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Theta ground out her cigarette. “Swell. Every time I think this night can’t get worse, it does.”
The lights dimmed and winked.
“They’re coming back,” Conor said. “We better go now.”
Henry poked his head out the door. Down by the nurses’ station, the lights were out again. Fog seeped around the window cracks and waterfalled over the windowsill. It circled one of the nurses, who burst into hysterical laughter. “Everything dies,” she said, pulling out strands of her hair. “Oh, our lives are such folly!”
“Hen? Whaddaya see?” Theta asked. The others were crowded behind him in a clump.
Henry gave them an awkward smile over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Let’s ankle.”
Evie took hold of Isaiah’s hand. “Just keep walking,” she told him.
Henry pushed Luther Clayton’s wheelchair. Memphis kept a watch on Conor, who moved with feral quickness. Far behind them, the deadly fog advanced.
“If anything comes at us, Theta, can you keep ’em back?” Ling asked, and Theta knew what she was being asked to do.
“Gee. That happened fast,” she said bitterly.
“We need to hurry before this gets any worse,” Memphis said, opening the front door. The clammy air stuck to their skins. The disorienting fog was everywhere. Even the bright lights of the city seemed to have been swallowed up. It was as if they’d been cut off from the rest of the world.
“Anything could be waiting in this,” Ling warned.
“Stick close,” Henry said. “It would be easy for us to lose one another out here.”
Sam turned to Conor. “The lady telling you anything?”
Conor shook his head.
“Hurry,” Luther said, so suddenly it made them jump. “Grave… graveyard.”
They pressed on, keeping alert for anything that might be coming at them in the gloom. Ling wished this were a dream. If it were, she’d be able to speak more easily with the dead. And, if something terrible happened, at least she’d be able to run. The bottom of her crutch met the rise of a grave. The air had grown noticeably colder. The smell of rot returned.
“I think we’re close,” she said.
The fog rippled as the wraiths took shape—cold eyes, mummified faces, bared teeth, and, underneath it all, the palpable feeling of rage and thwarted need.
Henry took a step forward. Theta yanked him back by his sleeve. “Whaddaya think you’re doing?” she whispered.
“This worked last time.” He inched forward again, his hands up in a placating gesture. “Y-you don’t want to hurt us.”
The rotted mouths twisted into cruel smiles. “Oh, but we do,” they said as one, and let loose an unholy screech that sent Henry running back to the group.
“It really did work last time,” he insisted.
“What do you want?” Evie shouted.
“Want?” The Forgotten cocked their heads.
“You must want something. Isn’t that why you came back? We can’t help you if we don’t know.”
“We are the Forgotten. We want everything,” the ghosts said again.
“No. You’re not forgotten,” Memphis said, coming to stand beside Evie and Theta. “Tell us. Tell us who you are. We’re listening.”
The ghosts blinked as if trying to remember something that they’d thought irretrievably lost.
“Who
