"Dim yellow-green lighting; is this a cave? No, the walls are not hewn, they are too regular; paved. A structure, then, but deep in some mountain recess or underground or a dank room in some remote stronghold....?
There is furniture, sumptuous stuff if a trifle uncared for and out of place with the mildew and dampness of the room. A thick wooden desk, a chair on roller-wheels that pivots and squeaks, more than one couch, and bookshelves... bookshelves line the walls, some of them holding books that deserve so much better than this environment. Peeling leather, black-speckled pages, dim gilt edges. Some of the shelves hold cloudy-filled jars, and what one fervently hopes are native tribal fertility statues. At least that would have scientific or cultural value.
Most of the book titles are worn to illegibility. A few offer hints. de Sade, Kinney, Sappho, Johnson and Masters, Tiberius, and the Lord of the Black Phallus are a few of the represented works. Decadent prints in tarnished frames graphically illustrate ancient Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Mesoamerican, Asian, and other cultures sexual practices.
One corner of the chamber is more brightly lit; from dull green light to a faint glow. The light is trained on the walls that are decorated with newspaper clipping and what look like family photos.
The clippings deal with a mad array of headlines. Missing children, murders, green energy, natural and man-made disasters, politics, family court cases. The family pictures range from daguerreotype to a slide-show picture frame running on batteries. There seems to be no relationship between the picture subject from one photo to the other.
As she watches, she notices parts of the room... move. Slowly, bonelessly. There is a moment of almost dizzying confusion as she tries to reconcile what she is seeing, then it clicks. Parts of the walls and floor have... things crawling on them. Invertebrates. Worms, snails, slugs.... even what might be leeches on the deeper puddles. Not on every surface but... it is noticeable.
A sideboard holds a pot of mulled wine, other bottles (Scotch, tequila, absinthe, 'the black draught'...), and containers from which to drink.
There, under a small spotlight, a disreputable chaise lounge with a figure reclined on it. Boots, slacks, a smoking jacket. His shoulder-length black hair frames dark eyes that sparkle with madness, and his almost-delicate mouth is highlighted by a neat beard and goatee, and that smiles cruelly.
