Greg eyed the door. He couldn't shake the idea that something was wrong with it.
"Most of the lights don't work," said Leach, waving vaguely. "Course light isn't all that great for some of the specimens."
Leach's footsteps echoed. His wavering flashlight barely pushing back the darkness; row upon row of metal shelves, stretching off to unseen limits.
Torchlight danced shadows through a flickering maze of jars, books, strangely angled statuary, things suspended in liquid; bulbous eyes peering sightlessly.
Slapping his flickering torch to life Greg hurried after.
"No one comes down here nowadays," Leach was saying. "They forget."
"But if no one remembers this place, what do they need us for?" said Greg, looking toward the water-streaked door.
"Us?" said Leach, turning. "We're here to stop things getting out."
Then Greg saw.
The locks were on the inside.
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