A Victorian ruin on the edge of a nondescript town. The front door is scratched and weathered beyond time, and the façade has a tired, ghostly look that makes you pause in mid-step. Natural forces have squeezed the house until it has taken on the distorted shape of a crushed cardboard box. As soon as you enter it, you can smell the wet insulation. You can hear the rain coming down, and the water seeping through the foundation walls. Walls so unstable, they will need shoring up to prevent their inevitable collapse. Picture a basement with very little afternoon light coming in through the ivy-covered casement windows. Picture a dungeon-like bathroom with a tarnished, cracked mirror that makes your face look freakish. See the gooseneck showerhead mounted on the wall, the funky drain on the floor, the rust-streaked porcelain tub and seat-less toilet. The smell of insanity is strongest down here—a dank musk, a black pit, a waterlogged silence. Now listen. Out of the darkness comes a low groan.
