On the ground, there's ripped pieces of flesh, scattered like artwork. And an artist's dripping paintbrush was rusting blood soaking through the floorboards. On the hallway, it's painted with organs. Organs make such beautiful sounds. Ghastly, hollow, loud, clashing chords, like their lungs on that crimson wall. There's five of them, too many for one.

Someone was laughing, bleeding, screaming.

A hand lies near the umbrella stand. The fingernails, they're raw and peeling, scratched too long at the door. The poor door. It's splintered, the handle broken, the hinges wailed with misuse. There's a piano playing somewhere. A flower blooms through the cracks near the entrance. It's someone's vertebrae. The blossom is a horned skull.

The ribs are placed on a plate, on the dining table. There is no meat, since the meat hang from the ceiling, on ropes. The chandelier is surrounded, lights dimming and sparking with dying electricity, power. There's too much of it.

There are bodies on the staircase, falling down, part way up, and their hearts decorate the paintings that line neatly up the wall. There's no rail, so it seems someone had fallen down. His head is lopsided, neck bent, legs distorted. The colours from his open skull bleed into his tie, his hair.

Her body, it's mangled to the point of recognition, he remembers how she'd contorted from her fall. Now it's twisted around the balcony fence, her face upside down. Her lips grin wretchedly, stretched, too wide. Her eyeballs, the pupils at pinpoint, hang from eye-sockets, held by sinew.

His eyes snap open, to see his fingers trembling slightly. He looks up from his piano, up to the purple-black sky.

And the moon started to scream.