Bastian had never been down this hall before. It looked similar to his floor; he recognized the familiar dark wood wall paneling and the rich deep red carpeting, but the chandelier lights were missing; the hall was lit instead by flickering brass gaslight wall sconces.

Bastian glanced back at Oubliette, wondering for a moment if they had gotten off on the wrong floor, but Oubliette's hand crawled to his shoulder and began to urge him forward. The hall had no doors that he could see; instead, picture frames lined the walls at the precise intervals that the doors would have appeared on his floor. The pictures were covered in a thick layer of grime, years of accumulated smoke from the wall sconces. As they hurried down the hall, Bastian could make out distorted figures that seemed to writhe in the flickering light.

Suddenly Oubliette's hand tightened on his shoulder, stopping him in front of one of the pictures. Bastian's stomach tightened when he realized that, had this been on his floor, this is where Patrice's door would have stood.