You’ve found the second floor storage room. Chunks of flesh and other body parts are strewn about the room. It is clear this is where most visitors to the house end up. You feel a searing pain in your back and turn to see a dementedly grinning man raising a bloody hatchet. He hacks you into pieces, and you watch in spirit form as he adds to the grisly stockpile. You always wondered what opera managers lived on. Now you know.