Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
Death Of Mind Mind: The One Who Spoke In Riddles
The deepest truths aren't spoken—they're carved into riddles we leave for ourselves to find.
Detective Walter Grayson has been chasing the mysterious Greenbrier through a labyrinth of riddles, but tonight, the pursuit takes a devastating turn. Under an ancient oak tree at Brockwell Asylum, he unearths a box containing items that shouldn't exist: his hospital bracelet from 1974, a knife bearing his initials, and Polaroids showing impossible scenes from a past he doesn't remember living.
As Grayson and his partner Laura Black venture deeper into the abandoned asylum, they discover walls covered in riddles written in his handwriting—some fresh, some decades old. A spiral pattern leads them through haunted corridors while post-punk anthems from Joy Division, The Cure, and The Smiths emanate not from speakers but from the building itself, each lyric a piece of a confession Grayson has been avoiding.
What begins as a detective story transforms into something far more profound: an excavation of memory, a confrontation with buried truths, and the terrifying realization that Grayson might not be hunting the Greenbrier—he might be the Greenbrier himself. Every riddle is a confession in disguise, every spiral a path back to the self, and every silence a truth waiting to be spoken.
This episode isn't just about supernatural horror; it's about the boxes we all bury, the patterns we circle without recognizing, and the witnesses who see the truths we pretend not to know. Through five powerful reflections, you'll be challenged to examine your own riddles and face what you've been avoiding. Because as Grayson discovers, peace of mind doesn't come from cleverness or forgetting—it comes from finally speaking the words you've been afraid to say.
The Greenbrier doesn't live in the shadows. He lives in the questions you refuse to answer. He will wait until you finally speak.
Ready to confront your own riddles? Connect with me through the description link, email anthony@gentsjourney.com, or find me on Instagram @mygentsjourney. Remember: you create your reality.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode eight of the death of peace of mind. My goodness, we're almost done, guys. It's crazy these things that happen so fast. So talk about that, let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening. Cold open beneath the tree. Brockwell never sleeps. The building's dead but it breathes. Windows like blank eyes, walls humming with drafts that sound like whispers trying to rhyme.
Speaker 1:Grayson parks at the edge of the cracked lot, headlights cutting across the weeds taller than the rusted fence. The clock on the dash flicks to 2.13 am, a number that feels deliberate. He kills the engine. Silence drops heavy, except for the wind dragging across the asylum's husk. He lights a cigarette and exhales, watches the smoke twist into the cold. For a moment he thinks it looks like words, syllables strung out of ash, but the wind scatters him before he can read. The tape of Danny Stroud sits in the passenger seat. He almost left it at the precinct but something told him to bring it like. The tape wanted to witness what came next.
Speaker 1:The oak trees wait at the far edge of the yard. He remembers it from the reports patients used to scratch riddles in the bark. Words carved over words, until the trunk looked like it was growing an alphabet. Half of them nonsense, half of them codes. All of them were warnings. Tonight, the branches sway, groaning in the wind, the sound bending into sentences. Who waits? Who speaks? Who remembers?
Speaker 1:Grayson grips his coat tighter and walks across the dead grass. Every step feels rehearsed, like he's following chalk lines. Only he can see At their roots something waits half buried, rusted hinges poking out of the dirt A box. He crouches, lights his lighter, let's the flame crawl across the surface. The lid is warped, eaten by weather, but the outline is clear A lock long broken. The flame sputters and for an instant he swears. The scratches across the metal spells his name. He digs with his hands, dirt under his nails, cold, cutting through his bones. The bach resists, then gives, dragging free with a groan that sounds too much like breath.
Speaker 1:Inside a leather journal, edges chewed by rot, a knife, initials WG etched into the handle. A hospital bracelet. His name dated May 10th 1974. Film negatives curled into themselves like burned snakes, and Polaroids Dozens. The pages are filled with spirals, some neat, some frantic. Between them, rudallles scrawled in his handwriting.
Speaker 1:To remember is to betray. What is a man who speaks to truth at once. The answer waits where the silence ends. His throat goes dry. He doesn't remember writing any of it, but the loops, the slashes, he knows they're his. The knife gleams faintly and the lighters glow WG. He ropes his thumb across the engraving. His pulse jumps. He doesn't remember owning a blade like this, but his hand fits it like it's its home. But his hand fits it like it's its home.
Speaker 1:The negatives are worse. He holds one to the flame. It's room 217. Same dresser, same mirror. But in these frames the mirror isn't reflecting the room, it's reflecting him. Dozens of them, some turned away, some staring straight at the lens. The hospital place. It slides cold across his palm.
Speaker 1:His name Walter Grayson, may 10th 1974. The date bites. That's the day his counselor died in Brockwell. The day the report said a patient escaped. He never tied it to himself, not until now.
Speaker 1:The wind kicks harder than the branches, a rhythm forming like syllables, like chanting. And then he sees it, one Polaroid, fresher than the others, Not him, black, young and teenager, maybe Standing under this same tree, head turned towards the camera, a red matchbook in her hand, the date scrawled at the bottom edge in red ink May 10th 1974. Grayson grips, tightens the Polaroid, shakes in his hand. That's impossible. She wasn't there, she couldn't have been. Unless she was, unless she's been a part of the script from the beginning. The branches thrash overhead, bending into words he can't ignore. What is buried will bloom. What you spoke, you will forget. What you forget will speak again.
Speaker 1:Grayson shoves the poilute into his pocket, slams the box shut, dirt covers his gloves as he pushes it back into the ground deeper this time, like he can force it out of existence. But the whispers don't stop. They circle him, rise with the wind. The riddles turn into one clear line, hissed from the branches like a verdict. This isn't where it begins, it's where it ends. When the riddles turn into one clear line, hissed from the branches like a verdict, this isn't where it begins, it's where it ends. Grayson Lighter dies, darkness folds over him and that's when the song bleeds through the air, echoing the bunny man, the killing moon, not from a radio, not from a car, from the asylum itself, vibrating faintly through the broken windows. The guitar line is low and inevitable. I am a callous voice carrying through the night Fate, up against your will, through the thick and thin. Grayson stares at the building, cigarette burning, down to the filter, the riddles, the Polaroid, the bracelet, the knife, every piece leads here, not to a killer waiting in the shadows, but to himself. The song drifts higher, wrapping the night inevitably Under the moon. I saw you, soon, you'll take me Graceland, whispers into the dark. This isn't where it begins, this is. This is where it ends. The branches sway. One more answering in riddles. The lighter sparks, useless in his hand.
Speaker 1:Part One, the First Door, brockwell, looms like a mausoleum. The front steps are cracked, weeds pushing through concrete seams like veins. Grayson climbs them slow, every footstep heavy, deliberate, as if the building is measuring the weight of his arrival. Iron door groans when he pushes them, openinges shrieking like they remember him Inside dust, mildew, the smell, a sweet rot Of a place abandoned but not forgotten. His lighter flares Painting the hallway in nervous fire. The sound comes first, not from a speaker, not from a radio. It not from a radio. It seeps through the walls, muffled but unmistakable. The Smiths how soon is now the opening? Tremolo guitar shivers like a migraine behind his eyes. I am the sun and the air of shyness that is criminally vulgar.
Speaker 1:The lyrics slide down the corridor, echoing off each tile and plaster. Grayson exhales smoke, watching it curl into the dark. The building is humming his nerves back at him, turning memory to a soundtrack. He mutters to himself you shouldn't know that song, but Rockwell does. The hallways line with doors, bolster, sealed. Some hang open rooms, gutted, bed frames overturned like broken ribs. On the walls, carvings, hundreds words etched deep, overlapping until they look like graffiti in tongues. Wait, remember betray. And some are his handwriting. He runs his fingers over the grooves. The W slash, the way he used to sign reports in the early 70s, the R's jagged and patient. He doesn't remember carving them, but the muscle 70s, the R's jagged and patient. He doesn't remember carving them, but the muscle memory does. His hand tingles.
Speaker 1:The song thunders on the chorus, dragging its weight down the hall. You shut your mouth. How can you say I go about things the wrong way? The words land like an accusation. Grayson drops his cigarette, grinds it out on the tile. A flashlight beam cuts through the dark behind him. Walter, it's black.
Speaker 1:She steps through the doors leather jacket, damp from the rain, boots tracking mud across the marble. Her face is calm but her eyes scan the hallway, sharp Cataloging. You couldn't wait. He shakes his head. Didn't think it would wait for me. She looks at the carvings, runs her fingers across one. Her expression falters. Some of these are old, she says. They all are no, she signs her leg closer. This one, this one's fresh. The word now gleams raw and splintered as if it was carved in the last few hours. Grayson feels his stomach twist Not possible. She studies him, unless it's not supposed to be. They move deeper. The asylum seems to breathe with them, exhaling dust. Each time they step, the song follows, louder, softer, bending with the walls as if it knows where they're going before they do.
Speaker 1:Black slows, her light catches on the carving, laura, her breath hitches, she doesn't say anything, but Grayson sees it in her shoulders. That's not you, he mutters, but she doesn't answer. You, he mutters, but she doesn't answer because deep down she's not sure. They stop at a junction, two quarters spreading like veins, one left, one right, both lined with doors. The air is colder here. Black crosses her arms, scanning which way Grayson listens. The song trembles faintly from the right, the guitar shimmer, bending like it's bleeding through the concrete. He points there. She rises an eyebrow. And if that's where exactly it wants you to go, then we're on script. She doesn't like the answer, but she follows the right corridor, narrows, walls closing in.
Speaker 1:The doors here are worse, scratched, gouged, as if hands had clawed to escape. Some are stained, dark patches spreading like shadows that never left. One door stands out Number 217. But not just numbered Initialed WG, burned into the wood. The lock is twisted, bent, but intact, sealed from the inside. Grayson steps closer. His lighter flares. The initials stare back, undeniable. He reaches for the handle. It doesn't budge Behind him. Black's voice is low, steady. Walter, why is your name on the door? He doesn't answer Because the real question isn't why it's there, it's why he doesn't remember putting it there.
Speaker 1:The song crashes again louder, drowning the hall. There's a club. If you'd like to go, you can meet someone who really loves you. The lyric feels like mockery, echoing through the asylum like laughter. Gracie leans his forehead against the door, hand flat on the initials. The wood is cold. From inside, faint and deliberate, comes the scrape of a chair leg. Something or someone is waiting. He whispers almost to himself. First door Black's flashlight trembles in her hand. The sound inside stops. Grayson's hand lingers on the initials. His breath fogging the wood trembles in her hand. The sound inside stops. Grayson's hand lingers on the initials, his breath, fogging the wood. The scrape doesn't come again. The silence on their side feels heavier than any voice. Black whispers, don't. He steps back. The flashlight beam cuts across the peeling wallpaper, then down the hall away from the door. They leave Brockwell behind, but the weight doesn't leave them.
Speaker 1:Part 2. The Diner. The rain hasn't stopped since Brockwell. Grayson drives with the wipers ticking slow, cigarette smoke bleeding into the windshield haze. Black sits quiet in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching the road smear past. Neither of them say it, but both know the initials on the door are still sitting in the car with them.
Speaker 1:The diner appears like a ghost at the edge of the highway. Neon sign, half dead. The word eats flick, flickering, buzzing in the rain. A trucker's rig idles out, front, engine rumbling like a distant thunder. Grayson pulls in, kills the lights. They sit in silence for a beat before stepping into the night.
Speaker 1:Inside the diner hums, low Fluorescence, buzz, overhead, jukebox humming, static. Between the night Inside the diner hums, low Fluorescence, buzz, overhead, jukebox humming, static. Between the songs the air smells like burnt coffee and grease soaked into vinyl. A waitress with a cigarette voice drops menus without asking Sit anywhere. They slide into a booth.
Speaker 1:Grayson takes the seat with his back to the wall, eyes sweeping the room, two truckers at a counter, a man alone in the corner booth, head bent low over a mug. That's it. Black watches him. You've been here before. He doesn't answer, not because she's wrong, but because she's right. The waitress brings coffee. Black stirs sugar without drinking. Grayson lets his sit. The steam curls into the words he almost understands. Silence stretches. Black finally breaks it. You gonna tell me what you saw at the door. Grayson lights another cigarette. I saw my initials. I saw that too. That's not an answer. He exhales. Watch as the smoke drift toward the neon reflection in the window. Some doors you don't open, then why were you about to? He doesn't answer, not because she's wrong, but because she's right.
Speaker 1:The man in the corner booth starts whispering. At first. Grayson thinks he's talking to himself, muttering. The words carry soft and deliberate. Not all questions want answers. Black looks up, meets Grayson's eyes. The man continues, voice like gravel dragged across glass. The one who waits is not the one who speaks. The one who speaks is not the one who remembers. And the one who remembers and the one who remembers. He pauses, always lies. Grayson's hand tightens around this mug. The jukebox clicks, music slides in low at first, then pulsing sharp. Peter Gabriel intruder. The drumbeat thuds like footsteps. Donald Hall, I know something about opening windows and doors. I know something about making you look Black stiffens.
Speaker 1:You hear that Grayson nods slow. The lyric syncs with the whispers overlapping until they sound like one voice. The man's head is bowed but his lips move, with the whispers overlapping until they sound like one voice. The man's head is bowed but his lips move with the song. The waitress doesn't notice. She wipes counters, refilling truckers' mugs. The normal world keeps humming oblivious, but in the booth the rules are different.
Speaker 1:Grayson leans forward. Who are you talking to? The man doesn't lift his head, just keeps whispering. You asked the question, you buried the answer. You carved the riddle so you wouldn't have to confess.
Speaker 1:Grayson feels the room tilt. Say that again. The man chuckles. This sound fills the room. Tilt. Say that again. The man chuckles. This sound is dry and empty. You wrote the script. You forgot the performance.
Speaker 1:The jukebox thunders Peter Gabriel's voice, jagged and sharp. I come sneaking up your stairs. I know when you're alone. Black snaps, voice sharp enough. The man finally looks up. His eyes are blank, not blind, just empty. He smiles, sliding a napkin across the table without standing. His lips don't match the whisper that follows. This isn't where you eat, this is where you choke. Then he stands, leaves cash on the counter, walks out into the rain. Truckers don't notice, the waitress doesn't glance up. The bell above the door jingles once in silence.
Speaker 1:Grayson reaches for the napkin. His fingers tremble as he unfolds it. A riddle scrawled across in red ink. What has a mouth but never speaks. Wait but never leaves and lies until remembered. Black frowns. That's your handwriting. Grayson stares at it. The letters are jagged, the R's are slashed, the ink bleeding into the fibers like it's been there for years. He shakes his head. I didn't write this. Black voice drops, not tonight. The jukebox cuts. Silence falls like a curtain. The napkin trembles in his hand. He can't tell if his fingers are shaking or the words are moving on their own.
Speaker 1:Part 3. The Grave, the rain thins into a mist. By the time they circle back to Brockwell, the lot is empty, the asylum looming quiet. But the air feels different now, charged and waiting, grayson kills the engine. Neither move at first. The napkin with the riddle sits between them, its edges damp with condensation.
Speaker 1:Black finally breaks the silence. You think he followed us here. Grayson shakes his head. He didn't follow, he led.
Speaker 1:They walk the ground slow, boots sinking into mud. The mist clings heavy, muting the night until shapes emerge Iron gates half-buried in weeds. Beyond them, headstones, brockwell's Graveyard, the gates groan open under Grayson's shove. The hinges shriek into the mist, a sound that feels too much like protest. The cemetery spreads across the hill, stones leaning, cracked, some broken entirely. But what catches them isn't the decay, it's the writing, not names, not dates, riddles Carved deep into stone. Faces, what waits but never leaves. What speaks but never leaves. What speaks without a tongue. What lies until remembered.
Speaker 1:Grayson, lighter, flickers, tracing the grooves. His chest tightens the slash W, the jagged R, his own hand etched into stone. Black circles, another gray brush, his moss off the face. Her breath hitches, walter. He steps closer. The words are carved, neat and deliberate, laura Black. Below it, a dash blank space waiting. Her voice drops sharp as glass. Tell me, tell me, this isn't yours. Grayson swallows hard. His mouth is dry. I didn't carve that. She glares at him. But you could have. He doesn't argue Because she's right.
Speaker 1:The mist swirls low, curling around their boots. A sound rides under it, low, pulsing. Not wind, not rain, music, joy division, atmosphere. It doesn't come from the asylum, it doesn't come from any speaker. It seeps from the ground as though the earth itself hums the track. Don't walk away in silence.
Speaker 1:The lyric drifts across the graves, hollow and mournful. Black steps back, arms wrapped tight across her chest. What the hell is this place? Grayson scans the stones. They aren't random. They're arranged in lines forming a spiral inward. At the center, a mound of earth, fresh, a grave not yet settled.
Speaker 1:They walk closer. The soil is loose, wet, sinking under their boots. No marker, no followers, just initials scratched into a slab of wood. At the head, wg. Grayson stares, cigarette shaking between his fingers. That's not possible. Black's voice is ice. It's waiting for you. He crouches, touches the soil. It's damp and soft. And then then he hears it a rhythm under the song, not thunder, not rain shovels, the sound of digging, steady, deliberate, from beneath the earth. He jerks his hand back, stumbles a step. The cigarette falls into the mud, hissing out. The song swells, ian Curtis' voice, low and haunting. People like you find it easy, naked to see, walking on air. The grave shudders. Platt grabs his arm Walter, we need to go. But he doesn't move, his eyes locked on the soil, on the faint vibration rising through it, digging Someone or something still working. He whispers barely audible. It's not where they bury me. The ground pulses once more.
Speaker 1:Part 4. The Chapel, the graveyard, spirals into silence after the last vibration. Black doesn't loosen a grip on his arm until they've crossed the far edge, where another structure awaits the Chapel. It leans against the mist like a confession booth left to rot. Roof sagging, stained glass fractured in a jagged mosaics. The double doors hang from rusted chains broken long ago. Grayson stops a few feet short. The air here is colder, sharp enough to sting his lungs. Black scans the ruins jaw set, you knew this was here. He shakes his head. I don't know about anything anymore. The chains creak, swinging slightly, though there's no wind.
Speaker 1:Inside the chapel smells like mildew and ash. The pews are split wood soft from rot. Candles long melted into the stone floor have hardened to white drips that look like bone fragments. The altar stands crooked at the far end. Behind it the crucifix had been stripped away. In its place a slab of stone carved with words. Black's flashlight passes across the surface. The words shift as the being moves. Not graffiti, not fixed.
Speaker 1:The riddles are alive. At first they blur, then rearrange, sentences form and dissolve Like the stone is deciding what the truth it wants to tell. Grayson steps closer, lighter flaring. What is silence, but memory unfinished, the words fade. What is confession, but rehearsal letters crawl again.
Speaker 1:What is Walter, but Brookwell's patient? His throat locks, the flame trembles in his hand. Black sees it too. She turns her face, caught between anger and fear. You gonna tell me what this means. Grayson swallows hard. It's wrong, is it? Her voice cuts sharp Cause your initials are on doors, your handwriting's on graves, and now this place is calling you its patient. He excels. Smoke doesn't meet her eyes. I came here once, back then after a Stroud case. I thought it was for observation, temporary. Her silence weighs heavier than the words on stone. He forces himself to continue. What if it wasn't, what if I was never just a visitor? Black stares at him, a flash that trembles in her hand. Walter, were you a cop when you came here? The question drops like a hammer. He doesn't answer because he doesn't know anymore.
Speaker 1:Chapabelle tolls low, guttural shaking the rafters. Dust rains from the ceiling. Black jerks her light upward. The rope is gone, cut clean years ago. The bell shouldn't move. But it does.
Speaker 1:Another toll and another, each one, slower, heavier, echoing through the cemetery like a countdown. The music rises with it, not from the jukebox, not from the speakers, from the stone itself. The cure All cats are grey. The scents seep into the air, funeral endless. I never thought that I would find myself. The lyric carries through the chapel like a sermon. Grayson leans on the pew, breathing heavy eyes locked on the altar. The stone shifts again. The letters crawl into place, sharper and red, carved deeper than before. Black whispers almost to herself it's writing for you. The words finish themselves as they watch Open the first door. Again. The flame gutters. The song drags long, slow and inevitable. Grayson's voice cracks in the quiet. I can't. Black steps closer, her face pale in the light. Then it'll open for you. The bell tolls once more, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Speaker 1:Part 5. The Spiral, the chapel's last bell, still hangs in their ear. When they step back into the mist, brockwell looms ahead taller now Windows like watchful eyes. The asylum has been waiting. They cross the yard without speaking. Black keeps close, flashlight beam jittering over gravestones and weeds. Grayson smokes in silence, the ember bobbing in the dark like a warning light.
Speaker 1:The front doors of Brockwall gape open. They left them shut. Inside the air is colder, heavy with mold and iron. The sound greets them instantly distant, distorted but steady. Joy Division Colony. The bassline grinds like gears on the walls. The drums stomp in a mechanical march, a cry for help, a hint of anesthesia.
Speaker 1:The lyric echoes down the corridor. Black straw is tightened. It's pulling us in. Grace inflicts an ash to the tile. Let's see where it leads. The hallways have changed. Doors that once opened now vanish into blank walls. Borders stretch too far, bending into the angles that shouldn't exist.
Speaker 1:The asylum folds into itself into a labyrinth, a spiral pulling them deeper. Words cover the walls, not graffiti, riddles carved straight into plaster, spiraling from floor to ceiling. What are lies? But rehearsal for the truth. The writing twists inward, pulling them towards the core. Grayson runs his hand across one line. His glove smears dust from grooves carved sharp and recent. This wasn't here before. Black stops Then. Who put it there? Neither answer, because the answer doesn't need to be spoken.
Speaker 1:They follow the spiral down. Stairs creak underfoot, deep in their asylum's belly. The song follows colony, grinding relentless, its rhythm synced to their heartbeat. At the landing, the spiral tightens. The walls bleed riddles. Black shines her light across them, words flickering in and out, as if moving under the beam. She mutters this is a map. Grayson exhales smoke, a trap. The words rearrange under her light, twisting until they form a single command Say it. The paint drips red down the wall.
Speaker 1:They reach the core of the spiral, a circular chamber, floor blackened by fire, ceilings collapsed into shadows. In the center, a chair bolted to the ground, straps dangling like veins. The walls are covered floor to ceiling in riddles, layered cross, rewritten, some fresh, some decades old, and in the middle of the floor, chalk lines, a spiral, black stares. The hell is this? Grayson doesn't answer. His breath clouds the air, cigarette trembling.
Speaker 1:The riddles blur, then sharpen in illegible phrases. You will remember wrong, you will confess without knowing. You will speak the riddle. Until it speaks you, the music swells, iain Curtis' voice cutting, jagged through the air. God, in his wisdom, took you by the hand.
Speaker 1:Grayson steps towards the chair. His boots echo into the chamber. He runs his fingers across the straps. The leather is cracked but warm. Walter Lex's voice is steady but tight. Don't sit in it. He doesn't. But he doesn't move away either. The riddles pulse right across the wall, the spiral tightening, the words chanting themselves Say it, say it, say it.
Speaker 1:Grayson grips the arm of the chair, whispering. I don't know what it wants me to say. Black steps closer, her hand brushing a soldier yes, yes, you do. The riddles shift, the words crawl until one sentence remains, stretching across the walls like a noose. The green briar speaks. The song slams into its final verse. Curtis' voice raw tearing. God and his wisdom took you by the hand. The chamber hums with the lyric Song slams into its final verse. Curtis's voice raw tearing. God and his wisdom took you by the hand. The chamber hums with the lyric. The spiral grows faintly on the floor. Grayson's cigarette burns down to his fingers. He doesn't feel it. Black whispers terrified. Walter don't, but the spiral is already chosen.
Speaker 1:Part 6 Beneath the Tree, the spiral doesn't chosen. Part 6. Beneath the Tree, the spiral doesn't end in the asylum, it spills back outside. Grayson and Black push through the doors, boots sinking into the mud, rain misting across the yard. The asylum hums behind them, but the pull isn't there anymore. It's shifted Toward the oak. The branches sway without wind. The bark glistens. Damp Words carve deeper than before. Riddles crawl across the trunk like vines. What waits but never leaves, what lies until remembered. What is Walter but Brockwell's patient? The roots bulge upward, soil split, dirt spilling like something has clawed its way out.
Speaker 1:The box no longer buried, waiting, grayson kneels, cigarette trembling between his fingers. The box looks the same, rusted, warped. But the lock has reformed, twisted back into place as if it had never been broken. Black stands beside him, arms folded tight. Don't open it. He excels. Smoke Voice raw. It doesn't matter if I do. It already opened. The lock clicks under his hand. The lid groans Inside.
Speaker 1:The journal. Pages swollen, ink bleeding, but alive. The knife with his initials gleaming sharper than before. The hospital bracelet now etched with the second name beneath his Black Polaroids. Fresh.
Speaker 1:Grayson's breath catches as he pulls one free the oak tree, two figures beneath it, him and Black. Not now, not tonight, decades earlier. She's younger, he's younger, both standing side by side staring to the lens like they knew what was coming. The date scrolled on the bottom May 10th 1974. Black's voice cracks. That's impossible. He doesn't answer because she's right.
Speaker 1:Journal flutters open on its own, the pages rearrange, words bleed across the paper until the riddle finishes themselves. To remember it is to betray. To betray is to confess. The Greenbrier is not a riddle, the greenbrier is you. The wind thrashes, the branches no longer whispers. Words clear and deliberate, each syllable, pounding like a verdict. You wrote this script. You forgot the lines. You will speak them again. Grayson grips the edges of the box, knuckles white. His voice is very laudable. It's not a riddle anymore. The branches hiss, bending down like fingers. It's a confession.
Speaker 1:Music sweeps through the night, mournful and inevitable. The Smiths last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. The piano intro drifts low, funeral. Last night I dreamt the way someone loved me. The lyric carries through the mist, through the graves, through the asylum. Black stares back at him, eyes wide, fear sharpening into something else.
Speaker 1:Anger Walter, how long have you known? He shakes his head, tears burning his throat. I swear I didn't. I swear I didn't. But the polar right in his hand tells another story. Tears burning his throat, I swear I didn't. I swear I didn't. But the Polaroid in his hand tells another story. Two figures at the tree together, waiting, not strangers, not partners, witnesses. The branches creak once more, chanting over the song. The Greenbrier speaks. The Greenbrier remembers. The greenbrier waits. Grayson's cigarette burns down to his fingers. He doesn't feel it. He whispers, voice hollow and broken. This isn't where it begins, it's where it ends. The music swells, mara's guitar breaking through mournful keys. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm. The box slams shut on its own, the tree groans, the night folds into silence. Grayson's monologue Riddles aren't games, they're traps.
Speaker 1:People think a riddle is a puzzle, something you solve to prove you're clever. But that's not what they are. They're warnings disguised as questions. And if you're the one who carved them, you're not trying to confuse yourself, you're trying to remind yourself.
Speaker 1:Tonight I dug up a box that should have rotted 40 years ago, bought a knife with my initials, a bracelet with my name, a photo of me standing besides my partner, years before we ever met, and I realized the riddles weren't written for anyone else, they were written for me, to keep me from forgetting, to force me to circle back when I started lying to myself. That's the part I can't outrun anymore. Maybe because I wasn't just hunting a killer, maybe I was hunting the proof that I already confessed Brockwell, st Anthony's, room 217. I told myself they were just places, case files, collateral damage. But what if they weren't? What if they were the spine of my own life? And I was just too afraid to read the letter out loud.
Speaker 1:The riddles don't point forward, they point backward. Back to the first door, back to the grave, back to the tree. Every question is just another way of asking me to stop pretending I don't know the answer. Black doesn't say it, but I can see it in her eyes. She's not just my partner anymore, she's the mirror, the riddle dragged out of the box, a witness I can't bury. The only one who can tell me the reflection isn't staring back at me is mine or Greenbrier's. That's the cruelest part of all of this. The riddles didn't just leave breadcrumbs for me, they left her, written into this script before either of us knew. We were in the play and now, whether she wants to or not, she's standing on the stage with me.
Speaker 1:I used to think riddles were clever distractions, little word games to test patience, but now I. Word games to test patience, but now I see what they really are. Their memory distorted, refracted, but their memory all the same. When I read what waits, what never leaves, I don't think about logic, I think about the moments I tried to bury, the nights I swallowed whole when I read what lies into remembered, I don't think about tricks, I think about silence, my silence and the bodies it brought me. When I read what is Walter, but Brooklyn's patient. I don't think about denial. I think about the ledger, the one I burned, the one that never stopped smoldering. And what am I now? A detective, a patient, an author, an actor? Maybe I'm all of them.
Speaker 1:Maybe the Greenbrier isn't someone I've been chasing, but the riddle itself, the question I've been too afraid to answer, because every time I carve a warning, every time I light a cigarette, I let the ash trail into the dark. I'm not marking evidence, I'm marking time. Time doesn't wait, it circles. That's what the spiral in the silence was telling me. That's what the riddles on the stones meant, that's what the photograph onto the oak confirmed.
Speaker 1:Greenbrier doesn't speak in riddles to confuse me. He speaks in riddles to remind me that I already knew. So now I'm left with one question of my own, not who the Greenbrier is, but when will I admit it? Because every riddle has the same answer. Every answer points back to me. Silence hangs heavier than words ever did. The riddles don't need to be solved anymore, they've already been spoken. And when Black finally looks at me in the eye and asks the question I've been avoiding, when she demands to know if I'm the killer or the detective or just another ghost. I won't have a riddle left to throw back at her, I only have the truth. And the truth will feel exactly like this A box dug up under the roots, a Polaroid that shouldn't exist, a voice whispering the same question. Until I choke on it, the truth will feel like remembering wrong, and maybe that's the cruelest rule of all, because the answer was always me the Green Briar's Code.
Speaker 1:Riddles are not puzzles, they are scalpels, sharp enough to cut truth away from memory, clean enough to leave no blood behind. People think they exist to test the mind, to prove wit, but they are tools, surgical and merciless. Grayson calls them warnings. He is half right. They're not warnings, they're verdicts. Every riddle is a line on the ledger, but what waits but never leaves is time. What lies until remembered is silence. What is Walter, but Brookwell's patient? A confession.
Speaker 1:The questions are not meant to be answered, they're meant to be lived. Each one is a mark on the wall, a tally in the spiral, a stone carved in the graveyard. He thought he was chasing riddles written by another hand, but the law is clear the one who carves the riddle is always the accused. The spiral's not decoration, it's the map of memory. Each turn inward strips, another excuse, each loop erases another denial Until, at the center, there's no mystery left, only the chair, the straps, the truth you tried to burn. Grayson followed it willingly, because he's always known the spiral doesn't pull him toward the killer, it pulls it toward himself. That is the first law of the code. The spiral never points outward, it points home. Black is not here by accident, she is not a partner, she is not a savior, she is a mirror.
Speaker 1:Every riddle requires a witness. Without one, the question collapses and the spout breaks. For the confession to complete, someone must stand opposite, must hold the silence until the accused fills it. That is her role, chosen not by chance but by design. Grayson buried her in the box decades ago, carving her name into the stone, etched her silence into the script. He thought it was insurance, he thought it was ceremony, because every riddle demands two voices the one who speaks and the one who refuses to.
Speaker 1:The Greenbrier's code is not invitation, it's recollection. If you cannot carry the truth, you will disguise it as a question. If you cannot answer the question, you will carve it where others can see. If you carve it, you will confess. Grayson has obeyed this law without knowing. He carved, he confessed. He forgot and forgetting is the worst confession of all, because when memory writes itself, it does not absolve, it condemns. The knife was never a weapon, it was a punctuation Etched with his initials. Remind him that riddles are not abstractions, they're blades. Every question cuts closer to the bone, every answer leaves a scar. The knife in the box was not left behind, it was returned Because the law is simple what you carve carves you back.
Speaker 1:Grayson is clinging to doubt, still whispering, maybe Still rehearsing excuses, but the code does not care about excuses. The code is older than him, older than Brockwell, older than silence itself, and its commandments are absolute. Every riddle is a confession, every spiral is a trial, every photograph is a verdict, every silence is a sentence. He thinks he has time, he thinks he can hold off saying the words, but the riddles have already spoken. He is not the detective, he is not the author, he is not the actor, he is the riddle. And riddles do not solve themselves, they condemn themselves. The spiral is complete, the box is witnesses in place, the ledger is carved into stone, there is no mystery left, only the ritual. And when grayson asked one last time who the greenbrier is, the riddle will not hesitate because the answer has never changed. The greenbrier is the one who asked the question and Walter Grayson has been asking all along.
Speaker 1:All right, it's been a wild trip. Let's get into my monologue. You know, you heard the riddles right. You walked through the spiral. You saw the chair bolted to the floor. But if you think this was only about a detective chasing shadows, you saw the chair bolted to the floor. But if you think this was only about a detective chasing shadows, you missed the real verdict. This episode wasn't about Walter Grayson, it wasn't even about the Greenbrier. It was about you, Because riddles don't belong to stories.
Speaker 1:They belong to memory, to silence, to the places you kept buried until someone digs them up again. You might have thought the riddles carved on the walls were simply clues, right, but they weren't. They were confessions. Every riddle was a scar, a wound, speaking long after it healed. When the spiral tightened around Grayson, you might have assumed it was just the asylum bending time, but the truth is simpler and sharper. The spiral was a mirror of your own memory, every loop to pull him closer to the part he didn't want to see. If you ever circle back to the same mistake, the same silence, the same regret. You've walked that spiral too, and when the box revealed photographs that shouldn't exist, you might have just dismissed it as supernatural. But the truth is this the past always has evidence. The pullers were just a way of showing you of what your own life already knows. The ghosts of who you were don't vanish. They wait.
Speaker 1:The Greenbrier doesn't write riddles to confuse Grayson. He wrote them to remind him. That's the part that most people miss. The riddles weren't really questions at all, they were statements in disguise. And if you look at your own life closely, you'll see you've been writing riddles weren't really questions at all, they were statements in disguise. And if you look at your own life closely, you'll see you've been writing riddles. You know, through silence, through choices, through the things you left unsaid.
Speaker 1:Think about it. When you choose not to answer a message, not to show up, not to speak when someone needed you, wasn't that a riddle? A silence carved into a place of truth, when you convinced yourself that forgetting meant moving on. Wasn't that a spiral? One you've, you know, walked before, promising this time would be different, even as the circle led you right back to where you started. When you start telling yourself you didn't know the answer, but deep down you did? Wasn't that the same box Grayson opened under the oak? A box with your handwriting on the inside, waiting for you to admit it? And here's the thing Every silence is a riddle. Every riddle is a confession, and the longer you wait to speak it, the louder it becomes.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and get into our five reflections. Now. These are a little bit longer, okay. So I really need you to sit with these. Do not rush them. Don't look for clever answers. These aren't riddles to be solved. Essentially, they're confessions to be faced.
Speaker 1:Number one what riddle have you carved into your own life by refusing to speak the truth? Think about the times you stayed silent, okay, the questions you let hang in the air, the moment someone wanted, or waited, I should say, for you to step up and you didn't. That silence wasn't neutral, it was carved into memory. What did it confess about you? Number two what spiral have you been walking without realizing it? Okay, look for patterns, the mistakes that you repeat, the cycles you swear you've broken, but always circle back to. Every spiral ends at a center. What's waiting at yours? I know that's going to be a very painful question for a lot of people, but I'm telling you, once you can answer, that, a lot of things will change for the better in your life.
Speaker 1:Number three what box have you buried that you're terrified someone might dig up? We all have one A drawer, a file, a memory, something we pray no one ever finds. But the truth is you've already left clues for yourself. What's inside your box? Next? Who is the witness to your riddles? The person who knows the truth you're still pretending to forget. Maybe it's a partner, maybe it's family, maybe it's the mirror. Every confession needs a witness. Who's standing opposite of you waiting for you to speak? Number five when will you admit the answer? You already know? This is the hardest one, because the answer isn't out there, it's hiding, it's inside, it's waiting. You've circled it a thousand times, you've whispered it in your sleep and the only question left is when will you stop pretending? So let's get to my closing thought.
Speaker 1:You know, the story of riddles and spirals isn't about cleverness, it's about confession. It's about the way silence rots when left too long, about how memory rearranges itself into questions when you're too afraid to say the truth out loud. Grayson isn't the only one haunted by riddles. So are you? The lesson of tonight isn't to solve them. It's to recognize that you already know the answers, because peace of mind doesn't come from being clever. It comes or I should say it doesn't come from being clever and it doesn't come from forgetting. It comes from finally saying the words you've been avoiding. Until you do, here's the thing the riddles will keep speaking, the spiral will keep tightening and the box will keep crawling its way to the surface and one day, when the silence is too heavy, you'll realize the truth. The green briar doesn't live in the shadows. He lives in the questions you refuse to answer. You will wait until you finally speak. You know will wait until you finally speak.
Speaker 1:You know I've always wanted to write these kind of things. You know that Like these gritty thrillers, gritty 80s, early 90s kind of movies or, in this case, series, and I didn't know how this would be received. But this is probably one of our highest ranking series so far and I couldn't have done this without you guys. So I want to thank every single one of you that are listening today and have just shown great support, not only for this series but for this show. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you listen and you take part in this and you take part in this, okay.
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