Knotted muscles relaxed. They followed the trail of corpse candles. Words from the night fell to an idiot mutter. Amongst trees and houses, the shadows calmed. The fog of her mind cleared, and Marie felt the world sharpened. Even Tim loosened, and he smiled, tentatively, at her.

"Nothing," she said and turned to him, "everyone know nothing."

"That's what they're saying," he shook his head, "but they're afraid. Everyone with some sense has shut their mouth." He glanced at Marie, but thought of Bethany. She had risked the wrath of the Uroboros for trying to save Marie from her life. The ominous proclamations had scared him.

"I got a feeling," she searched for the mote, even if she found nothing. The absence of the mad malaise would make thinking easier.

He nodded. She guided him across Owl Sticks to the graveyard of the town's industry. The hollowed out hulks rotted under the tumultuous sky. One by one, they had closed, until even the old factory, the life blood of Hemlock Hurst closed. They lined the road, abandoned. Grass had sprung up in cracks of the parking lots. An empty bag of chips dragged, flipped, and scrapped over the pavement. Air lacked the sting of drugs, yet the decay still held sway. Empty buildings watched them pass, some had started to collapse. They all had been marked private with the Van Lear name emblazoned on a plaque. The name had insured no one would trespass.

Industrial Highway was empty, and only former workers, now adrift, ever visited this part of the town. Tim had glanced at Marie, once they started to draw near the road's end. Old train tracks were nearly hidden by the forest and time. Before there was a Hemlock Hurst, the Veilstromme's had a warehouse, where they stored mining equipment. The cousins to the Van Lears had gifted it to them, when there operations had halted. She asked Tim to stop the truck, when the road could take them no farther.

Tim got the shotgun and a flashlight. Marie kept a small one, for it had availed her in a pinch. They stepped out into the night.

Crickets, driven mad by the humid heat, droned in a constant hum. A cool, wet slash of air cooled the skin, like a damp rag on a feverish brow. Rancid berries covered the earth to offer a taste of tangy dirt. Old pines gathered in a little cluster, and surrounded the path beyond the gate.

Unlocked, it opened with a light whine. Beneath them, the path was spongy, except for a narrow foot trail. Marie still followed the motes. Reminded of Bethany, Tim followed in silence, and recalled how Marie's mother had fallen into trances. They moved as the flashlight drove shadows away, under a stormy sky ready to burst.

To the earth, a broad strike of lightning fell. It dazzled the eye, left an after image. Marie closed her eyes, but it lingered, faded. Volcanic boom of thunder shook the forest, and felt it in their chests. Smell of ozone turned the air, ripe with berries, into an electrified, sour fruit. The wretched stench stung the nose and eyes. Goosebumps spread over her body, and Tim shook his head, blinked. Darkness, which had fled the light, rushed back.

They continued on into the forest. The mote burned in the night, lingered ahead of Marie. Although the malaise had departed, the sound of whispers grew. Around the edges of their flashlights, black figures darted away from the beams.

Trees debouched away from the path; old tracks ran up to an abandoned train yard. Lightning flashed; its fleeting light fled the night. A train cart set on the tracks, preserved despite being abandoned. It still bore the name of the Veilstrommes. Marie noticed it had been recently used. Inside, someone had restored it, but the door was locked. Nice suits were hung, placed with matching ties.

"Who is living here?" she asked, and turned back to the mote.

"No clue," he blinked, "but it isn't any bum or junkie. They spent a lot of time and money here.

The mote danced nearby, and the beam from Marie's flashlight found it. Pearlescent-white light burned, and cast its glow on the large doors to the warehouse. Darkness clung to the bottom of the wood, refused to flee the flashlight. It hissed, burned, under the beam. Through the structure it weaved like a cancer.

"Do you see a way inside?" Marie looked at the thick lock on the door.

"No," he moved the flashlight around, "but there is a door down here."

She cast about, and saw light peek out. Against the side of the warehouse, old crates were stacked up. Marie climbed up to the roof, but the wood snapped under her.

Tim ran back, "Marie, where are you?!"

"Up here," she lied on the roof, breathed slow, and then sat up, "I see some light."

"Someone is living here," he looked about.

"Try to find a way inside and I'll look for a way out," she walked towards the sliver of light.

Though only a slice of it slashed at the deep darkness. The board had worked loose over the years, and the rusted nail held it in the precarious position. It came free, and she moved it. Acrid lash of chemicals rushed up, heady yet low. She leaned on the wood, but the darkness inside swirled about the meager light. Whatever mining equipment had been stored here, it was gone. Shapes hid under clear plastic tarps, which swayed under the play of shadow. A playful gust of wind tugged at her, and she leaned on the wood to steady herself. Rotted timber gave way.

To the darkness, Marie tumbled. Up from the maelstrom, a chorus of whispers devoured her. Black figures raised their hands to receive her. The world grew distant, blurred, and it filled with the smell of skin. Women cried softly. Air sucked into her lungs held little dust, but she could taste plastic. Again, the sweet aroma of baking, gingerbread cookies seeped from her bronze skin. Dry hands brushed exposed skin that drove away the malady. A figure stood over her; Marie jerked.