You take a closer look at the first portrait in this hallway. Now, if your Liberal Arts College education didn't fail you, you are pretty sure that this is Ranier Maria Rilke, an Austrian poet.

You've read some of his work. Actually, your favorite piece of his comes to mind when you think about this weird house. You think about Morgue, translated by Len Krisak

They lie here as if waiting. It's as though

some act — some something — might at last be found

for them to make the cold not matter so,

to get them used to those to whom they're bound.

For this is not — yet is — their final hour.

What sorts of names their pockets held might we

still find there? Though some dresser's tried to scour

the heavy boredom off their mouths, we see

that it's still there; it's just become more clean.

Their beards stand just a bit more stiff now, spiking

respectably, to their attendants liking,

so morbid gawkers will not take offense.

Behind their lids, the eyes have turned their sense,

till only what is inner can be seen.