Old coats moan like souls without vessels, their moth eaten sleeves stirring, rising, searching, please, please, wear me once more so that I might feel the pleasure of making separate parts whole. Warm flesh and blood so easily forgotten as I spend all eternity waiting for a host that may never come, please please—

Don't look back.

Carolina steps a little quicker. Keeps her nose pointed forward for the fear that, in looking back, she might oblige demonic hunger and be swallowed up into costume racks. That, by acknowledging the rustle-voice from several dozen dusty, stinking old coats, she'll find herself under control once more.

"Whatever they're doing, they could afford to hurry it up a little—"