As he skidded face first down the lumpy steps I saw a glistening mechanism of metallic legs and clicking gears bloodily jammed into his broken distended jaw.
In fact, this was a perfect replica of the very first painting I found in the manor. The first room was typical in size, but in one corner was a jagged hole cut into the soil which led into another similarly sized room. Novels piled high in one corner of the cell include Tolstoy's War and Peace, a cl***c which tells the story of five Russian aristocratic families in the Napoleonic era.
"Jay!" I screamed, turning a corner to find the basement door beneath the stairs swinging open on its hinges. "Now," he said, turning to me. "No," I said, before turning heel and running for my life. "It’s reaching for us," I said, my words immediately followed by the sound of Jay fleeing hysterically down the stairs.
As it grappled with me I understood why; to stop it reaching for my face I had to grab Jay’s arm by the wrist, desperately holding it back, except instead of holding it still I saw that something unsheathed from the very flesh itself. Then, reaching into the machine’s guts, he began to turn a large winding handle that clicked with each jerking twist of his wrist.
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