Deep thunder rumbled out along the hills near their landing site. The wind was high, the air thick and hot. The sky itself seemed to sweat miserably along with the landed pilots. Cracks of lightning illuminated the durasteel panels of their X-wings like a the flash of a photograph. Wedge looked at the dark sky, gone darker with clouds pregnant with rain.

"Think they'll be back soon?" Hobbie asked.

"Probably." Wedge could see the worry on his friend's face and couldn't blame him. This place was unknown, uncharted, and dangerous. The empty, flat plateau they'd landed on seemed somehow unnatural. The ground lumped in odd places, and weeds grew tangled with crosses made of hitched-together steel pipe. But he could see precious little further than directly around their campsite, and it itched at him.

A crackle in the nearby grass awoke him from his reverie.

"Wes, Tycho!"

"Hey, commander." Wes shouted back. Wedge could hear his heavy jog, and then heard a loud thud as he tripped. "Ow." He heard him scrabbling up again, and the two scouts reached the campsite a few seconds later.

"So, find anything?"

"Yeah, actually."

"What?"

"No far from here, an overgrown paved road, and at the end of that a big building--looks abandoned, covered in graffiti." Tycho replied.

"But it's safe?"

"Looks like it. Some strange things, though...piles of ash around the back, and more of those crosses upright in the ground. A couple of rotted boxes--they look like caskets."

"You're kidding. What is it, a prison?"

"The question's probably more what was it. The grafitti all looks fairly violent--warnings and such. Skulls."

"Oh, charming." Hobbie rolled his eyes.

"What kind of warnings?"

"Stuff like 'House of Souls', 'Dead House'...the number six-twenty painted everywhere."

"Well...it does look like it's going to rain pretty bad, so I guess we might as well head there for the night."

"Great. Just great. Of all the abandoned buildings on the planet, we get 'The dead house'."

"Don't worry, Hobbie, we'll protect you."

"Oh, shut up."

A half hour's hike found them at the doorway of an impressive example of institutional architecture. Wedge held up a lamp through the dusting drizzle, and read the words painted on the rotting wooden door.

"'Friend or foe whichever be,
Ever mind my words to thee,
In this place are trapped the dead,
The sick and lost who died abed,
A hundred years this place survived,
The catch the madmen's souls inside,
Those seeking shelter from the hail,
Are minded not to take this trail,
The dead are angry, vengeful, willing,
And can't be punished for the killing."

"Oh, well, that was great,/I>. We also pick the place the locals hate."

"Oh, cut it out. It's probably just put there to scare off kids."

"It's working."

"You're not a kid."

"But Wedge always says--"

"Shut up, both of you. For once, Wes, you're probably right. Come on." He shoved open the door, which slid obligingly against the dry tiled floor. The silence seemed to hang in the foyer of the building like a vulture, eyes bulging in desperate desire. Wedge cast his light around the room, passing something, then going back. What he saw made him almost drop the lamp.

"Eh..."

"Still don't believe me?"

"Holy sith..."

A massive, stylized painting adorned the far corner wall. A human figure, down on its knees, clutching at its throat and gagging, blood spilling from between the thick white fingers. Below it, on the floor, was what looked like a small altar, with yet another cross, and the corpse of some small mammal.

"Hobbie, from now on, I'll believe anything you say."

"Anything…?"

"Hobbie, now is not the time."

"C'mon, Wedge. See that painting? Things are not okay here."

"You'd rather be in the rain?"

"Wedge, I'd sleep in my x-wing's cargo compartment as long as it wasn't here."

"Yeah? Well, I wouldn't." Wes snorted. "Don't be such a baby, Hobbie."

"Lemme guess, chief--he's right. Again."

"Yes, Hobbie."

"See? See? Wes being right--something bad has to happen!"

Wes whacked him on the head. "Shut up."

"Both of you, quit it. Now come on. There has to be a good place to set up for the night." Tycho followed Wedge down the hallway with Wes, and Hobbie scrambled to bring up the rear. He didn't like this place. He wouldn't have liked it in daylight. There seemed to be faces among the shadows, faces with eyes full of hate. Oh well. At least he wasn't alone.

The third floor proved to have a suitable room; its windows were boarded, its floor did not sag as much as some, and it had a door. Hobbie decided he liked the door. Wes kidded him about it, and he just glared. He still felt something was wrong about the place, and even in Wes' eyes he could see slight trepidation. The graffiti too in this room was different. Instead of the violent epitaphs and colorful tags, the scribbles here were far simpler and more disturbing. Long rants penned onto the walls, the ramblings of the insane. A long spiral of the words "I am always falling down and falling down alone" over and over. Dark stains on the floor. Bloody smears and handprints on the walls. A drawing of a hunched little man in wrapped in chains biting a uniformed woman.

"You know, I'm starting to wonder about this place." Tycho commented.

"So you believe me?"

"Not necessarily. But I can't help but think about what this place might have been. A prison? An institution?"

"But…even in the outer rim, institutions like this haven't been used for hundreds of years. This can't have been abandoned for more than twenty or thirty."

"Well, this is an unknown planet. We did get hurled out of hyperspace on the wrong coordinates, if you recall."

"Right, right. Don't remind me. Why don't we all just get some sleep, okay? And Hobbie," Wedge smirked, "if you get scared, scream in Wes' ear, not mine."

"Oh, quiet."

Wedge flicked out the light, and they lay down. Hobbie couldn't fall asleep, though. He listened to the breathing around him. Wes' soft, whistling snores. Tycho's low, heavy breaths. Wedge's breathing, even and deep. His own, ragged with nervous tension. He crept a little closer to Wes. Minutes passed, achingly slow and fraught with nerve-tingling noises outside. Rustles in the grass of the courtyard, moaning of the wood as it curved in the night wind, rain against the bricks. Hobbie also could've sworn he heard footsteps outside the door, and this time clutched Wes, his stomach knotting. He knew how absurd it seemed--he, Derek Klivian, veteran pilot, terrified a few probably-just-his-imagination footsteps. But there was just something about their heavy, deliberate echoing, the way they paused outside the doorway just long enough for Hobbie's lungs to ache as he held his breath, and then continuing out of earshot. He did not like this place. In fact, he hated it. But he slept anyway.

A light sleeper by occupation, Wedge usually dreamt little, always ready to wake at the slightest noise. But it was not a slight noise that woke him. It was a very obvious, very loud noise. A door clicking. The slam of brass into plaster. Breathing.

He started awake, eyes darting around. Tycho to his right, Hobbie and Wes in front of him, the door to his left. And someone in the door. Staring at him. Just staring.