Oh, I’m Sorry—Did You Mistakenly Walk Into Our Well of Souls?

Excuse me, ma’am? Yes, I’m the maitre d’. Yes, the bathrooms are just over here to the left.

I’m sorry? Oh, yes, that’s our Well of Souls over there. Did you accidentally go inside thinking that it was a restroom? I’m terribly sorry for the mix-up, ma’am, but you’re not the first. I’m just glad that you made it out alive.

Now if you’ll just follow me over to the left . . . Are you alright ma’am? Did gazing into a parallel dimension filled with billions of screaming, anguished spirits shake you up a little? I know, it is a bit disturbing, isn’t it? Unfortunately, there’s not a thing we can do about it.

You see, when the owner and operator, Archibald Coxswain, purchased this building, he intended to make it into a four-star gourmet restaurant, a place where the city’s elite could come to enjoy painstakingly prepared Burmese-Cajun fusion cuisine, drink only the finest and rarest of liquors, and have the opportunity to rub elbows with other “beautiful people” in a safe and comfortable environment. As I’m sure you can see, ma’am, his dream has largely come to fruition.

However, there was one catch.

The asking price for the building was astoundingly low considering its prime location and all of the various accoutrements that accompany a converted neo-gothic prison. When Mr. Coxswain inquired about the almost unthinkably affordable cost, the seller—a shadowy man in a long black cloak—simply stated that the price would stand so long as Mr. Coxswain pledged to never tamper with the Well of Souls.

Well, naturally he agreed, and since that day we have had the inconvenience of occasionally losing customers when they unwittingly wander into the cavernous maw of the stentorian and frenzied ether.

As I said earlier, ma’am, I’m glad that you made it out alive. Just last week, a gentlemen looking to wash a red wine stain from his shirt unknowingly meandered into the Well of Souls, only to be dismembered and voraciously devoured by starving ghouls, his spirit’s voiceless moans joining the ever-growing chorus of the damned. I lost a really good tip!

Anyway: no worries, ma’am! Everything will be fine as long as you don’t enter that door encrusted with sinister runes that, admittedly, look a lot like restroom signs.

While we can’t do anything to reverse the terrible psychological and spiritual trauma that you will have until your dying day—and well into afterlife—we can offer you a free dessert.

Of your choice.

And we have Bananas Foster.