EP197: Click Clack!

the sign read above the door.

But it was more commonly known as the Velvet House.

Apparently it had been known as such in the Victorian times.

The locals weren't sure whether this was because of the decor inside the brothel.

Each piece of furniture covered in red velvet or whether it was the feeling the men got when they entered.

The local inhabitants of the town, which was home to Madame Margaret Marmalades, were very suspicious about the brothel.

Madame Margaret Marmalade.

Madame Margaret Marmalade.

Sounds like patty pepperoni.

Yeah.

Macaroni marmalade.

It had become a known haunt for ghost hunters and even TV shows on the supernatural, eager to determine whether the place was haunted by the ghosts of sex workers or the STIs that the men came in with.

Oh, they're disgusting.

Because let's be honest, it's always the men.

The programs never found much, to be honest with you.

There were always the usual dramatic moments.

A camera battery would mysteriously die.

Someone would gasp because they'd heard footsteps.

The media would clutch a crystal and announce in hushed tones, there's definitely a female presence here.

You're standing in a Victorian brothel.

A pessimistic crew member would mutter, there's always a safe bet.

Still, every October, another crew would arrive.

But last October, things started to change.

There were no more gusts of wind disguised as ghosts, no more creaking of floorboards made out to be footsteps.

Last October, Madam Margaret Marmalade's brothel woke up.

the sign read above the door.

But it was more commonly known as the Velvet House.

Apparently it had been known as such in the Victorian times.

The locals weren't sure whether this was because of the decor inside the brothel.

Each piece of furniture covered in red velvet or whether it was the feeling the men got when they entered.

The local inhabitants of the town, which was home to Madame Margaret Marmalades, were very suspicious about the brothel.

Madame Margaret Marmalade.

Madame Margaret Marmalade.

Sounds like patty pepperoni.

Yeah.

Macaroni marmalade.

It had become a known haunt for ghost hunters and even TV shows on the supernatural, eager to determine whether the place was haunted by the ghosts of sex workers or the STIs that the men came in with.

Oh, they're disgusting.

Because let's be honest, it's always the men.

The programs never found much, to be honest with you.

There were always the usual dramatic moments.

A camera battery would mysteriously die.

Someone would gasp because they'd heard footsteps.

The media would clutch a crystal and announce in hushed tones, there's definitely a female presence here.

You're standing in a Victorian brothel.

A pessimistic crew member would mutter, there's always a safe bet.

Still, every October, another crew would arrive.

But last October, things started to change.

There were no more gusts of wind disguised as ghosts, no more creaking of floorboards made out to be footsteps.

Last October, Madam Margaret Marmalade's brothel woke up.