Everything about that building was wrong. Bastard amalgam of a hundred ages mixing turrets and pediments—a temple to some chimaeric deity, part saviour and part destroyer. The one terrible eye looked down on you from its riveted socket, like the porthole of a ghost ship.
And heavenly Marie Celeste it was, for I never saw its shuttered doors open to worshippers or supplicants. Silas said god lived in the cabin perched atop the roof, winching his vittals up from street level. I disagreed, believing the tenant was a deaf hunchback, and dreamed of being sacrificed to the creature.