The iron gate slammed down from overhead just after they passed through the doorway. It bounced, wobbled, then fell undramatically over. Ahead, half of a trapdoor opened, easing down with a squeak of poorly-oiled hinges. The other half stayed up, firmly wedged. It was more solid than the floor, which sagged and groaned under their feet.
They pushed through the archway, a rotting spiderweb falling in dusty pieces around them. In the shadows under the stairs, segmented legs shifted, revealing dozens of bleary compound eyes. "If evil triumphs when good men do nothing, what will be left after me?"
The Shoveller Of Widdecombe Ditch (Trad.)
4 hours ago