The room is bad. Perhaps the worst I have ever been in, and that says far more than I like to think about.
I am not sure what the machines were used for, but I have my suspicions. The equipment is covered in dried blood, and in some gears, I discovered hair and fragments of bone. In a bucket by the door, I found hundreds of teeth. All of them small.
On a workbench by the back entrance, I saw a large chessboard, each square carefully lined out with teeth of varying sizes.
A misshapen human skull, roughly the size of a pumpkin, was on another workbench, close to a drill press. Holes of varying sizes had been made, and finger bones had been inserted into them, creating a grotesque pincushion.
Perhaps the worst of everything was a chair tucked into a corner. It was made of femurs and spinal columns woven into a disturbingly brilliant herringbone pattern. Yet neither the design nor the materials were what bothered me about the chair. Instead, it was the fact that there was a cup of fresh teeth by the chair. Teeth still coated in damp blood, and a chair still warm to the touch.
I will find a room with a working lock tonight, and when I sleep, it will be with both Colts in my hands.
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