A man is in a small room, somewhat like a large walk-in closet. Lining all of the walls and the ceiling of the room are hammer heads, bulbous, smooth hammer heads, attached to large, rusted, iron handles. The walls and ceiling are thus studded with the rounded edges of all these hammer heads, hundreds of them. Initially the effect can look pretty, novel, unusual.
But each hammer is attached to a key in a large typewriter in an adjoining room. That room is dark. Sitting at this gigantic and antique looking typewriter is a figure that cannot be seen, except for a single, large, white hand.
The man inside the walk-in closet looks around innocently, almost in amazement at the design of the room. He then realizes that he cannot exit.
The hand in the next room mercilessly and relentlessly types: P, A, I, N. In fact, these are the only letters, and they repeat across the typewriter. P-A-I-N.
P-A-I-N, typed over and over, to the agonizing screams of the man trapped in the room next to the typist. P-A-I-N, dropping heavy hammers onto the head and body of the man, each key punched resulting in a crushing blow. The typist types and types and types, one letter at a time, using one finger, methodically but nervously, until no more screams are to be heard, just a low thumping and crunching sound of hammers hitting a now lifeless body.
This is a dream I had one evening while wide awake.