public might find it. Though no one was left to confirm the body's identity, the coroner made their judgement based on the rate of decay, and the items found about the cellar. To this day the body is still buried in Mercer Island, beside the location of her husband's presumed demise. The tombstone reads:

Gertrude Drumm – Beloved Wife

1811 – 1937

Pflichtbewusst Bis Zum Tod