Amy swept the corridor with her flashlight, and the grates erupted with pale flesh as hundreds of hands pushed themselves through the bars, the walls alive with fingers like living hair. As Amy dashed down the hallway, they scraped across her face, her thighs, her hips, her breasts. They tried to hook her clothing and burrow through to her skin.

The passage ended in another T. To the left, Amy saw more of the same—more grates and hundreds of writhing hands. She went right. The water was dripping faster now, falling down like rain. Amy wiped her face with her sleeve. She rounded another corner—she was now totally and completely lost but knew she was getting closer to something. This new corridor had much larger rooms spaced much farther apart. She forced herself to aim the flashlight into each one. They all had furniture dragged in from the Showroom floor, as if the penitents were insects stocking their hive for winter. Inside one was a Kummerspeck desk with a chair arranged neatly behind it. In another, a Skoptsy futon mattress, vile with mildew, sagged against a wall. Still another featured smashed glass mixing bowls, the shards glittering in her flashlight beam and forming a thick carpet waiting to open veins and arteries.

The last room at the end of the corridor was equipped with the Mungo Towel Rack System. It consisted of two brushed steel bars, each with an attractively streamlined curve: an upper bar for large towels and a lower thinner bar for hand towels and washcloths. It was one of the best sellers in Bathrooms and here it was with a man’s body hanging from it. His wrists were bound behind him, strapped to the top bar with leather thongs. His legs were bent and his feet were crossed one over the other and tied to the lower rack so that his body formed a grotesque sagging arc. A Widdiful pillowcase, dripping with dark fluids, was pulled over his head like a hood. Amy instantly recognized the shirt and pants. The figure stirred, and she heard the soft muffled sound of a bell.

“Basil?” she whispered.

He made a low, pained groan and thrashed from side to side, the bell unnaturally loud in the tiny room.

“It’s me,” Amy said. “It’s okay. I came back.”

She pinched the top of the pillowcase between two fingers and snatched it off his head. Steel straps were clamped around his skull, forming a cage held in place with iron screws and locked around his neck by a bolt. A crude metal bell hung from the collar. One of Basil’s eyes was swollen nearly shut. The other was caked with blood. His lower lip was split, and his cheekbones were bruised and swollen. He turned his pulped face toward Amy, trying to place her.

“M’my?” he mumbled.

“I’m going to get you down,” she said.