Scrawl

Margaret's flesh crawls, nostrils filling with pungent scents of decay, soil, mildew, rot. In the flashlight's meagre light she stands at the bottom of the rough hewn stairs, trying to remain calm, her mind reeling.

The pit beneath the house spreads before her, chains dangling from the ceiling in lattice work, macabre astrological symbols etched on the floor and ceiling in jagged scrawl. Along the walls of the immense room living creatures shade their eyes and cower, grotesque, squat mammals that once might've been human.

Knowing she should go back to the others, she takes one step further and screams.