I've seen dead lights before, when I was a child, when my mother was still among the living. Little impish things danced in it, a light shrouded by the fogs that a friend of my mother's claimed to creep from the underlands. They were supposed to travel from the Lakes of Fire, or the Forests of Diamond, to bring the dead to pleasure, or to sorrow. The dead lights that had come for my mother, killed from a car crash, were periwinkle.
None came for the corpse in front of me.
