Their path down the stairs is blessedly calm, despite Liz's readiness to jump out of her skin at the slightest noise. There are no giant fast-moving blurs, no crossbows, no creepy music, and no sudden indoor floods -- just Liz gritting her teeth with every step, and the two of them carefully making their way down.

Outside, the fog is so ominous and thick you could practically cut it with a knife. "Can you get back to the bar on your own or do you want to wait out here?" Liz says (and Christ, that decrepit vine-wrapped facade isn't any less creepy after having been inside the building; Christ, she does not want to go back in there, the bitter tang of fear at the back of her throat). "I'm going back in."