“After two incredible years, I’ve decided to step down as CEO of 𝕏.” — Linda Yaccarino, in a X post announcing her resignation from the social media platform.
When I was first offered the chance to take over Murder House—back when it was still called Bellwether Manor—the property already had a reputation: historic, haunted, a little misunderstood. But where others saw rot, I saw potential. Yes, strange cries could be heard from outside when the stained-glass windows flew open on windless nights, but that was probably just the madwoman in the attic. The house had good bones, mostly human. Its problems were nothing an exorcism or three couldn’t fix. I believed I could spearhead a revival of this high-profile haunt.
I was proud to be the first woman asked to helm this iconic estate. Should I have been concerned that the previous five CEOs disintegrated during all-hands meetings? Perhaps. Should I have ignored dire warnings that I’d be pushed over a glass cliff? Or that the volatile owner of Murder House is the devil? Honestly, I was invigorated by the challenge. How terrible could he really be? I wondered as a crooked raven in a crooked hat delivered my offer letter. I’m a thick-skinned professional. I believe in the benefit of the doubt. So I enthusiastically accepted my new role to restore faith in this storied but stumbling institution.
I remember approaching the property line for the first time. The iron gate groaned open on its own. I waved off a concerned neighbor who shouted, “No one ever leaves!” and crossed the threshold. The ground rumbled beneath my feet. A man opened the front door in a pressed suit, lightly singed. His name tag read MEPHISTOPHELES, HUMAN RESOURCES. As he led me down the corridor to the library, the eyes in the portraits lining the walls seemed to follow us. You’ll regret this, sang a chorus of unseen voices.
My contract was etched into what felt like human skin, still warm. Mephistopheles started to hand me a quill, then hesitated. “He’ll salt the earth,” he warned of his boss. I insisted I could handle it. As soon as the quill was in my hands, unexplained heat made my vision shimmer, and the rank smell of brimstone churned around me, thick as sludge. I dissociated and signed my name in blood (my own). Mephistopheles sighed, took my signed contract, and burst into a cloud of moths.
I don’t remember onboarding. They say I convulsed when the Owner whispered the company vision into my left ear and I repeated it back in guttural Latin, which I don’t even speak. I can confirm that this is when my now-signature streak of white hair appeared. When my eyes rolled back into place, I was alone except for a pair of creepy twins slowly emerging from the dumbwaiter. I ran away and got to work.
Safety was my top priority from day one. After I led a redesign of the basement labyrinth, we didn’t lose a single kindergarten class. Despite rumors about the Owner’s distaste for equality, I replaced the cursed grandfather clock with a cursed grandmother clock, and I pushed to make our youth initiatives more inclusive by making our Virgin Sacrifice program gender-neutral. I remain incredibly proud of those early milestones.
I stood on stage after Q1 as the Owner made the surprise announcement: Bellwether Manor would be rebranded as Murder House. “We’re not exorcising the past,” he boomed. This was the first time I saw him in the flesh. He really was Satan. Flames licked at my ankles as he unveiled that we’d be summoning more evil spirits—a notable departure from the spiritual de-escalation I proposed. What an unexpected pivot! Masking my rising dread, I smiled and asked how I could drive engagement.
We at Murder House were thrilled to welcome back hordes of previously banished ghouls and blacklisted incubi. Their perspectives added a refreshing edge to our community. Though many expressed concern over the rapid escalation of blood-scrawled slurs appearing nightly on the mirrors and of overall spectral intimidation, we applaud the spirited exchange of ideas. Our PC1 Index reported a 34 percent reduction in ambient malice per shriek,2 a key metric for tracking tonal wellness.
Of course, there were headwinds. There have been accusations that Murder House promotes extremism. But we repeatedly affirmed that the obscene howls echoing nightly through the atrium do not reflect management’s values. When the City Council issued a polarizing report, Murder House’s team countered in good faith by compelling council members to tour the oubliette. We didn’t hear anything from them after that.
Some investors have paused their involvement, citing isolated incidents like the possessed dolls escaping from the nursery and annihilating several neighboring towns. But we know this House remains a valuable environment for scalable dread. I am grateful to our partners who stood by as advertisers pulled out, clergy picketed, and the PR team was absorbed into the hall of mirrors. Your loyalty kept us going.
Many have asked: Why step down now? Why not when the bodies buried in the garden reanimated under the Blood Moon? Was it Satan unlocking the Red Room behind your back and opening a portal to hell? Is that what finally broke you? Do you understand that your tenure has been a parable of hubris, denial, and toxic optimism? To these questions, I say: True horror isn’t what lurks within Murder House’s walls, but what we refuse to see in ourselves.
To the surviving members of my team: You are the soul of this hellhouse, the flickering light at the end of a dark hallway. I leave with immense pride in what we’ve unleashed.
This is not goodbye, but the next phase in a transformational journey. While I’m stepping down, Murder House will always have my heart. Literally. It’s entombed in a reliquary in the Red Room, still beating.
Sincerely,
Gina Faust
Chief Experience Officer (Emeritus)
Murder House
1 “Phantom Civility.”
2 As measured by proprietary analytics and a rotating selection of twitching spiders, all of whom developed ulcers.