"You're strong woman," he brushed away her tears, "and this is scary."

They drove back through the Industrial Park. A glow rose from the town, and lightning filled the heavens. War of despair had sparked into flame. Though only half the street lamps burned, the town no longer needed them. One man stood at the chain link fence, eyes on the abandoned factory. Tim recalled him, knew he'd lost everything. The man's gaze caught the light of distant fires. They slowed, but they had no time to spare. Unshaven, disheveled, and dressed in patched together clothes. A company's loyalty went one way, so ended when no longer advantageous to them. This man's means and meaning had been stripped away. Tim and Marie left him there with only the sound of thunder and a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey. A small pop from a worn pistol was lost in the chaos.

The Devil of the void had finally brought hell to the town. It needed no imps or demons, but only the self-loathing despair in people's hearts. Men and women would gladly, in a state of hopeless rage, be the hellish creators of malevolence. Pain inflicted would never fill the emptiness inside, though each attempt drew out a little more. The hunger grew ravenous.

Owl Sticks was littler with fire that the slow, bloated drops left unquenched. Some were bonfires, but most were the hovels that sheltered the wayward of the trailer courts. They shunned all, even themselves, and so burned the town to feel its warmth. Streets were filled with bands of cackling junkies. One group piled up tires in a bonfire in the street, and danced around the fire. With malicious glee, a scrawny addict rolled a burning tractor wheel down the road. Meth labs, hidden amongst the hovels, blew up. Chunk of debris landed on the pavement to the hateful joy of the little crowds. Thick black smoke rolled over the ruination left in the wake of the bedlam, which reeked of rubber and chemicals. Low, guttural stench turned the stomach. It settled on the skin, left it defiled. Between the brawls, curses and screams, the desperation in their eyes grew.

Tim maneuvered around the mayhem. Any that drew close seen Marie, and ran in terror from the La Voison. She tried to think, but a wave of nausea hit her every time. Tim's mind blanked, and his gut dropped. They drove slowly.

Marie always strove to answer everything herself. Now, she prayed Bethany could help her, realized her mother always had an answer. Maybe, she thought, she had taken her love for granted. "I'm sorry," she whispered too low to hear. Marie had cried, when her mother had died, though pride would never let her admit it. It had been shameful to be the daughter of a mad woman. Small towns relegated children on the path of the parents. Fate had never really let her escape, only to return to this place. The insanity, curse of her blood, had started to devour the mind.

"Mom," she pleaded, and Tim glanced at her.

Before them, motes rose from the road, though this one was a dazzling hue of vibrant purple like a thistle. Bethany had loved the color, and wore a ribbon of its shade. It flashed, and Marie thought of her mother. The ball of flame floated to her, light soothed. She cupped her hand to hold the ball.

Ashless Hollow rose around her in a flash of black. In a flicker and then gone, Marie could smell gingerbread, and thought of Bethany. Trees crowded the dark water, where the mud was treacherous. Large, ripe blackberries formed a thick wall, briars long and thick. The berries were soured by the earth that nourished them. They stood guard, under a great weeping willow. Its branches touched the water's surface, like it was awed by the gloomy beauty. No light struck the earth, even the lightning failed to pierce it. Nothing that fell into the mire could escape. A single, old noose hung over the pool's center.

Marie pulled back, like she'd stuck her head in dark water. The image broke fast as it had gripped her. Breath heaved to the pounding of her heart.

"Inky," Tim blinked.

She clapped both hands to her head, "I can't recall it!"

"What," he said, bewildered.

"There is a place, in Ashless Hollow, that has black berries and a big willow," she felt the name on her tongue.

He frowned for a moment, "It sounds like Blackberry Bog."

"Yes," she snapped fingers, "but…I can't think of where to find it."

"Oh, no," he turned towards Ashless Hollow, "that is a bad place."

"I've heard of it, but my mother never told me where it was in Ashless Hollow."

"That is where people disappear," he drove faster, but the patches of chaos slowed him. "Do you recall Mason Greene?" he asked, and Marie nodded though frowned. "Well, according to rumor, he was killed and dumped in Blackberry Bog."

"Did they find a body?"

"No, it is impossible for to get machinery back there," he saw a group of people, reached for the shotgun, but they ran away. "That is why Reverend Hill doesn't have a backhoe anymore."

"I bet Rutger has investigated Blackberry Bog," she rubbed her eyes, "and knows where to find it."

The truck cleared Owl Sticks. Gunfire played between the booms of deafening thunder. Rain fell slow, sporadic; water already began to run into the mire. Roads only cut through so much of the forest. They saw men in the woods, but were unconcerned with them. Groups of Gregory, McWhorter, and Van Lear hard cases trekked through the muck. The warring factions took shots at each other, cursed mire's labyrinthine trees. On foot, anyone could find their legs swallowed up to the thigh in moments. None were interested in the occupants of the truck, once they saw them.

"I don't think we can go any further," Tim grunted, but tried to push it a little deeper.