Slater Mill

by Ron Ripley

  “We do,” Shane said. “And you’d best understand us. We haven’t forgotten what you did.”

  “Always I am blamed and held accountable for the bad acts of others,” Jack said, sighing. “‘Tis a pity, it is. Prosecuted, persecuted, punished. All sorts of crimes have been hung about Jack’s neck, but my back is like that of Atlas, and I hold the weight of the world upon it. Aye, so I do.”

  “Not for much longer,” Shane said.

  At Shane's statement, Jack snarled and lunged for him.

  Frank, in turn, made for the shotgun, only to discover Jack’s move had been a feint.

  The dead man struck Frank a horrific blow on the side of the head, the world darkening around him as he fell towards the ground. As the blackness took over his thoughts, Frank heard Jack's raucous laughter ricochet in his head.

  Chapter 55: Alone

  “You’re alone, eh, Shane?” Jack asked.

  The dead man stood beside Frank, who lay crumpled on the earth and less than a foot away from the nearest shotgun.

  Shane saw his friend’s chest rise and fall, so he forced himself to lean on the shovel.

  “No,” Shane replied.

  Jack eyed him warily. “You seem to be alone to me, so you do.”

  “You’re also an idiot, Jack,” Shane retorted, “so I’m not particularly impressed with any observations you have to make.”

  Jack bristled at the insult.

  “You’re soon to be dead,” the dead man spat. “So I’d not speak so poorly to old Jack, I’d not. He’s thought long and hard on your death, aye, old Jack has indeed. Your tongue was sharp and swift away with the savages. We’ll see how quick it waggles when I tear it from your ever lovin’ head, so we will. Think you’ll choke on your own blood, Shane? I think not. Old Jack will keep your head up and straight so you’ll last many an hour. Oh, my boy, we’ll have a fine time, so we will. You and old Jack, old Jack and you.”

  “Tell me,” Shane said, straightening up and wincing at the tight pain in his lower back, “why did you kill her?”

  “Which one?” Jack asked with a leer. “I’ve killed more than a few girls in my day.”

  Shane gave him a tight smile. “The woman in my bathroom.”

  "She seemed rather spent if you don't mind old Jack saying so," the dead man laughed. "If she was your beau you treated her a tad rough. At least I was courteous. I always put mine down when I was done with them."

  “No reason then?” Shane asked.

  “Pleasure,” Jack replied. “Nothing more and nothing less. Murder is a great and wondrous relaxation for me, so it is.”

  “And your own?” Shane asked, feigning politeness.

  All of the good humor drained from Jack’s face and vanished from his tone. “‘Tis an unpleasantness you speak of.”

  Shane nodded. “I’m curious as to how you felt about it. Do you think you’ll feel the same way when I set fire to your bones?”

  Jack’s visage became a mask of rage.

  “You’re alone, you foul man,” the ghost hissed, taking a menacing step forward.

  “No,” Shane disagreed. “I’m not.”

  Courtney appeared in front of him, her form far more solid and robust than Jack’s. The dead man looked at her warily, his hands opening and closing. When Jack realized he was almost a full head taller than Courtney, a wicked grin spread across his face.

  “You know,” Jack said. “Old Jack wonders if strangling the ghost of a girl will please him as much as the living do. Do you think they’ll last longer, Shane? Are you curious as well? Is that why you’ve invited your wee friend to play with good old Jack Whyte?”

  Jack turned his attention to Courtney and blew her a kiss. “Come, my love, my love. Come and play with dear old Jack, will you not?”

  Without a word, Courtney sprang at the dead man, striking him in the chest and throwing him backward. His eyes widened in a mixture of shock and anger. He righted himself and let out a string of profanity. With his attention fixed on Courtney, Jack never saw Eloise.

  The little girl ran into him and through him, an act which caused him to stagger and come to a stop.

  Then Carl appeared out of the woods, as did Thaddeus and the ghost of the Old Man, who Shane hadn’t seen for months. Dark shapes flitted out, creatures without definition and that had once been men.

  Led by Courtney, all of them converged upon Jack, locking themselves around him and dragging him to the earth.

  “Quickly, Shane,” Courtney called, her voice strong above Jack’s screams of fury. “We will hold him for as long as we can.”

  The massive, writhing form sank below the surface, and silence filled the world. Only Eloise remained above ground with him, and she went to check on Frank. She leaned over, looked at him, and then smiled at Shane.

  "He's breathing," she said. Her smile dropped away, and she nodded at the shovel in Shane's hands.

  “Best to start digging, Shane,” the dead girl said. “Jack Whyte is stronger than he looks.”

  Without answering, Shane began to dig.

  Chapter 56: A Small Measure of Satisfaction

  The shaking of the ground beneath him woke Frank. He felt nauseous, his head pulsing as he rolled onto his side, put his hands on the earth, and pushed up.

  Instantly he regretted the decision, and Frank forced himself to get to his knees. The back of his throat went dry, and his stomach threatened to purge itself of what little he had eaten. Instead of vomiting, Frank cursed and spat down between his hands.

  He clambered to his feet, took a few tottering steps, and then focused on the sound of a shovel as it struck the earth.

  Memory flooded him, and Frank remembered he had gone into the woods with Shane. They were there to dig up Jack's bones and burn them. But Jack had struck him, and done some damage.

  The ground shook again, and Frank almost fell.

  Dizziness threatened to send him back to the earth, but Frank fought it. He looked around and caught sight of Shane.

  The other man dropped the shovel, went down to his knees, and pawed at the earth. Handfuls of rich, dark dirt were thrown aside, and then Shane let out a triumphant yell that caused Frank to wince.

  Shane lifted a hand, the flesh dirty, and held aloft a small piece of bone.

  A muffled scream ripped through the air, and the earth near the tree rolled as if a great beast was beneath it, struggling to free itself.

  “Where’s Jack?” Frank asked, his words slow and his throat raw.

  Shane, getting to his feet, glanced at Frank.

  “Underneath,” Shane answered, carrying the bit of Jack’s remains to the bone pile.

  “Why isn’t he up here?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t worry about that now, Frank,” Eloise said, emerging from the center of the tree. “We have to move quickly. He is nearly free.”

  Shane nodded and picked up a shotgun. Frank went to the same, but Shane stopped him with a sharp, authoritative, “No.”

  Frank looked at him.

  “You’re a terrible shot when you’ve had a head injury,” Shane said. “I’ll stand guard. You light him up.”

  Frank gave a small nod, bent over, and steadied himself before he opened the duffel bag. From it, he drew out the kerosene and the matches. He held onto them as he stutter-stepped to the pile. Frank popped the top on the accelerant and sprayed the contents of the entire bottle onto Jack's bones.

  He dropped the empty container, lit some of the kitchen matches on the side of their box, and tossed the burning matchsticks onto the bones.

  Flames shot straight up.

  The earth exploded, dark dirt and leaves raining down upon Shane and Frank. Jack rose up, a demonic expression of pure hatred on his face while he battled the other ghosts. They were a ball of limbs and torsos. Howls and yells filled the air and shook the trees. All the while Jack’s bones burned.

  “What the hell?” Shane asked.

  “You need to get all of the bones!” Eloise called, breaking awa
y from the fight.

  “I got them all!” Shane snarled. “Every single one you told me about!”

  “I may have missed one,” she said in a small voice.

  “Where is it?” Frank asked, tearing his gaze away from the fight.

  Eloise pointed at Frank’s feet. “There.”

  Frank dropped to his knees and with frenzied motions tore at the dirt with his hands. Another howl tore out and he looked up in time to see Thaddeus thrown aside, the dead boy vanishing.

  Jack was stronger than they had thought.

  “Leave my bones be!” Jack demanded, striving against the other ghosts.

  Frank returned his focus to the dirt.

  He continued to dig, further down. Then his hand struck something. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled out a length of forearm.

  “That?!” Shane cried. “That?! How in God’s good name did you not see that?”

  Eloise turned away and launched herself at Jack. When she struck him, the force of her blow carried all of the dead back into the earth again.

  In the sudden stillness, Frank threw the bone onto the pyre, where it landed with a hollow clack and the flames spurted higher.

  A high, painful shriek ripped through the air, and a single, pale hand pierced the earth. For a split second, the fingers curled into claws, opening and closing spasmodically.

  Then the hand was dragged back down as orange flames turned first pale blue, then dark purple. A foul odor emanated from the bones as they burnt, and Frank turned away. He fell forward and vomited, almost clear bile spewing out in front of him.

  Shane remained impassive, the shotgun ready while he watched the fire devour the last vestiges of Jack Whyte.

  Chapter 57: Preparing for Slater Mill

  Shane handed Frank an icepack before he returned to his seat.

  The other man muttered his thanks as he brought the ice up to the side of his head.

  In a low voice, Shane asked, "Feeling any better?"

  “No,” Frank grumbled. “My head’s killing me, we stink like death, and we still have to deal with the ghost in the Mill.”

  “Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Sounds about right.”

  Frank closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  They were both silent for several minutes.

  “What’s the next step? How soon do we move in?” Frank asked, breaking the silence. “Because honestly, I’m having a difficult time thinking right now.”

  “Soon, when’ve recouped,” Shane answered. “And then, we burn it to the ground.”

  Frank opened his eyes and sat up. Although pain flickered across his face, he fixed a hard look on Shane.

  “Burn it?”

  Shane nodded.

  “In the middle of a neighborhood?” Frank demanded.

  “I don’t have a better idea,” Shane snapped. “Jack threw a wrench in our research of Pierre.”

  Frank straightened up and said, “Then we need to learn what we can. We need to go to the Historical Society and find out where he’s buried. Anything. Something. We just can’t light a damned building up!”

  Shane got to his feet and paced around the room. He knew Frank was right. It wasn't that the idea of burning the place down was offensive. No, he worried about the firefighters, the men and women who would rush into the blaze to try to make certain no one was in there.

  Shane couldn’t condemn them to death.

  Clenching his teeth, Shane went back to his chair and dropped down into it.

  “You’re right,” he admitted.

  Frank looked at him. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll go online and look up cemetery databases. In fact, I think there’s one called ‘Find a Grave.’ I’ll see if that works,” Shane said.

  “And if it doesn’t?” Frank asked.

  “Then we break into the damned Historical Society,” Shane grumbled and dug out his cigarettes.

  Chapter 58: A Lucky Break

  A cool touch woke Shane up from a fitful sleep.

  His heart thundered in his chest as he looked around and in the pure darkness, it took him several seconds to realize he was in the library.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs before letting the air out at a slow, controlled pace. When he felt himself again, Shane said, “Courtney.”

  "Hello, Shane."

  Her voice came from near the door, and there was a curious tone to it. An almost peaceful quality he had last heard when she was still alive.

  “Was that you?” he asked.

  She laughed. A delicate sound, tinged with madness, but far saner than he remembered. “Yes. What would you have done if it wasn’t?”

  "Been upset with someone else," he answered. Shane stretched, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He saw the faint line of light beneath the library door. "I want to thank you."

  “For help with Jack?” she asked, and anger filled her voice at the mention of the dead man.

  “Yes,” Shane said, nodding. He wanted to say more to her. To apologize again for her death, to thank her for her sacrifices. But all of it would sound false, said once too often.

  “Jack killed someone in the bathroom,” Courtney said.

  “He did,” Shane said.

  “Carl said she tried to kill you,” Courtney added.

  “And she wanted to kill Frank, too,” Shane said.

  “Why?” Courtney asked.

  “I’m not sure why,” Shane said. “But when all of the business with the Mill is done, I’m going to find out.”

  "You're like a dog, Shane," Courtney said, but there was nothing insulting in her tone. "You sink your teeth into it, and you worry it until it dies."

  Shane didn't respond to the statement. Instead, he asked in a small voice, "Will you stay with me?"

  She hesitated before she answered.

  “Not yet,” she said, sighing. “I have trouble. I’m angry, still, and I am afraid it may run its course. I don’t want you dead, Shane, in spite of what I’ve said in the past.”

  “Okay,” Shane said. He cleared his throat, and then repeated the word, louder. “Okay.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and Courtney said, "Let him in. I'll step away."

  Again, Shane nodded, unsure if she could see him in the darkness, and then he turned on the desk lamp and called out, “Come in!”

  He was still blinking, his eyes adjusting to the light when Frank stepped in and closed the door behind him. Frank sank into the chair across from the desk and said, "How are you feeling?"

  Shane shrugged. “How about you? You’re the one who got a solid hit from Jack.”

  “Better,” Frank said. He rubbed at the scar on his face for a moment. “I have good news and bad news about Pierre Gustav.”

  “Oh good,” Shane said. “Love it. Is the good news a slightly less bad version of the bad, or is it actually good.”

  “Depends,” Frank said.

  “Of course it does,” Shane grumbled. “Hell, let’s mix things up and start with the good news.”

  Frank nodded. “Good news is I found where Pierre’s body is buried.”

  “Damn,” Shane said, grinning. “That is good news. Where?”

  “That’s the bad news,” Frank said with a frown. “Lot twelve, row ‘F’ at Woodlawn Cemetery.”

  Shane shook his head. “Woodlawn’s in the middle of the city. How in the hell are we supposed to dig him up and burn him?”

  “Oh,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Why not?” Shane asked, surprised.

  “Because Lot twelve refers to the chapel and the ossuary,” Frank said, his voice filled with bitterness. “It’s where they keep the cremains.”

  “He’s already been burned,” Shane said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed.

  “Then what in God’s name are we supposed to do?” Shane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Frank admitted.

  Shane opened his mouth to complain and then snappe
d it closed, the teeth clicking audibly. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?” Frank asked, leaning forward. “What is it?”

  “When I talked to Trevor,” Shane said, shaking his head. “He told me what to look for. He told me!”

  “Spit it out,” Frank said.

  “A finger,” Shane said. “He told me he had overheard the owner, Slater, complain about one of Pierre’s fingers still being in the Mill. And he wasn’t happy about it. Damn it! I just assumed that everything had been buried together.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” Frank said. “Do you think Slater knew about Pierre?”

  “Could be,” Shane said, disgusted with himself. “But it can’t hurt and it gives us a place to look.”

  “Right, all we need to do is find a finger and then burn it,” Frank said.

  “All the while dodging Pierre, who’s been gathering the dead to him for a couple of weeks now,” Shane added. “And I doubt he’s going to be easy to take down.”

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed. “You’re right about that one. Know anyone we can call on for help?”

  “I could try Marie again, but she’s about the only one. No one else is really prepared for something like this,” Shane said.

  Frank looked at him and asked, “Are we?”

  “We’ve faced worse,” Shane reminded him.

  Frank nodded. “We have indeed. But we also had room to move. And it wasn’t in the middle of a city. We’ve got a lot to take into consideration here. If we didn’t think the police would be pleased with us firing off the shotguns in the woods, how happy are they going to be if we start letting off rounds in the Mill?”

  “Not happy at all,” Shane said. He sighed and shook his head. “You ready?”

  “Nope,” Frank said, standing up. Then he grinned. “But when has that ever mattered?”

  “Never,” Shane said, and he felt a grin steal across his own face. “Never.”

  He got out of his chair, and the two men left the room. Their gear was in the study, and they'd have to make sure they had enough shells for however many dead Pierre had bound to him.

  Chapter 59: Getting Dressed