The door creeks open, the sound of rusted metal hinges echoing in the darkness and fog. The noises remain, unperturbed, however continuing to resound quietly in the mist.<br/><br/>Visibility is poor, stretching only a few feet in any direction, and the strange vapor in the air seems to swirl and ripple in unusual patterns. Here and there you can make out primitive torture devices. A wooden horse rests on one side, a simple stool with two phallic prongs on it resides on another. Chains dangle from the ceiling, attached to sparsely padded cuffs.<br/><br/>At the far wall, a large wheel slowly spins in the gloom above a vat of ice water. Not far away a wooden cross and set of whips lines a wall. Tucked away in one corner, a large iron maiden sits sealed shut. Beside it are a series of cells, likely for housing victims.<br/><br/>Each of the devices seems slightly off at first glance, but from a distance the looming fog makes it impossible to distinguish what it is about them that's so bizarre.