Why does Mrs. Dubois refuse to reveal the provenance of her most valuable pieces, and what happens to bidders who ask too many questions about certain lots? Which items return to auction despite being sold to winning bidders, and why are some sales conducted only by invitation? What's locked in that climate-controlled basement vault?
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You can buy history, but you can’t buy a culture.
― Nathan Mirts
Welcome to Mrs Dubois Auction House!
It was on a cold, foggy evening that I first stumbled upon Mrs. Dubois’ Auction House, nestled at the end of a winding street. The building’s gothic exterior, with its ornate carvings and large, heavy wooden doors, immediately captured my attention.
The ground floor housed two lavish auction rooms, each filled with artifacts from around the world. Their origin stories were whispered among the guests, tales of treasures acquired from haunted houses, cursed tombs, and the lairs of dark creatures. The auctioneer, a tall figure with sharp features, would often tell of how the items had come into Mrs. Dubois’ possession. But no one dared ask about the woman herself.
It was rumored that the first floor held a private auction room, reserved for the most exclusive clients. This chamber of dark desires was said to be home to the rarest and most cursed items.
Late one evening, as the last light of dusk faded, I decided to venture up to the first floor. My footsteps echoed eerily in the empty corridor. The door to the private auction room was slightly ajar, revealing an expanse of darkness. But it was Mrs. Dubois’ bedroom that I was drawn to.
The room was bathed in the soft, eerie glow of a single candle. Amidst the opulence, a grand four-poster bed stood as the centerpiece. But what caught my attention was an old-fashioned closet. Something within whispered for me to come closer, beckoning me towards its shadowed interior.
Upon closer inspection, nestled behind layers of velvet dresses and old fur coats, a cold metallic edge gleamed. It was a secret safe. My fingers danced over the dial, seemingly guided by an invisible hand. As the door of the safe slowly creaked open, an icy chill ran down my spine.
Inside lay a single, aged parchment. It was a letter, written in elegant script, presumably by Mrs. Dubois. The words revealed a haunting tale of lost love, betrayal, and an unspeakable pact made with the shadows. The date on the letter was from over a century ago, yet Mrs. Dubois’ haunting visage in the portraits around the house looked no older than the day the letter was penned.
Suddenly, the candlelight flickered as a chilling breeze filled the room. I could feel the presence of someone, or something, watching. As I turned to leave, the silhouette of a woman appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Dubois, her eyes dark voids, her voice a soft, haunting whisper.
“You’ve found my secret,” she murmured. “But some stories are best left untold.”
