The streets were dark and slick. Bursts of light like bombs in the distance kept blinking in and out as the thunder clapped in the sky. Steadily rain kept falling; a constant and strong pitter patter of water droplets falling hard and breaking apart creating ripples in the puddles that were soon disrupted by the parade of people moving through the streets of Berlin.

The leader of our hunt wore a light beige fedora that dripped down past his round glasses. His white button down shirt, tucked into his khaki pants, was nearly transparent due to the persistence of the storm. Each stop-- an antique store, a museum, a parking lot, he would let loose the stories of haunted mirrors or poltergeists in the attic, of mysteriously moving tables and un explained sounds of breaking glass.

The costumed guides watched out for the headlights through the downpour, little yellow orbs of light floating down the street, as the party of twenty or so people follow through the dark to the next destination. The dark, ominous clouds above only showing their face when lightening ran through them.

Two hours we sought the super-natural through town, stopping under canopies and trees to keep whatever dry spots dry. The sound of children crying in the background found its way in to our eyes on occasion, as dark figures made their way around corners and down alleys. The rain was falling harder than ever, angrier, more violent. We stood on the porch of the Holland House staring out as the dark and stormy night stared back.

The rain never let up, preventing us from making it to the graveyard, away from the headstones and muddy grass and loose soil over six feet of earth. We dodge the rain under awning as we moved from the Holland House to the final stop, where we started, The Atlantic.

Here we reconvened, shook like dogs to dry our clothes, and said our final good-byes before we re-entered the dreadfully dreary evening; our bodies slowly dissolving away behind the sheets of rain.