Moran shushes the crowd and ushers them on.

By the time Frank and Ivy reach the door, their group is nothing but a cloud of sound — clinking glass and echoed giggles.

"What is it? What's in there?" Ivy bounces at her husband's much-taller shoulder. He is peering into the viewing pane.

"Nothing," Frank says. "There's nothing in there. It's pitch black."

"That's strange. Everyone else saw it. Look harder."

Frank presses on the glass and the door creaks open, but only so far.

"It's unlocked!" He flashes a cheeky look at his wife. "Another sign, my love."

"Oh, yes. This is terribly exciting." Ivy nods into his eyes. "If only Annie could see us now."

The opening is just large enough to fit them through. Beyond the door is near-blackness. As their eyes adjust, Frank runs his finger across the inside of the viewing pane.

"This is why we couldn't see anything," he says, leaving a grubby smudge in the thick maroon coating over the glass. "It's painted over."

"That can't be right. The others saw something."

"Or maybe they only thought they did. That Moran is a bit of a storyteller."

"Too true, dear. Too true."

Ivy's eyes adjust to the dim glow, illuminating a collection of objects in the centre of the room.

In the muted spotlight lies a skinned and gutted torso on its side, the sternum in full view, scalloped ribs shining white in the pale light. To its right is a neatly folded leather sheath. Beneath it is a small axe, positioned in a T-shape, the handle aimed at them.

"This can't be it, surely," says Frank. "It's not a creature. Actually, I guess it was at some point or another. But, well, you know what I mean."

"It smells like your old shop in here."

He shrugs. "I can't smell a thing."

"Well you wouldn't," Ivy says. She ventures closer to the carcass. "I didn't bring my glasses with me, but this looks familiar."

Frank licks his lips. "Like dinner."

"Oh, Frank. Really."

"What? This carcass is perfectly trimmed. It's probably The Unknown's dinner. Lucky beast. Ribs and backstrap. My favourite."

"No, it looks like it could be— human."

Frank stifles a snigger. "Human? I don't think so, Ivy. They wouldn't feed people to the beast."

"Oh, I don't like this, Frank," she says, pinching at her forearms. "I don't like this at all."

"There's nothing in here. Nice play by Moran. Let's go get that drink." Frank shudders in spite of his bold words and shuffles back through the door.

Ivy remains, transfixed.

She notices something crumpled in the cavity of the chest and bends to retrieve it. A mask. Upon lifting it up in the meagre light, she sees scant stubble. Its reverse side is wet with red. At the sight of her glistening fingertips, she drops the mask and jumps back, her feet encountering softer ground. She looks tentatively down.

The grisly visage of the room grows clear. She is standing on an ashen sheath of skin, laid out as it would have been attached to its body, a shortish person with olive skin. There is no obvious cut, except to remove the head. The skin has been precisely excised. She gulps in a breath and holds a hand to her mouth. She is cold, so very cold.