Could I be driven mad by it?

Like before, the chained gates had appeared locked until we got close enough to see that the lock itself was undone. The gate gave an ominous whine as Ricky swung it open.

“A word of warning,” I said as we walked in. “The last time I was here, I saw visions.”

“When you were with me?”

“Yes.”

His gaze settled on me, not angry that I’d kept that from him. Only concerned. “Well, if it happens this time, tell me. Please. That might make it easier.”

“It will. Thanks.”

We headed up the overgrown road, picking our way past chunks of pavement, the grass and weeds breaking through, leaving a cobblestone of old asphalt. Trees stretched over us, the branches reaching out to one another but not quite meeting. I could imagine this road fifty years ago, in the bright summer sun, a cool and dark passage with a wind whispering through the leaves. A pretty sight, I’m sure, but I’m equally sure that no one was thinking of beauty when they planted these trees. They were a landscape transition, hiding the buildings beyond from the outside world. You’d turn in from the country road, pass through this leafy tunnel, and come out in the stark, cold reality of the hospital grounds.

After a quarter mile, squat industrial buildings replaced the trees lining the road. In their day, they’d have held little architectural interest, and even as ruins they weren’t any more enticing. Ugly cinder blocks with boarded-up and broken-out windows.

“Eden . . .”

The voice came as a whisper on the breeze. I turned.

“Hear something?” Ricky asked.

“You didn’t?”

He made a noise that sounded like a no, as if reluctant to admit to it, reaching over at the same time to touch my hand, his closed switchblade refreshingly cool against my fingers.

“We’ll go that way, then,” he said, nodding in the direction I’d turned. “Whatever happens, stay close. No splitting up this time, okay?”

I nodded, and we headed along a narrow passage between two buildings. There was no path there, not even a worn strip of dirt, but we walked through and found ourselves at a gate so ivy-choked that, from the road, it had looked like a bush.

“Where’s the path?” I said. “If there’s a gate, there should be something leading to it. More than a gap between buildings.”

“Yeah.”

I took a closer look at the ivy. “I’m no gardener, but I helped ours enough to know this isn’t native to Illinois. It was planted here.” I eased back and looked at the thin wrought iron, completely engulfed in flora. “It’s almost like they tried to hide the gate. Or is my imagination just running away with me?”