You're alone in the far back corner of a basement on Roosevelt Road, the air choked with the dank smell of age. Above you, a Berwyn storefront. Around you, the cluttered office of its owner. What kind of maniac intentionally keeps his desk in the far back corner of a musty basement, removed from any possibility of sunlight, the otherworldly scream of a heating duct the only sound to keep him company?
And that sound, it howls with all the disorienting melodrama of a stormy night on the moors. You steady yourself: It would be so easy to stumble on a stray bone down here. The shelves are lined with skulls and heavy-lidded Frankensteins, roaring Godzillas, a blob of the Blob, a Body Snatcher pod, a Gamera slot machine. Also, boxes, packing tape and bubble wrap — it's almost as if … someone was trying to leave …
