With motion like that of a python, the specter undulated to the hexagonal room at the hallway’s end, coming to rest on one knee before a bronze image of the Greek goddess Hecate. The smell of brimstone wafted around the idol, as two candelabras, each bearing candles made of human fat, cast faint, quavering shadows against her three-dimensional form. Light from the burning wicks and smoke from the same provided amorphous motion, as though Hecate herself had emerged from the pit to meet her devoted priest. To her left were the eyeless heads of recent victims, impaled on iron spikes jutting randomly from the wall. To her right was the emaciated shell of a young woman, driven mad with pain, chained and staring down pleadingly for the shadowman to help.