Description - Exterior
Once a modest three-story tenement, the building at 516 W. Root Street now leans like it’s trying to whisper something awful. The wood siding is peeled to gray, shutters hang limp or missing, and the porch sags in the middle like a busted spine. Half the windows are covered in ratty curtains; the other half glow red behind warped glass at night. A hand-painted sign nailed to a second-floor windowsill reads simply: “Curly's”. No last name. No services listed.
The alley out back smells like piss, old perfume, and copper. Stray cats come and go. So do johns.
Description - Interior
The entry hall is narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb. The wallpaper curls down in strips, revealing water-stained plaster underneath. A red line is painted down the middle of the floor—guests stay on their side. The parlor is dim and stuffy, scattered with threadbare furniture and a record player that never plays anything newer than ’38. The air’s thick with smoke and cheap rosewater.
Upstairs, each room has a bed, a mirror, and not much else. Squeaky floorboards mask the sound of arguments. A few rooms have locks. A few need them. The top floor is off-limits unless you’re escorted.
Run By
“Mama Jo” – A heavyset woman with dyed red hair, deep jowls, and the voice of a gravel pit. Wears a faded robe with feathers on the sleeves and keeps a razor tucked into her brassiere. She’s seen everything and has the blackmail to prove it. No one calls her Josephine anymore—except Charlie, and only when he’s angry.
Regulars
Charlie – The ICB boss visits at odd hours, usually after blood’s been spilled or before it’s about to be.
Freddie G – A crooked tailor who pays in silk instead of cash. Sometimes gives the girls fancy shoes.
Hattie Mae – Longtime worker who’s rumored to be able to hex a man with nothing but a kiss on the neck.
The Milkman – Not a milkman. Never says a word. Always leaves with the same girl, always pays in exact change.
History
The building was condemned in 1946 but never torn down. It changed hands four times in six months before Charlie “acquired” it for the Insane Cornel Boys. Since then, it’s become both a source of income and a pressure valve—where soldiers unwind and information leaks like bad plumbing. It’s not glamorous. It’s not clean. But it’s theirs.
Rumor says the attic still holds remnants from when the place briefly operated as a spiritualist boarding house in the 1920s. Mama Jo keeps it locked. Some say she talks to someone up there through the vent.
Notes
The CPD knows what goes on here—but the right palms are greased.
Girls here sometimes moonlight as spies, runners, or whisperers. Some do it for cash. Some do it for Charlie.
There’s a hollow panel in the parlor wall where Mama Jo keeps letters she’s collected over the years. Names. Dates. Secrets.
One room on the second floor is always cold, no matter the weather. The girl who works it wears gloves to bed.
A crimson pentagram is scratched into the underside of the dining room table. No one admits to putting it there.
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