(cont’d from p. 47) against the smooth, curved surface of the unfamiliar location. Abandoning the escape for the moment, Pembroke surveyed the room. He was alone, he concluded — when suddenly he felt ice-cold fingers against his skin!
Water! Pembroke’s heart thundered in his chest as he scrabbled anew at the unyielding metal walls. He’d heard of this place; a chamber of horrors so ghastly, it was spoken of only in awestruck whispers — when spoken of at all.
A door opened and he went still. One of the dungeon acolytes entered, cradling a bottle of amber liquid. At that instant, Pembroke knew what was in store. It would be the worst agony anyone could bear — and live to tell of it. Its name was enough to chill his blood and send daggers of fire up his spine. This was… bathtime.
Photos by Krystin N. from the Bangor Humane Society (more like the Bangor Kitty-Tormenting Society, am I right or am I right?)