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The Underwood Collection
The Underwood Collection

Season 1, Episode 2 · 1 year ago

UND 01 - Prima Donna

ABOUT THIS EPISODE

Case #9980217. Statement of Aisha Lacombe, regarding the death of their friend, Emmett Long. Original statement given February 17th, 1998.


Audio recording by UC Bamba, Assistant Curator of the Usher Foundation, Washington, D.C.



Find us on Twitter @PitchLibrary! 


The Underwood Collection is edited, produced and directed by U. Cornelia Bamba. Today’s episode was also edited by Julian S. 


Today's statement was written by Luna Zephyr. 


The Underwood Theme, "some spooky sh*t is going on here,” was written by Theodore Goodwin. The Underwood Logo was created by Mae B.


Sound effects by toiletrolltube, freeborn, and Valentin Heidelberger via Freesound.org.


Performances: 

The Curator - U. Cornelia Bamba


Content Warning for: 

*Body horror

*Eye trauma

*Death

*Mentions of hearts

*Mentions of nausea



The Underwood Collection is a derivative, non-canonical, fan-made project derived from The Magnus Archives, an original horror podcast which is created and distributed by Rusty Quill Ltd. The Underwood Collection is not endorsed by Rusty Quill Ltd and is distributed under a Creative Commons, attribution, non-commercial sharealike 4.0 international license. For more information about or to listen to the original source material visit www.RustyQuill.com/TheMagnusArchives. 

The underwood collection is aderivative noncononical fanmade project derived from the Magni Sancise, anoriginal horror podcast, which is created and distributed by Rusty, PolLimited. The underwood collection is not endorsed by resting, Chel Limitedand is distributed under a creative Commons. Attributiton noncommercialshare o life four point out international license for moreinformation about the original source material vis at wwwot, rusty, pillcomAsh, the Magmasun cives, the underwood collection episode, onePimadonna, okay, sure sisting on all right looks like we're rolling couple of folks from the magnesinstitute told me: I need one of these eventually, apparently their boss, Jack or something I think he was around ISAresearcher there. Apparently he uses a tape or some of the more stubbornstatements which I'm beginning to understand. The advice was much appreciated, butdidn't make sense to me until this thing corrupted its own file, threeTomins and nearly break the computer, and I tried to save it so tape recorder. It is it's on just really doesn't want to betaken down at Seenes, but here we are also t morgan. I love you, but if thispiece of junk breaks halfway through my recording the statement simply will notbe going in the archites. Sorry all right. That said this is the statement ofIshela comb regarding the death of their friend Emmet long originalstatement. Given Seventeenth February Tond Ninetuedren and ninety eightrecording by UC bambar assistant, Curatr of the Asher Foundation,WASHINGTON DC statement begins. Everyone said to stay out of theMarisol Theatre. They said it was falling apart that you were likely toget yourself killed. If you went in there, they said it was a firehazardthat sometimes Rouh Croud hung out in the ruins M. Matt Noght had heard all of it, butno words ever coupled with the Marisol theatre as much as the hushedintornation of Prima Donna. The story had become as warped andtwisted as the wood and steel frame of the theatre, but every one knew theirown version by heart, and so we knew ours. It had all started in the SIES. Ofcourse, when the Marisou theatre was forty years, young still full of lifeand potential, and there was no one so...

...full of life and potential within it asgale Wallace. She, her young Balarina renowned withinthe area for her grace and beauty, became a darling of the marazol stagebathed in flowers and Apblus every night, as she wove and unraveled herbody praise and a claim due little toassuage the EGO. Unfortunately- and it said the dearest Starlit at the Famegoto her head, turning her passion into a frenzy, it said that she worked her backupdances to the bone until their feet fled, soaking their shoes and staindingthe stage Crimson. It said that her obsession led to herchristening as the Prima Donna of the Marizel. It said that one night, the exhaustedansob will finally refuse to perform any longer hours before the premier ofthe show that would bring sweet, gale, intenational, fame, tortured by ambition. It said that theenraged anser went on a back stage crusade, attacking her protestingaccompaniment. No one knows how the fire started, butwhen all was said and done, the remnants of the Marizol Theater Rallthat remained forlorn against the wind as it carried the ashes of a promisingtheatere an thei careers of a dozen ballarinas, including the dear GalWallace, who became known to the locals simply as the Prima Donna, the Husk of the theatre and a warpedlegend, was the sum of the whole affair too expensive to restore and tohistoric to demolish. The chard remains of awning and Filigre stood rotting inthe midst of a town that didn't know how to move on once. A source of local pride het nowbecame a canvase for Graffidi art and a fastering ground of broken glassbottles, vast food wrappers. It was a sore spot for many of the Oderresidence of the town, but m a and I were younger than most now. A passionof emystery and truth was far stronger than the confines of history. Stingwe'd never been inside the Marisol before, but oh how we would lingerwithin sight of the dusty facade, taking pictures of the ruins andrunning fingers along the smudged window sill. It was something of a fascination fromit. He and I had been friends for nearlyfive years at the time. It was a sort of friendship where youtend to notice longing looks directed towards the shadowed remains of an oldbuilding that all changed just one night, almostby accident and purely by chance it was after a night of drinking whenwe were walking by the cracked remains of the theatre. All of a sudden something stopped AmitDeni's track smidh step. I asked him...

...what was wrong? Do you hear that hesaid he had at pawed look on his face somewhere between andraptured anddeeply unsettled. We both fell, quiet, listening and surely enough. Drifting in the warmbreeze was the slightest strain of music. It was faint, the music tha curioussort of classical melody. I wasn't any kind of expert andcouldn't say ar certain what it was, but I did recognize the High Clar Songof a violin floating from within the ruins of theMarisol Theater. When I looked at Emma, he had alreadyturned towards the crumbling theatre and had begun to walk towards it. I should have stopped him, but I'd belying. If I said my own curiosity wasn't piqued we edged round the sunken chain, Linkefenced, ten circled the theatre and glass crunched under my shoes, as Iwent up to the OPAQE window door. Attempting to peer in and puzzle outwho was inside. All I could see was a fast empty darkness. Still The music played. It was strange: The music, the drug dealers that sometimes set uptemporary shop within the theater weren't the tipe to play classical andthe same could be said for the old teenager. Completing a dare was this someone practicing away fromprying eyes and ears the mystery only stretched on when wesaw the broken lock and the limp chains on the ground by the door that had oncebeen firmly shut. ammit gave it a gentle push, so thelast door creaking open. He crepped softly into the dusty foyere,and I followed him- has light from the street lamps cast a pointed glow on thefaded tile with in his head, was cocked to the side, still listening to the music as hefollowed it entering towards the heavy double doorsof the theatere. They were still open, still flush against a wall as if a paniced crowd had flung themaside in order to escape on the forgiving planes. Still, the music played Wal was dark from the stage to the Ros upon rows ofRed Velvet seats. The emptiness so heavy at left shadows found myself treading lightly acrossthe crusted plush of the carpet, as ammit made his way towards the darkenedstage as it loomed before us something about the air, a chrisp coolness. So, unlike the Balmyweather outside chelled me...

...still, the music played I trailed behind hem it as he slunk hisway back stage, still craning his ear to try and follow the music. It camefrom everywhere from the COBWEB reefed rafters to the folds of the endlessrows of swaying velvet curtains. It was dark too dark not could barely make out hissilhouette as the Violin's melody quickened growing louder, rising to aCrestendo, and it was only when I began to speak that a deep faroff click egoed out from the front like the soundof a stage light switching on even from back stage. I could see the halo of light and theodd twisting shadows that flickered across it emmet saw it too and snapped towards it. I followed farther behind him andsilently peered from the Wings taking refuge in the curtains as our eyes,adjusted to the new surroundings. The stage which had previously beendark and motionless was now ablaze with a CRIMP, clear brighness that shone sofiercely was hard. That say were at saucsars in the centre when nothing had beenbefore was a collection of moving figures. They were all women. I think Pale andclothed in white tall and silk that glittered in the oldly brilliant beamsof the spotlights there were eleven of them in a wide ever moving circle and in the centre dance to twelve. There was something off about the waythey danced. Thei movements were graceful, but theshift from imposed to pose was stiff and instantaneous. Like a stock motion,film, like they were doors being bent into shapes their arms and legs into far pastboodily restraints and their spines twisted like worms on a fish hook. The lead Ballorina was another story. She was faster, her body, undulatingand twisting so quickly that watching made me dizzy. She faced away from us. The dooll I saw were the muscles in herback rippling as she moved. I realized, then, that all the dancers were bleading, unlike the white of their costumes,their shoes were a dark red and something dark, a seat from the SOS anddripped on to the floor with every step,...

...but still they danced and still bat music played. I found Ino longer cared where it came from. I tried to step back as if I could creep away and pretendthat I'd never seen any of this, but an old faded board creaked under myfoot. It was that ECO that doomed the wholeaffair. It was that echo that stopped my heart damned my best friend the lead Balerina in the centre of thecircle ceised her movement, her two long lembs freezing in mid air beforeabruptly falling to her side, a curved back, wrenched itself straight shoulders, squared like a soldiers for a long terrible moment. She was still, as the other dancers continued thouhaunting routine. For I had Jack to the side she had possessed eyes. They would have met Emmet's hers far enough behind him that he was the only one she saw. The empty sockets were stretched wide.The eyelids almost gone, but still visibly painted with a garish stage,make up that streaked up past her eyebrows and down her cheeks likebrightly colored tears, her ivory face seemed to melt and Morfwith the music her cheek bones, bulging from under the skin as they shrunk andexpanded her Red Lips bledd into the rest of herface, stretching into an EERI smile that split the lower half of her jawfrom the top, and I was sure that if she had teeth,they would have been bad in a Wolfscrit, the circle parted and the Balarino strode forward fluidand purposeful, as her shoes left blood soaked footprints on the stage markingthe path that she travelled, I stood still within the wings as if remaining motionless couldpersuade the dances that I was part of the sircovered curtains and my heartstumbled in a terrified despair. The nearest she came emmit, however, though, just as rooted to the spot seemed transfixed, whether with admiration or fear. Icouldn't tell Ballarina took his hands gently racefully...

...thut. Her iron fingers were quick asthey sneaked around his wrists and chained him to her as she pulled himtowards the circle. He couldn't speak, but her touchstirred him and every time he tried to step away, he simply inched ever closer to thering of contortion. Her nails dug into his skin, piercingthe soft flash of his forearm with EAVE, and he cried out as blood welled up in the half mooncuts. It was at that sound at the Balarinadropped her pretense of coaxing him her face twisted into an expression ofunraptured Glee, an with a flax of her thin wrists. She heaved him past herthrusting him into the circle withinhuman force. I watched Emmett slide across the bloodsleg stage, as he fell roughly to his knees with agasp the circle closed round him I saw now another thing. I hadunsettled me about the dancers that graying skin was covered in thinwhite ribbons bound at the joints and stained with he yellow and red one dancer's neck was wrapped in suchtrimmings. A red smile weeping through another's arm was bent oddly, thecracked cross section of a bone jetting out from the elbow one. Balerina had peeled back thebodice of her costume. He skin melded to the fabric, revealing a jagged caftyin her side was filled with an intricate web of Gore touched threads,and I felt bile rise on my throat, four, more melted out of the circle andsurged towards him. Each seizing one of his limbs and adamp icy grip, the coarse palms of the dancers scraping his wrests and anklesroars. He thrashed. They held him there as he struggledsplade open like the decorative corpse of a butterfly the theatre lights and the fear in hiscries pricked the backs of my own eyes with tears, and I heard a horrified sobescape him as bloodied pointe shoes glided across the wooden stage towardshim once more still, the others danced still. The music played and still Iwatched, helpless and then the lead Balerina approached standing over him. She stood motionless for a moment there watching him writhe in the deadenedgrip of her accompaniment, and I was...

...sure that if she had eyes they wouldhave been a fire with Delight Emmet started to beg and in a perfect plier she swiftly bentdown and dug her two long fingers into his own wide terrified eyes. I swallowed back my own screams as hisreverberated into the endefvorent chambers of the theatere dying before they reached the world and still that music played, I couldn't move as I watched them.DISESSEMPLE imit. Perhaps if I've been able to focus onanything aside from the guttural cries of my dying friend Ot, the sound offlesh tearing, I would have been able to discern whether or not the far awaysounds of a clouse and cheering were real. It became easier to puzzle out, however, when I watched a blood slick handthrust itself into his open screaming mouth and for a moment he giged, I suppose the taste of decaying flashbefore his tongue was ripped from the back of his throat, silencing him Dod. I swear if he wasn't dead by thetime they slashed his throat and tore out his vocal cord, so that one of themcould sing. I hope he was gone by the time theyripped out his tendons and sinew to replace the ribbons around their joints. I don't know how I found the strengthto run away, or even when I finally did. All I remember is the cracking of limbstorn from their sockets and the sound of skin peeling away frombone. I remember finding myself outside anthe warm night ar stumbling away from the ruins that hadconsumed my friend and falling to my knees somewhere down the sidewalk toheave into the grass. I don't go by the Marisol theateranymore. I can help it and certainly not at night. Sometimes though, and not just in my nightmace, I can still hear that fate, almost inaudible song of a croning violin statement, ance and we're still running good for me andgood for you Morgan. You get to keep...

...this statement. Thank God. I think I'verecorded it what four times by an hour it's herrific. I understand that sayingI would rather get torn apart by Balerinas then reread. This is whatAdrian would call disrespectful, but she is the head of the foundation, notthe police, of bad humor, I'm surrounded by files all day. What am Isupposed to do? In all honesty, I'm actually surprisedby the fact that it's taken two whole months to need this tape reporter here and well. This statement has a certaingrasomeness that the others don't despite let all follow up mixd a combdeclined and interview. Unsurprisingly, and when I think castoask round, theysaid that few towns people confirmed, am it was reported missing a few weeksbefore this statement was given, the Marisol theatre is still standing inDaton Ohio, presumably with its unsavoury residents intact. You know it's nice to have researchassistance again. magnes gave me a lot of free rain, but really Wat's thepoint of having a PhD but to boss around stressed our over achievingtwenty somethings that's character, and I know Mars is technically archivalSTAFFNOC curitorial, but I count them on this because it's as likely thatthey're listen to me as thef. They listen to anyone. I say this as if I don't have to listen.To anything, frank tells me, but er guy can dream. Honestly. I forgot how much fun it wasto talk into a tape recorder. I used to do it all the time as a kid oon. My voice play it back, take out ofthe cassette chuck in the Tams like a message in a bottle but worse. Needless to say, my parents stoppdbuying me casete. I had an empty type record in my roomfor a while, until my sister stepped on it, which I maintain was on purpose,for I am deeply off topic now, like I said there wasn't much followepaside from the facts that cast got from calling around town and the lack that it won't record,digitally ther bloke from magnes math. You started with an a'm Christ,I'm terrible with names I used to work in the same building as them. I shouldknow this anyway. He said his boss pays a lotmore attention to the statements on the tape recorder and he seemed like he waspaying a lot of attention to a foremention boss. So I'm trusting his word and the contentsof this account. I suppose that there are implications here that decide. It's been a wonderful day.Loy Weather looks like it's going to...

...snow sure my husband will enjoy it there, awinter sort of person. seet. Look I'm just talking now. It's too tempting there's no temes nearby to throw thisinto, and I absolutely refuse to rerecord so Morgan you'll be gettingthis whole thing. rambles and all so sorry and recording the underwood collection is a podcastproduced and distributed by the Pitch Library. Creative tea find us ontwitter, at Fitch Library, on Tumberatwwwh, librarycom or contact usby sending an email to USA foundation at the UNDERWOODH theme was Ricgen byfuneal good one and the underwod logo was reated by. Maybe thank you forListeng.

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