18 November 2026
Wednesday. A recruit coughed in the cemetery last week and apologised to me, as though the fog were his fault. It is not his fault. It is the house’s fog, and I am rather proud of it.
My catacombs use theatrical mist, as does the Count’s graveyard, I am sorry to say. Anybody with asthma or a tender chest should speak to the house before booking, not after. The frights below Collins Street are mild, by design; I prefer a hunter alert to a hunter alarmed. Even so, anyone with a pacemaker or a heart that dislikes surprises should use their judgement.
There are buttons, too, in case a recruit needs to leave. Press one and the way out opens at once, and the rest of the party hunts on. Every corner is watched by the gamesmasters, who see a great deal more than I ever did with one lantern.
In my day, a hunter who needed to leave a crypt simply ran. I recommend the button. It is quieter, and nobody trips over the headstones.
— Prof. Van Helsing
