When the sprawling new development opens just off the exit, the remaining stores in the Richmond Mall pack up their inventory, put on their sheepish hats and scurry over to foist themselves upon the weary of I-75.
Behind its dark and empty windows, strange things flower.
The plastic plants burst into bloom; the ghost of flute music rises, tritoned and sinister. The leftover nerves of fifty thousand bored teenagers spawn a new race of restless fey, hands eagerly filching, eyes like bright cigarettes.
Then the owners burn it down for insurance money and build a giant church on the remains.