I Work in Leinster House: There Are 8 Rules to Survive
The following is an account of Leinster House courtesy of a high profile staffer-turned-whistle-blower.
My name is…. not important; I’ve been a political staffer at Leinster House for six years. If you’re not Irish, Leinster House is our parliament in Dublin—a grand Georgian pile of pale stone on Kildare Street, where the Dáil and Seanad wrestle with the nation’s fate. I started here fresh from university, a political science grad with big ideas about shaping policy or climbing into a cushy advisor role. That was before I saw the truth, before I felt the weight of this place press down on me, before I realised the government I serve isn’t the only power here. It’s not just a building—it’s a trap, a deal carved in blood and shadow, holding things no one outside these walls can fathom.
It began my first day, when Máire, my supervisor, cornered me in the break room. She was a lean woman with gray eyes that cut like knives, her face etched with years of secrets. The coffee machine hummed as she slipped a folded note into my hand, her fingers cold and trembling. “Memorise these,” she whispered, glancing at the door. “Follow them, or you’re done.” Eight rules, scratched in shaky ink on yellowed paper. I smirked, thinking it was a prank, but her stare silenced me—pale, haunted, like she’d seen the rules break someone before.
That night, I stayed late, drafting notes under a flickering lamp, the building’s silence wrapping around me like a shroud. The halls creaked, the air grew thick, and I felt eyes on me—unseen, unblinking. I didn’t know then what I’d stumbled into, but by the time I broke the first rule, splashing water on my face in a bathroom past midnight, I understood: Leinster House is alive with things older than the Republic, things bound here by a pact no one admits to. The rules aren’t just for survival—they’re the terms of that deal, a leash on us and them.
I’ve spent years piecing it together, risking my mind and maybe more. It started in 1922, after the Civil War, when the Free State was fragile and desperate. The first Dáil struck a bargain with entities—watchers, mourners, enforcers, guardians, drinkers, and worse—trading obedience for stability, souls for power. The rules enforce it, the ledger tracks the cost, and we’re the fuel. I’ve found proof: a journal from an aide in the ‘20s, memos hidden in locked drawers, a list of names with mine on it, crossed out last week. Máire knows—she’s part of it, I think, feeding the machine when it hungers.
The signs are everywhere now. Mirrors fog in daylight, singing echoes through empty halls, smoke chokes the air without fire, the clock ticks toward doom, a door creaks open below, a statue glares, and the bar hums with the dead. I’m still here, too stubborn to flee, too broken to fight, but I’m not just a staffer anymore—I’m marked, a pawn or a sacrifice in a game I can’t win. My flat’s no refuge either; the shadows followed me home, whispering my name.
If you ever work here, learn the rules—eight of them, etched into my bones. They’re all I’ve got left to keep me breathing, but they’re failing. Don’t dig like I did, don’t ask what’s behind the stone. The truth doesn’t free you—it binds you tighter, and once you’re in, there’s no way out.
Rule 1: Never look into the mirrors after midnight.
Mirrors are everywhere in Leinster House—gilded ones in the bathrooms, cloudy ones in the corridors, a massive beast in the Members’ Bar reflecting the world in warped gold. They’re ancient, left over from when this was a duke’s estate, their glass scratched and dulled by time. By day, they’re mundane, showing your exhaustion or the blur of passing staffers. After midnight, though, they shift—windows to something else, doors if you’re careless. Something watches from the other side, waiting for you to notice.
It hit me my first week, late at night, hunched over a speech for a TD too lazy to write his own. The clock chimed twelve, its toll reverberating through the empty halls, and I rubbed my eyes, staggering to the bathroom to wake up. The mirror was old, edges blackened, and I glanced up as I rinsed my hands. My reflection stared back—but it wasn’t me. The face was mine—same dark hair, same stubble—but the mouth stretched into a jagged grin, and the eyes were black voids, unblinking. It tilted its head, mimicking me, then blinked when I didn’t, and I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate—behind me in the empty room.
I spun, heart pounding, but there was nothing—just the echo and a cold that sank into my marrow. When I looked back, my real face stared out, pale and terrified, and I ran, locking myself in my office until dawn. Máire found me the next morning, shaking, and said, “You saw a Watcher. Don’t look again—they’ll take you.” She wouldn’t say more, but I couldn’t drop it. Weeks later, I found a journal in a locked desk—an aide’s notes from 1922, describing “the Watchers,” entities sealed in the mirrors by the pact, guarding the building’s secrets.
They’re sentinels, the journal said, bound to watch for weakness, to claim anyone who invites them through. I’ve dodged mirrors after midnight since, covering them with coats or keeping my head down, but it’s brutal—late nights are the job, and they’re everywhere. I feel them still, a prickle on my neck, a whisper in the glass. The journal hinted they serve something bigger, reporting to whatever tallies the souls they take. My name’s in the ledger—uncrossed at first, a target for their gaze.
Last month, I cracked and checked a mirror at 1 a.m., desperate to know if they’re still there. It wasn’t my face this time—it was Máire’s, her eyes black, her grin wide and wrong, whispering my name in a voice that echoed inside my skull. I haven’t slept properly since, waking to reflections in my windows at home, black eyes staring back. The rule’s a shield, but it’s thin—they’re hunting now, and I’m running out of places to look away.
I think they’re why the lights flicker sometimes, why the air feels heavy after dark. They’re not just watching—they’re waiting, and every night I stay late, I feel them closer, their footsteps louder, their grins wider. The pact gave them eyes, and I gave them mine.
Rule 2: If you hear singing in the Seanad
The north wing houses the Seanad chamber—high ceilings, polished wood, portraits of dead senators glaring down. It’s silent most nights, the upper house long adjourned, leaving only echoes and dust. But sometimes, past midnight, a woman’s voice drifts through—a soft, mournful song in Irish, beautiful yet hollow, like a lullaby sung over a corpse. It pulls at you, tempting you closer, but the rule’s firm: walk away. I didn’t, and I’ll carry that mistake forever.
It was my second month, still green, filing amendments in the east wing after 11 p.m. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the rustle of papers, when I heard it—faint, lilting, coming from the chamber. I told myself it was a radio, a cleaner, anything normal, but my gut knew better. My feet moved anyway, drawn like a moth to flame, and I reached the heavy oak doors, pushing one open a crack. The air turned frigid, biting my lungs, and there she was—tall, draped in a gray shawl, standing at the podium, her back to me as she sang words that twisted in my head.
I stepped inside, mesmerised, and the singing stopped—sharp, like a snapped string. She turned, and her face was a void, a swirling black hole swallowing light, and she glided toward me, faster than anything alive, a rustling sound like dead leaves. I stumbled back, slamming the door as claws raked it, deep gouges echoing in the hall. I ran, collapsing in the main building, chest heaving, and found the marks the next day—three inches into the wood, smelling of damp earth and grief.
I had to know what she was. Sneaking into the records room, I found a 1936 file—a senator vanished after hearing “the Song,” his office untouched, a speech half-written. The journal named her “the Keening One,” a spirit of the land, bound by the pact to mourn and reap, her voice a lure for an ancient debt—maybe the blood of this soil. Máire caught me reading, snatching the file with a hissed, “Stop, [REDACTED]. You’ll wake worse.” But I hear her now, louder, spilling beyond the east wing into my dreams, calling my name with a hunger I can’t escape.
She’s tied to the ledger, I think—her song a tally of souls, a balance for the pact. I’ve seen her shadow in the halls since, a flicker of gray that vanishes when I turn, and the claw marks spread—doors, walls, once my desk. The rule keeps me moving, but it’s a threadbare defense—she knows I’ve seen her, knows I’m hers if I falter.
Last week, I found a lock of gray hair on my pillow, stinking of rot, and the singing woke me, close enough to feel her breath. I think she’s claiming me, piece by piece, and walking away isn't enough anymore—she’s following, and the pact’s letting her.
Rule 3: Don’t touch the black book in the library.
The library’s a quiet nook on the first floor—dusty shelves of legal texts, faded histories, a retreat for staffers or TDs faking diligence. In the corner, on a shelf no one cleans, sits a black book—no title, no author, just a slab of shadow humming faintly, a buzz you feel in your teeth. It’s out of place, alien, and the rule’s blunt: don’t touch it. I obeyed at first, but I’ve seen what happens when you don’t, and it’s driven me to the edge.
My first year, Liam—a brash newbie—spotted it during a late research session. We were pulling tax law precedents, four of us crammed in the room, when he grabbed it, smirking. “Blank pages,” he scoffed, flipping through—then froze, hands shaking, eyes wide. He dropped it, clawing at his head, muttering, “The shapes… they crawl,” before collapsing into sobs. The book thudded shut, and he was gone the next day—now in a ward up north, staring at nothing, whispering about things that move. We never spoke of it, but the hum lingered, mocking us.
I couldn’t let it go. Months later, alone at night, I went back with gloves, cheating the rule. It was heavy, wrong, and inside wasn’t blank—a ledger, names and dates in spidery ink, some crossed out, some not. Mine was there, uncrossed, with Máire’s and others—staffers, TDs, a janitor who’d vanished. The journal called it “the Binding Record,” a tally of souls pledged to the pact’s entities, a price for power. I hid it back, but the buzz followed me, drilling into my skull for days.
Since then, I’ve tracked the names—crossed ones match quits, disappearances, “accidents.” I overheard Máire once, on the phone: “The Record’s restless. We need another.” She didn’t see me, but her eyes burned into me later, cold and knowing. The book’s still there, pulsing, and I’ve warned others off—newbies, old hands—but some touch it anyway, and the pattern repeats: a breakdown, a crossing, a gap in the roster. My name’s crossed now, red ink fresh last week, and I don’t know if I’m safe or next.
I dream of it—pages flipping, black shapes crawling out, angular and alive, reaching for me. I wake clawing my hands, expecting ink, and the hum’s louder when I pass the library, calling me back. The rule’s a wall, but it’s crumbling—I feel it pulling, and I’ve caught Máire near it, sprinkling salt, muttering, like she’s feeding it too.
Last night, I found a page torn from it on my desk—no one admits to leaving it—my name rewritten, uncrossed again, the ink wet. The shapes are in my peripheral now, skittering when I turn, and I think the rule’s a lie—it doesn’t protect, it delays.
Rule 4: If the clock chimes thirteen times, hide.
The clock tower rises over the entrance to the Department of Taoiseach, a relic of stone and iron, its gears grinding since the 1700s. It chimes hourly, a deep toll that anchors the day—twelve at midnight, then silence. But sometimes, it goes wrong—hits thirteen—and the world shifts. The rule says hide, and I’ve learned why, though it cost me peace I’ll never get back.
A year ago, I was filing papers in the Dáil anteroom, a cold November night, when it happened. The clock struck twelve, then thirteen, and the air thickened, lights flickering into jagged shadows. I didn’t know the rule—Máire hadn’t warned me—so I stood, puzzled, until she burst in, pale as death, dragging me under the desk. “Don’t move,” she hissed, and we crouched, cramped, as something dragged through the halls—wet, heavy, a scrape of too many limbs. I peeked—a twisted shadow, sniffing the air, pausing outside our door before moving on.
A cleaner didn’t make it—we found his mop, streaked with dark sludge, but no body. The journal named it “the Warden,” the pact’s enforcer, summoned when the clock miscounts—deliberately, I think, by someone twisting its gears. It hunts to balance the deal, taking strays or threats. A 1922 letter confirmed it: “The cost is steep, but the nation stands. The Warden ensures it.” I’ve heard it twice since—once in a closet, once behind a locked door—and it’s closer each time, learning me.
I’ve climbed the tower, studying the mechanism—rusted gears, odd levers, runes etched in metal. Someone’s tampering, I’m sure, triggering it when the entities demand blood. Máire caught me there, snapping, “Leave it, [REDACTED]—you’ll bring it down on us.” She didn’t deny it, and that’s what gnaws at me—she’s part of the count. The clock’s off more often now, teetering on thirteen, and I’ve found scratches on walls—my initials, deep and fresh.
Last night, it chimed thirteen again. I hid in a stairwell, breath held, as the dragging stopped outside, whispering my name in a voice like grinding stone. When it left, my initials were carved into the door, and I heard gears groan above—someone winding it, I think. The rule’s a countdown—it knows me, and hiding’s just stalling.
I keep a knife now, useless but comforting, and I avoid the tower, but the chime haunts my dreams—a thirteenth toll, the Warden’s wet breath on my neck. The pact’s tightening, and I’m its next mark.
Rule 5: Don’t open the red door in the basement.
The basement’s a damp maze—storage rooms, flickering bulbs, the stink of mold and time. Down the main corridor sits a red door, paint peeling, chained with rust, a silent threat no one acknowledges. The rule’s clear: don’t open it. I ignored it once, and it’s a scar on my soul I can’t scrub off.
My third year, a humid July night, I was sent for old voting records. The basement was still, dripping pipes the only sound, when I saw it—the chain loose, the door ajar. A low breathing came from inside, rhythmic and deep, and I told myself it was nothing. I nudged it open, and rot hit me—sweet, thick, like spoiled meat. In the dark, a pale, too-long hand reached out, fingers twitching, and I slammed it shut, fumbling the chain as I ran, the breathing chasing me up the stairs.
I went back with a flashlight—the chain was tight, but wet prints led nowhere. Máire knew—she found me later, voice low: “You opened it? Pray it didn’t see you.” I dug into the archives—a 1940s memo mentioned “the Keeper,” locked below by the pact to guard something—secrets, or worse. It’s blind, the journal said, but it senses you, drags you in if you let it out. The chain’s looser now, the breathing louder, seeping into other rooms.
I asked Máire once, in the canteen. She slapped me, eyes blazing: “Some things stay buried, [REDACTED].” But I’ve seen sketches in the journal—a hunched thing, too many arms—and scratches on my office door, fresh and deep. The rule’s a lock, weakening, and I think it’s got my scent. I avoid the basement, but the job drags me down—files vanish, tasks pile up—and the door’s more open each time.
Last week, I heard it in my flat—slow, wet breaths under my bed. I found a rusty chain link on my floor, stinking of rot, and the rule’s failing—it’s not just below anymore. I think it’s hunting me, and the pact’s letting it loose.
I’ve stopped sleeping downstairs, but the breathing’s in the walls now, and my hands shake when I pass doors. The Keeper’s patient, and I’m running out of places to run.
Rule 6: If you smell smoke with no fire, leave the room.
It’s random—you’re working late, buried in papers, when smoke hits—acrid, thick, no source. No flames, no haze, just the scent clawing into you. The rule’s simple: leave. I’ve smelled it a dozen times—Dáil chamber, canteen, my office—and I ignored it once, a mistake that’s burned into me.
My fourth year, in the Dáil chamber, proofreading a bill, it came—strong, like burning wood and flesh. I looked for a source—vents, bins—but nothing. I stayed, stubborn, until the walls groaned, ash fell from the ceiling, and a crackling voice whispered my name. The air seared my skin, and I ran, glancing back to see my chair charred, melted. It was fine when I returned, but the smell lingered.
I dug into it—fire logs that don’t add up, a journal mention of “the Burned Ones,” spirits from a ‘30s blaze, a pact sacrifice covered up. They seek warmth, burning you inside out if you stay. A photo showed charred bones in a basement, labeled “accident.” I’ve smelled it since, and I bolt—no hesitation—but it’s spreading, following me.
Others notice—coughing staffers, a junior who vanished after lingering. Máire sprinkles salt, muttering, like she’s warding them off. I carry matches, a dumb hope to distract them, but last week, I smelled it at home—my table warm, scored with burns. The rule’s fraying—they’re tracking me, and I can’t outrun them.
I see them now—blackened flickers, reaching—and wake tasting ash, throat raw. The smoke’s in my clothes, my dreams, and I think they’re waiting for me to stop moving. The pact’s feeding them, and I’m fuel.
Last night, my flat’s lights dimmed, smoke curling from nowhere, and I heard laughter—low, charred. The rule’s a lifeline, but it’s snapping—they’re close, and I’m burning out.
Rule 7: Never say “freedom” near the statue of the Countess.
The courtyard holds a bronze statue of Countess Markievicz—rebel, TD, stern and still. It’s a lunch spot, a smoke break haven, safe until you break the rule. Say “freedom” near her, and she wakes. I learned that the hard way, and it’s a weight I can’t shake.
My fifth year, chatting with Sarah by the statue, I said, “They fought for freedom,” nodding at it. The air froze—no wind, no sound—and her head turned, stone grinding, eyes locking on me. A force crushed my chest, lungs collapsing, and I stumbled away, gasping as it stopped. Sarah didn’t see, quit the next day, and I avoided the courtyard, watching from windows—cracks in the base, a shadow too long.
The journal named her “the Sentinel,” infused by the pact to guard the Republic’s lie. Say “freedom,” and she judges—fail, and you’re dust. I whispered it once, safe inside, and the glass fogged, cracking faintly. Máire grabbed me later: “She’s not yours to question, [REDACTED].” But I hear stories—headaches, a missing groundskeeper—and her plinth’s splitting.
I see her move sometimes, a twitch in daylight, and the air hums, angry. Sarah’s lighter was found bent near it, and I feel her gaze indoors now. The rule’s a gag, slipping—I think “freedom” in my head, and she knows.
Last month, I passed a window, and her head turned, eyes boring through glass. I heard stone crack, felt my ribs ache, and the rule’s failing—she’s waking, and I’m in her sights.
I don’t go near her, but she’s in my dreams—bronze hands squeezing, whispering “traitor.” The pact’s fraying, and she’s restless, ready to judge me silent or not.
Rule 8: Never enter the Members’ Bar.
The Members’ Bar is a wood-paneled room off the main hall—leather chairs, a long oak counter, bottles glinting in dim light. It’s where TDs unwind, swapping whiskey and war stories, but the rule’s absolute: never enter. I thought it was about politics—exclusion for staffers—until I saw why, and now I can’t unsee it.
My second year, curious, I lingered by the door during a late shift. Laughter spilled out, glasses clinking, but under it was a gurgle—wet, choking. I peeked through the crack: TDs drinking, faces red, but some weren’t right—pale, bloated, eyes milky, sloshing glasses with trembling hands. One turned, a long-dead TD I’d seen in photos, his throat swollen, and winked at me, whiskey dribbling from his mouth like bile. I backed away, heart racing, as the gurgling grew, a chorus of drowned voices.
The journal explained—“the Drinkers,” TDs who died of alcohol poisoning, bound to the bar by the pact, a toll for excess or a warning. They linger, serving themselves, and if you enter, they pour for you—endless, lethal. A 1950s memo listed names—six TDs, “lost to spirits,” their bodies found bloated, reeking of gin. I’ve heard them since, laughing through walls, glasses clinking when the bar’s empty.
I asked Máire once—she snapped, “Stay out, [REDACTED]. They don’t share.” But I’ve seen staffers vanish after late bar runs, their coats left soaked and sour. The door’s locked now, but I hear sloshing behind it, and last week, a glass slid under—full, stinking, with my name scratched in the wood. The rule’s a barrier, but they’re reaching out.
I avoid the hall near it, but the gurglings in my flat now—wet footsteps, a bottle rolling across my floor, empty but dripping. I think they want me in, a new drinker for their round, and the pact’s opening the door.
Last night, I woke to whiskey on my breath—I don’t drink—and the bar’s laughter in my ears. The rule’s breaking—they’re calling, and I’m running out of outs.
I’ve been here six years, six years of rules and revelations, six years of peeling back Leinster House’s skin to find rot underneath. The pact’s real—1922, a desperate deal with entities for a nation’s survival, fed by souls like mine. The journal, memos, the ledger—they prove it, naming ministers, aides, TDs who signed on, who paid. Máire’s in it—her salt, her whispers, her crossed name next to mine. She left me a note yesterday: “You dug too deep. It’s time.”
The building’s alive now—mirrors showing Máire’s black grin, singing in my walls, smoke in my lungs, the clock teetering, the red door open, the statue glaring, the bar sloshing. My name’s crossed, uncrossed, crossed again—red ink wet, like they’re fighting over me. I’m still here, too broken to run, too marked to hide, and my flat’s no sanctuary—the shadows came with me, the rules failing one by one.
If you work here, memorise them—eight rules, eight chains. Don’t look, don’t listen, don’t touch, don’t stay, don’t open, don’t linger, don’t speak, don’t enter. But it won’t save you—I dug, and now I’m theirs. The clock’s ticking, the bar’s laughing, and I hear my name in every corner. Burn this if you find it—don’t let it mark you too.