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abandoned Melody’s workstation to hide in the deepest of shadows at the nearest wall. An old man and a young woman came hesitantly through the open doors and advanced slowly into the great open space of the factory floor. The old man held up an old-fashioned storm lantern before him, the flame’s soft yellow glow pushing back the gloom. They moved steadily forward, sticking close together, looking about them with keen interest. Neither of them seemed particularly scared or intimidated.
    The old man was a stooped, fragile-looking black man, well into his seventies. He wore a battered jacket over a heavy sweater, faded jeans, and sensible shoes. His eyes were bright, and his mouth was firm, but his wrinkled face had sunk right back to the bone. His head was mostly bald, with little white tufts of hair above the ears. His stride was slow but steady, and he looked quietly determined, as though he had come to the deserted factory with some definite purpose in mind. And for all his evident age and fragility, there was something about the man that suggested he’d survived hard times and could survive more, too, if he had to.
    The teenage girl at his side towered over him, big, black, and busty, with a strong face that held rather more character than was good for her. Or anybody else. She held herself with defiant pride and dignity, and wore a long, patterned robe over practical sandals. Her hair had been scraped back in tight cornrows. She walked beside the old man like a body-guard, but there was something in it of family, too. She held a mobile phone to her ear, then waved it about, trying for a signal, before swearing dispassionately and putting the phone away.
    The old man stopped abruptly. The girl stopped with him and looked quickly about her. The old man held up both hands before speaking in a firm, rich, and carrying voice.
    â€œIs there anybody here? Be not afraid, be not alarmed. We have come to talk with any who might remain here and to offer any help or aid that might be required. Please, come forward and talk with us. We are not afraid. We are friends.”
    â€œBloody cold in here, Gramps,” said the girl. “Cold and dark and a complete lack of comforts. Like most of the places you drag me to. Just once, couldn’t we go ghost-hunting in a first-class hotel, or a nice pub, or a decent restaurant?”
    â€œQuiet, child! Show respect for the spirits!”
    â€œI am not your child, I am your grand-daughter, and I’m sure this is bad for me. I’ll bet there’s mould here, and all kinds of spores, waiting to be breathed in so they can break-dance in my lungs. You’re not going to find any ghosts here, Gramps. For one thing, this place isn’t old enough.”
    â€œHold your peace, child,” said the old man. “You only show your ignorance. Spirits accumulate in the dark places of the world, and this has been a bad place for many years. Have I not told you the old stories . . .”
    â€œYes, Gramps. Many times. But they’re only stories. Something for old men to tell, when they’re losing at dominoes and want to distract their opponents.”
    â€œStories have power, child. In many ways. Trust me when I tell you, the past does not lie easily here . . .”
    â€œWell,” said JC. “Never let it be said that I don’t know a cue when I hear one.”
    He stepped briskly forward, and waved cheerfully to the startled old man and the girl at his side. “Hello, hello! Welcome to the dark and spooky and almost certainly haunted abandoned factory! Guided tours a speciality! Psychic phenomena guaranteed or your money back. I am JC Chance, of the Carnacki Institute for Finding Ghosts and Doing Something About Them. May I ask whom have I the honour of addressing?”
    The teenage girl had actually jumped a little when he appeared, but the old man was made of sterner stuff. He stood his ground and held his lantern a little higher to