The Brighton Arts Club, my treasured palace of artistry and intrigue, has always carried an air of the mysterious. Each room, with its peculiarities and imperfections, seems steeped in the whispers of its storied past. Today, however, the air is abuzz with rumors of a haunting—brought to me by Camilla, the jeweler who occupies the lower floor. She informed me, with great agitation, that she had refused to ascend the staircase this morning, claiming to have been "pushed" by some unseen force. Naturally, I felt it my duty to investigate.
The space in question revealed itself to be disappointingly devoid of ethereal energy. The most unnerving sight, truth be told, was a rather offensive growth of fungus marring the wall—a consequence, no doubt, of the persistent leak above. A ghost with any sense of dignity would hardly deign to linger in such conditions. As for the peculiarities of the light bulb, which steadfastly refuses to illuminate properly despite numerous interventions, I suspect a failure of the electrical system rather than a supernatural interference, though I am prepared to indulge the notion for the sake of entertainment.
I turned my attention to the trapdoor, a feature of the room that has always intrigued me. I have yet to summon the courage—or, perhaps, the recklessness—to explore beyond it, though I imagine it leads to either a barren attic or some long-forgotten relic of the building’s history. If a ghost resides there, I wish it joy of its solitude, for I shan’t be joining it.
The DJ booth, a lofty perch overlooking the club’s main floor, was my next destination. From this vantage, one can survey the entirety of the Arts Club—the studio below, where my own creative pursuits unfold, and the ground floor, where merchants and artists ply their trades. It is here that my feline companions, Dominicus and Bellatrix, so often take their nightly patrols. Dominicus, ever the roguish gentleman, prowls with the swagger of a seasoned lord, while Bellatrix, my delicate muse, prefers to observe from a regal distance, her demeanor one of quiet elegance.
The hauntings, however, are said to be most potent in the lavatories—a peculiar choice for a specter, though I suppose even the departed must find their amusements. My dear friend Sasha claims to sense the spirit of a disgraced drug peddler within the gentlemen’s quarters. She speculates that he met a grisly end, either at the hands of his rivals or as a consequence of his own misadventures. I remain skeptical, though I find the tale diverting.
The ladies’ lavatory, with its chill drafts and shadowed corners, has its own peculiar charm. Its window overlooks London Road, offering a view of the bustling city below. A small cupboard, tucked away in the corner, inspires much conjecture, though it has revealed nothing more sinister than an excess of cleaning supplies. If there is a ghost here, it is one of extraordinary subtlety.
The paranormal investigators are due to return in January with their instruments and their theories. They spoke to me with great solemnity of measuring "energies" and "frequencies," though their scientific jargon is lost on one accustomed to the more elegant vocabulary of the arts. For now, I find the entire affair amusing and oddly energizing. The Brighton Arts Club thrives under my stewardship, its walls alive with creativity and ambition. Ghosts or no, it is a palace fit for a Countess.
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