Dimly lit dusty bulbs dangle above, illuminating the sad geriatric wallpaper lining the damp corridor behind me.
 I gaze at the poorly painted door, flakes of onyx emulsion peeling away from the rotting timber beneath. Gingerly I trail my fingers along the wood, grimacing at the prospect of a splinter defending its territory and plunging itself into my delicate flesh. I pull my hand away, thankfully undamaged, and root in my pocket for the crumpled note containing the address. I check it again; this is it.
 Do I knock? No of course not, no one will answer. Reaching for the dull brass knob I am aware of the sheen of cold sweat forming on my body. I turn the handle and with a deep breath I gently ease the door open.
 The hinges screech as if in pain, like a thousand miniature creatures are being crushed between the metal plates. Once my heart slides out of my throat and back to its rightful place in my chest, I open my eyes and shuffle forward.
 There were no lights to speak of but the moon kindly lends me some of its glow through the filthy window to my left, just enough for me to find my way to a candle sat atop its silver castle. I take the lighter from my pocket and set the candles head aflame. Holding the beacon above my head I peer into the orb of light.
 The first thing I notice is how I can suddenly smell an unearthly, chemical stench. Whatever it is it invades my nostrils, attacking every receptor until I barricade my orifices with my handkerchief. 
 Shelf upon shelf, as high and wide as a mountain, filled with leather bound books, busts and statuettes of long dead philosophers and emperors, and jars. Huge, round, glass prisons, their prisoners shrivelled grotesque creatures of indeterminable species floating in preserving alcohol like belly-up fish.
 Bile begins to rise in my throat but I swallow it down determinedly. I have to know what is here. I continue my macabre tour, stopping here and there to gawk at the poor, dead monsters in their aquatic tombs. Further along this particular shelf is a dark shape; not an empty space but another jar, draped heavily with black cloth.
 My insides writhe like angry snakes and my skin ripples. I hear the whooshing of my blood pumping and every hair stands to attention. I want to run. I want to turn, and run and run until my legs are bloody stumps. Instead I pluck at the corner of the shroud, flinging it behind me as if it were a wedding bouquet. I cannot blink, though my brain is screaming at me to solder my eyes shut.
 Under the black cloth, floating in the sickening yellow fluid, is my own pale, chestnut maned head.