The dark room smelled of mold and rot. There was a damp feel to it, although no wetness was visible. The little light filtering through the filth on the small, barred window was just enough to see the overturned, broken furniture. There were rusted chains with padlocks welded to the metal bedframe. The thin, mildewed mattress showed small, chewed holes where the mice had made homes. The heat was so overbearing that it could almost be seen and touched. A tick – tick – tick noise emanated from somewhere in the wall behind the tiny writing table. Etched into the wood was a message: Help Me. It was scratched into the table over and over again. The dust was thick, so thick that it visibly floated in the air. There were markings on the wall, as though someone had tried to scratch their way out by going through the walls. The worst thing was the large stain in the middle of the floor. It was a dark brownish color – the color of dried blood.