Chapter 4
§04. God of Machinery
Thump, thump.
The maddening sound of two people's footsteps reverberated through the pitch-black depths of the decrepit cellar stairs. The dank passageway, as confined as it appeared from the outside, was so narrow that only a solitary soul could traverse it at a time. The termination of this abyssal tunnel was inscrutable, shrouded in a veil of ominous mystery. It must have taken eons of laborious excavation to carve out this subterranean domain.
I dared not hazard a guess as to its antiquity. Was it the relic of some antediluvian epoch? A vestige of an occult society, ensconced in secrecy for aeons? Even the fungus clinging to the walls was twisted and warped, reminiscent of some bygone era.
As I ruminated upon these enigmatic ruminations, Arthur bellowed from the rear,
"Philo, do not falter, press on!"
"Can't you perceive my wounded leg?!"
Ever since my left leg had been cruelly amputated, the staircase had become my most formidable adversary. My prosthetic limb, a mere wooden stick affixed to a pole, strained under the burden of my corpulent frame, which rivaled that of any grown man.
Leaving the attic, where I had long dwelled, was an endeavor to enhance my wretched existence, yet my dread of ascending and descending those accursed steps loomed large in my decision.