When Kuja steps inside the room, he'll see a ball rolling across the floor. There's no furniture here, though, nothing where it could have fallen from. A closed closet but nothing more.

The door behind him slams shut, audibly locking. The walls began to move, rippling and swelling, the imprints of hands pressing against the wallpaper, reaching for Kuja. There's a sound similar to a tornado or train scouring through the room, nearly too loud to think.