The clink of metal echoed through the hollow estate.
Mr. Martinsville clutched a piece of cloth tightly in his right hand as he stepped into his secret chamber. The heavy red door shut behind him with a muted thud, followed by the cold rattle of keys locking him inside.
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the expansive room. A proud smile crept across his face.
Lining both sides of the chamber were towering glass cylinders, their transparent walls fogged with condensation. Suspended in murky green liquid, the figures inside floated in curled positions—too small to be adults, yet too grotesque to be called children. Their limbs stretched or shrunk unnaturally. Some had misshapen, twitching faces while the others had none at all. A few bore slits where mouths should be, and extra eyelids that fluttered in restless sleep.
Martinsville brought the navy t-shirt in his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply. A sigh of contentment escaped him.
