...no chance of loot that would be any more than the ordinary,
waking-world kind, that the cops hauled you in for taking;
no small immunities, no possibilities for hidden life or otherworldly presence;
no trees, secret routes, shortcuts, culverts, thickets that could be made hollow in the middle - everything in the place was out in the open,
everything could be seen at a glance;
and behind it, under it, around the corners of its houses and down the safe, gentle curves of its streets, you came back, you kept coming back, to nothing;
nothing, but the cheerless earth.
They skirted the edges of the room they'd entered, because hung right in the middle of the ceiling was a cobwebbed, flint-glassed chandelier with dust piled in thick stalagmites of its upper facets, and they knew what would happen if you walked under it. The house was full of such mute injunctions: blind places you could be jumped out at from; stretches of warped floor that might suddenly open downward into dungeons or simple darknesses with nothing nearby to grab onto; door that would not stay open behind you but were balanced to close quietly, unless you watched them. These places it was better to stay away from. The route to the hideout was thus like the way into reefed and perilous harbor. If there had been more than four going in, there would have been no danger at all; it would have been just a mob of kids running through an old house. If there had been fewer, it would have been impossible to get beyond the first room.
Th.Pynchon, "The Slow Integration"