It seemed the moment Grove shut the inner door, the entire front half of the bungalow erupted. It sounded as though wild animals had been let loose out there: the muffled zephyr wailing, glass shattering, temblors rocking through the bungalow’s foundation. The electricity immediately fizzed out again, and inside the secret room, the specimen jars and picture frames and ritual objects rattled and clanked in the darkness as the threesome crouched down in the far corner where Grove had carefully shoved aside the cadenza and piles of doctored articles and photos. Each person now gazed up at the shadows of exposed ceiling conduit and the trembling, dangling bones, and watched and listened as though the room might collapse at any moment. They would not know the extent of the damage around them for some time, but it sounded as though anything that wasn’t nailed down out in the living room had just bitten the dust. They knew there was a risk of losing the roof—it was now starting to creak and buzz with the sustained chorus of winds—which would probably mean the end of them.
