by Jaci Miller
The mill itself was darker in this image, its outline highlighted by a faint shadow encasing the entire structure. She inspected a few more of the images but none of them contained the blur or the faint shadow that appeared in this one image. Checking the darkroom clock, she flipped off the lights and left the room, determined to get to the mill before dusk.
“Tyson, I won’t be long,” she said grabbing her coat and heading out the front door, the bullmastiff lifting his head only briefly before going back to sleep.
As she drove toward the old mill road, she felt a chill, not in reaction to the cold, but one more foreboding. There was something wrong with the mill’s energy, she had felt it two days ago when she had taken those pictures and now it was confirmed by the strange distortions that had shown up in one of those photos. Something was causing the mill’s unique energy distress, and she needed to discover what.
Driving a little faster she arrived at the mill’s entrance just as the sun was disappearing behind the horizon. She turned into the driveway, the wrought-iron entrance gates were rusty but stood open, a gaping hole beckoning her in. One had fallen from its hinges and leaned at an odd angle against the brick column to which it was once attached, the other creaked loudly in the wind, its rust-covered hinges screeching as it moved.
She drove slowly down the unkempt drive, her Jeep shifting back and forth as the wheels dug into the mud and sunk into the numerous potholes littering the lane.
The mill loomed up in front of her, a hulking shadow waiting in the waning twilight, its worn brick crumbling in places where the mortar had disintegrated or cracked. There were no street lights or houses on this part of the old mill road and in the fading light, with only the moon’s reflection casting a dim glow on its facade, the mill looked more ominous than usual.
Only its outline was visible in the fading light. A solitary smokestack protruded above the mill’s roof, its long, dark mass casting a menacing silhouette in the sky. In the dying twilight, the mill looked dejected, its neglected appearance causing a pang of empathy in her as she pulled up to the loading dock and parked.
The air surrounding the mill was erratic, and she was having a difficult time identifying any of the imprints moving through its space. Their energy caught in an odd, unbalanced atmosphere. Exiting the Jeep, she opened the back and grabbed a flashlight from her emergency kit. The wind had picked up and its chill swirled around her, howling as it raced in and out of the mill’s broken windows. The abandoned building groaned in displeasure as a loose shutter banged against the exterior. Everything about the mill’s energy was wrong. There was a mix of panic and confusion in the air, permeating the menacing chill being spread by the oncoming night.
She turned on the flashlight, pointing its beam toward the massive structure and sweeping it back and forth. She could sense something strange floating just below the mill’s surface, an unknown energy echoing its displeasure at her presence. Staring up at the old mill she shuddered as the sweeping motion of the flashlight’s beam illuminated its worn facade. Most of the windows had been broken years ago, the vacant black holes now just lifeless unseeing eyes staring blankly out from the dilapidated building. With a slight hesitation, she walked cautiously to the side entry door, hoping the city had not fixed the lock since some teenagers had broken in a few months back.
As she neared the door, the air changed. She stopped as she was suddenly encased in an eerie silence that hung directly over the mill. A suffocating blanket wrapping itself tightly around the exterior. The wind died down, and she realized there were no longer any sounds in the evening sky, just an uneasy nothingness. She searched for signs of the erratic energy that pulled her here. Pushing her empathic senses further up and out into the night sky, but it too was gone. She could feel the energy of the dead caught in the veil. Their imprints were constantly moving, surrounding the mill, but they were infused with a restlessness—a distracted flow that distorted their movement and interrupted it somehow. The fear and confusion she felt saturating the air moments before were emanating from them, something was causing them distress.
Dark magic, she thought, moving slowly to the side door.
The large padlock was still broken. The door stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open and was immediately assaulted by a damp, musty scent wafting out from the old mill’s stagnant interior. Covering her mouth and nose with one hand she pointed the beam of her flashlight into the dense darkness, sweeping the light back and forth.
Nothing greeted her but emptiness.
Taking a deep breath of the chilly but clean outside air she slowly entered the darkness of the mill’s interior ignoring the unsettling caution prickling her skin.
Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness inside the mill, but the musty stale heaviness in the air continued to assault her nostrils. Breathing through her mouth, she continued to walk toward the back of the building where she knew the back stairs leading to the basement, were located. Luckily, she had done a photo shoot here a few years back and was vaguely familiar with the layout, making walking around the abandoned building at night a little less daunting.
Moving as quickly as she dared, she wound her way around grinders and millstones until she reached the stairs, careful not to trip on any of the debris that lay scattered over the concrete floor. The mechanisms running the exterior water wheel protruded from the wall just before the stairs and she almost collided with them as she made her way through the darkened warehouse.
Cautiously, she descended the rickety wooden steps into the dank below, the pull of a strange energy getting stronger with each step.
The back steps led to a small storage area still full of old wooden packing crates stamped on the side with THE GRISTMILL FLOUR CO. A ghostly reminder of the mill’s once vibrant past as the industry that built Brighton Hill. The air down here was dusty and heavy, and Dane found it difficult to breathe. But underneath the lack of freshness, she could smell something that did not belong. There was a faint smell of rotten eggs and charred wood, seeping out from somewhere up ahead.
Moving past the dusty crates she headed to a small door located at the far end of the room, the peculiar smell intensifying and making her gag as she approached. Pushing open the door she recoiled at the stink radiating from inside. The small room was filled with the stench of decay, a stagnant, petrified odor flooding its stifling aroma outward through the now open door. A mustiness seeped out of the shadows and she shivered as it too carried the stench of dirt and decay. Covering her nose and mouth again with her gloved hand, she entered the damp room.
Other than a small table there was nothing else in the room except a dozen or so small white candles littered throughout the empty space. She picked one up smelling the wick.
Sulfur, she thought, would explain the rotten egg smell.
She swung her flashlight around the room, checking every corner. There were no windows or doors other than the one she had entered through and the floor was dirt, caked and cracking from years of neglect. She moved to the small table, shining the beam on its surface. There, burned into the top, was a pentacle, the odor of charred wood still floating in the surrounding air. It was rudimentary, crooked and asymmetrical. It looked as if it had been produced by a child in a hurry. As she moved the flashlight beam closer, she could make out something, a fine powdery substance, caught in the burn pattern. Wiping her index finger through the dust she lifted it to her nose, the smell of rotting eggs wafting in her nostrils.
There seemed to be sulfur all over this room, but why? Sulfur was normally used for protection and purification spells; spells that included countering magic or banishing unwanted spirits or entities.
What was this room being used for?
Someone had been here recently, she could sense the tendrils of magic that lingered, embedded in the surfaces of the room. The magic essence was subtle, but she could feel it. Its energy
staining the hot dense air with its hollow mark. There wasn’t enough residual left for her to try to reveal the nature of the source with her own magic, but the hollow stain that remained could only mean one thing—it was tainted with dark magic.
Turning the beam to the other side of the room, she noticed part of the dirt floor behind the door looked disturbed. She crouched down to get a closer look at the strange symbol had been drawn into the dirt floor. It was an odd shape and not something she recognized. It looked like a sigil the way the lines sloped, crossed and intertwined, but not one she was familiar with.
Removing her cell phone from her coat pocket she took a picture of it. Walking back to the small table she took a shot of the charred pentacle as well, and then left the small, dank room.
Hurrying through the dark building, she reached the side door, taking a deep cleansing breath as she exited. The night sky had quieted, the imprints seemed calmer. She sensed a fragile stability remained within the veil, but everything seemed to be almost back to normal. She was sure now someone was using the abandoned mill for their own purpose and it was somehow causing a tilt in the energy of the dead surrounding it even if only temporarily.
As she took another deep breath of the cool night air, she felt a prickle creep up the back of her neck—someone was watching! Her eyes searched the dark property but all she could make out were the shadowy silhouettes of the mill’s smaller storage buildings.
Under the watchful stare of unseen eyes, she walked quickly to her Jeep, started the engine, and drove away from the abandoned mill. Glancing back in the rearview mirror she thought she saw a glint in an upstairs window. Slamming on the brakes she quickly turned around, nothing but blackness greeted her, the window was as dark as the rest of the mill’s gaping holes.
A shiver ran down her spine as the clammy hollowness of the mill seemed to reach across the field, saturating the night air with a trepidation that seemed to follow her as she drove away.
On the drive home, she thought about the remnants of magic she had felt in that room. The white candles anointed with sulfur, the different symbols carved into two of the room’s surfaces. It had a ritualist feel and Dane was convinced that the redhead who just appeared in town was somehow involved. The emptiness of the magical essence clinging to the air in the basement was a characteristic of cursed magic, and she was sure that essence belonged to a dark witch.
The redhead watched from the mill’s darkened window as the black Wrangler drove away. She was not surprised the witch showed up at the mill for she knew sooner or later she would figure it out. Blocking her aura from the witch was exhausting but necessary. Unfortunately, it was much more difficult concealing the essence of the magic she had been practicing and she knew, because of it, she was at risk of being detected.
Thankfully, the damn witches’ aura was so strong she could smell her stench coming and had been able to get out of the basement room before she entered. If she had been caught there, her plans might have been compromised, as she was still unable to determine, what abilities the witch had and how powerful she was. She had made the mistake before of taking on a witch more powerful than she and barely made it out alive, she would not make that mistake twice.
She walked through the upstairs rooms, the noise her heels made on the old wooden planks echoing through the abandoned space. She had searched for years to find the right magical bloodline. Enduring unspeakable pain because of what the witch’s ancestors had done to hers and now that she had found her, the one she had been seeking, she was going to enjoy her revenge.
Chapter 8
The sun blazing its early morning rays through the crack in her bedroom curtains woke Dane minutes before the alarm. Tyson snored loudly beside her, barely moving as she got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. She had decided after the strange dream and her peculiar experience at the tree she would snowshoe back up to the clearing. Her parents were arriving tomorrow morning so today was the only free time she had.
After her shower, she dressed, packed the last of her items into her backpack and double-checked she had everything she would require. She wanted to revisit her connection to the tree without any additional distractions, so she had not told any of her friends about her plans. Since it was Tuesday, they were all working except for Stevie. She didn’t expect anyone to notice her missing for a few hours.
She had spoken to her parents last night. As expected they had asked her about her birthday eve, subtly referring to the witching hour and inquiring whether there were any signs she had experienced a second awakening. She assured them her thirty-first birthday was nothing but ordinary, deciding not to tell them about the strange dream or her experience at the tree until she could make more sense of what it meant.
Dane carefully made her way past the rock cropping. The excessive snow that had fallen over the weekend made it difficult to traverse the narrow passageway leading into the clearing. Pulling Tyson gently along by his leash she managed to maneuver her way past the massive drift attempting to block her path.
The thick canopy that encircled the clearing had kept most of the snow out, only a dusting scattered across the bright mosaic created by the fallen leaves. A silence pulsated through the clearing as the sun that broke through the trees trickled down in bright beams. Strands of its rays surrounding the old misshapen tree, washing the forest floor in a brilliant warm glow.
She walked over to the trunk and took off her backpack, placing it on the ground as she bent down to clip off her snowshoes and brush the snow from her pants. Opening the backpack, she pulled out her compass, noting that the tree stood at north.
Taking out a small black cloth she laid it at the base of the trunk where a large root pushed up aggressively from the ground, arching into the air slightly before disappearing once again into the earth. She needed a portion of the tree inside the protective circle and the arch in this root would allow her to close the circle beneath it.
Carefully, she removed the remaining items laying them gently on the cloth in a specific order. When she finished, she sat down facing the tree. Calling Tyson, she had him lay behind her instructing him to stay. His massive frame curled up tightly, his back touching hers, his entire body relaxing under her calm, confident energy. Her intent was to use her powers to connect to any magical essence that existed in this space or within the tree and she wanted to ensure that Tyson was inside the protective circle with her when she cast it.
Picking up her athame she carved a wide circle around them in the ground, ensuring that it included her altar and a portion of the tree root. She placed small votive candles at each of the cardinal points representing north, south, east and west—the Watchtowers. Selecting the small silver jar from the items on her cloth she opened the lid and using her fingertips spread the prepared salt mixture inside the dirt trench she had just created. Lighting each votive as she passed it. To cleanse the protective circle, she sprinkled drops of witch hazel at the cardinal points and spritzed salt water throughout the air with the tips of her fingers. When the circle was ready, she lit the sage bundle waving it above her head, the smoke languidly drifting through the cool air, cleansing the space and removing negative energy.
Closing her eyes, she recited the protection spell she had written earlier that morning, the incantation echoing in the quiet clearing.
Trice around the circle’s round.
Sink all evil into the ground
A magic circle pure of light
Banishing that intent on harm or fright
And cleanse this circle to make it sound
Trice around the circle ‘til bound.
The salt circle began to glow as a pale white light crept slowly from the circle’s edge. It continued upward and inward until it resembled a sphere surrounding Dane and Tyson in a protective bubble.
Encapsulated in the protective space she reached for the thermos a
nd unscrewed the lid, steam rising from the hot liquid inside.
Tranquil Tea—she thought, her nose crinkling at the odd aroma that rose from the open thermos.
This tea was an old family recipe handed down through the Watt’s family for centuries. It was a mystic tea, a natural concoction that had sedative-like abilities. The putrid aroma was just one of its many unappealing qualities; it also had a tart bitter flavor that left an unpleasant aftertaste in the back of one’s throat. These, fortunately, were greatly outweighed by its one redeeming quality—its hallucinogenic properties. Many of the seers and healers in her family used it to calm their minds and open their inner eye to the emotions and energy of others and to connect with the metaphysical energies that pulsated in the fabric of the universe. It was a way for a witch to focus her consciousness on a different plane, to bring her subconscious closer to awareness.
She was hoping that it would clear her mind enough to allow anything magical about this tree or this clearing to freely enter her mind while in a conscious state.
It only took a few minutes before she felt the familiar euphoria; a naturally induced lethargic feeling that cocooned her entire body in a warm, hazy embrace. As she drifted slowly into a peaceful calm, she reached out and laid one hand on the tree root inside the protective circle and the other on the bare ground focusing intently on the feel of the rough bark and the cold earth beneath her palms. Each of her senses instinctively intensified as every fiber in her being became aware of the tree’s energy, a vibrant pulse running through its bark.