A newly-constructed windowless warehouse has appeared aside the towpath of the Grand Union Canal, where it passes through Horsingdon: the thrum of hidden machinery emanates from somewhere nearby, filling the air with a strange metallic tang; sinister figures, dressed in black paramilitary fatigues and wearing gas masks, are said to patrol its grounds at night, their passage lit by the migraine-inducing actinic glow of numerous spotlights; time seems to distort around here, whilst language unaccountably reassembles into incomprehensible alien syllables which cut the air.
And from within, the sound of something vast shifting fitfully in its aeon-long, deathless slumber.
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