You find yourself in a chamber virtually identical to the one you were just in, but somehow manages to be even dustier, grimier, and grimmer. You start sighing, then think better of it—that dust cannot possibly be good for your lungs.
On the bright side, however—and it really is the bright side—it's not as dark in this chamber. Indeed, the chamber is bathed in a sickly yellow that seems to be emanating from … come to think of it, you're not quite sure where the glow is coming from.
You venture deeper into the chamber, wading through the opaque clouds of dust, and realize it is much larger than you thought. You guess the direction of the glow from your shadow and start walking. You cannot see more than an arm's length through the dust; occasionally you bump into a wall and have to turn.
It's a light bulb. When you're close enough, the glow sharpens to a halo, and then to a blazing arc of filament.
You look up, but thanks to the dust, you cannot see where the bulb is suspended from.
You look down, and you see footprints.
The footprints interest you for two reasons. Firstly, there are two sets: your own, and those of a bare foot at least two shoe sizes larger than yours. The second reason is that both sets of footprints arrive at the light bulb; neither leave.
As you try to puzzle this out in your mind, you become aware of a wailing sound echoing through the chamber. As you begin to focus on it, you realized you judged it prematurely. It's not wailing; it's someone singing.
You try to think of an excuse for being where you are. Falling serendipitiously through a conveniently-broken window seems like a stretch, so you choose instead to hide behind a nearby wall.
The singing gets louder, but you still cannot discern the words.