Deakin let me down more twisting passageways than seeing physically possible.

The ruins of the asylum hadn't looked nearly as big on the outside.

Eventually the cells gave way to offices and storage closets, and an awful, insistent

wailing, proceeding into the background.

We clam it across, chip-gray bricks down a few narrow flights of stairs.

I didn't like the idea of going further on the ground, and felt too much like, like

to sending into a tomb.

But there really was a way out down here, I could put aside a little claustrophobia and

suck it up.

Down here, you can see, leading me into a dimly lit basement, just around the corner.

He collided with a tall, lanky figure, and then crouching at the bottom of the stairs.

Deakin only had time to let out a cry and surprise before the figure wrapped him in a pair

of spindly arms and dragged him back into the darkness.

Hey, I shouted, whipping the gun out of a toaster.

I clam it down the remaining steps and hurried into the depths of the basement.

The figure had stopped by the wall and yanked the chains on the dust-covered light bulbs,

spreading a pile of yellow wash over everything, and the light I'd recognize the lanky figure

as Dr. Renfield.

One of his hands was holding Deakin's shoulders in a vice grip.

The other held a scalpel to his throat, both hands were flecked with tiny spots of blood.

The doctor whispered as Deakin tried to struggle, hush boy.

You made quite a mess upstairs.

...