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From the ashes of two Melbourne metal bands comes a heaving mass of rotted wood and twisted steel. Built from the blueprints of tortured madmen and cloaked in the sinister shadows of its squalid surrounds, this most unhappy of homes imposes its malevolent mood over all who dare to venture near. It is the House of Thumbs. What horrors befoul the air inside? What shadows lurk behind its deadly doors? Much of what is known is mere hearsay, shrouded in scuttlebutt and speculation. Legend tells of a hideous abhorrence of a man shunned by the society upon which he now extracts swift retribution. His work is said to be that of busy hands, though not his own, and from his hallway hangs the detached digits of his victims. Yet who knows if this is true? For while no-one has entered – and none ever left – many claim to have heard midnight moans of madness riding atop the whipping wind of the witching hour. Listen closer, they say, and you might hear the laboured lurch of a polyrhythmic chug