You knew it was possible you might lose each other during the show, so you made plans to hook up in the lower bar area when it was over; as it happens, it takes you no longer than two minutes to get separated. Your friend stops to tie their shoe and you go on just five paces to inspect a backlit prop of an old typewriter, and when you look up, they’re gone. You double back the way you thought you’d come, but somehow the path no longer leads to the entrance; the alcove with the typewriter has disappeared and you don’t know which way you’re facing. After a couple of minutes’ back-and-forth along the trail, you decide to move on by yourself.

At one stage, you’re watching a dance scene set in a laundromat. The audience is subtly directed to lean back on the thrumming machines as cast members fly through, performing an elaborately choreographed number with sheets before disappearing in a flicker of careful lighting. There are eight or ten ways out of there, but when you push through to an unadorned concrete stairwell, you think you’ve made a mistake. You try going back through the stairwell door, but it doesn’t budge. The floors below are dark – up is the only option.

The door on the third floor leads into a scene so quiet you can imagine the sound of traffic outside, before you realise it’s a soundtrack of hushing ocean waves overlaying a low-pitched burble. As the background sounds become deeper and more immersive, you follow your senses further into the level, towards a wood-sided chapel at the end of a village street where a flower-strewn pagan ceremony was taking place, perhaps a marriage or a dedication. Despite the activity apparently playing out behind the brightly glazed chapel windows, you feel like you’re alone. You glance back the way you came, visions of pagan horror stories flickering through your mind, but the way you came has been erased into darkness so you press on, an urgent, primordial part of your brain making towards the light.

When you get into the chapel, the music and movement have stopped, pretending they never existed at all. It’s not so much the creepy wheatsheaf sculptures or the decaying flower arrangements that terrify you, but the scarecrows sitting arrayed on pews. What if there’s a cast member ready to spring out at you? You’d jump out of your skin. You try not to look too hard, try not to will one of these undead effigies alive as you trace your route to the next room; still, it takes three circuits of the chapel before you can find the door again.

You make your way down a ramp into a set made out like an enclosed sunken garden. A smash of glass and a belt of forced laughter. Three teenage boys wearing jeans and track jackets are sparring under a tree at the far side of the garden, no more than twenty metres away. One of them is banging on a rubbish bin with a stick. Thump thump thump.