Slater Mill

by Ron Ripley

  Marie Lafontaine adjusted her uniform, looking at herself in the tall mirror on the back of her bedroom door. The brass buttons on her coat shined against the backdrop of the dark blue fabric. She reached up, fixed one of the bobby pins that held her hair in place and let out a deep breath.

  She’d only gotten her uniform back the previous day. A hard rain had fallen on the day of Bill’s funeral and she had sent her dress to be cleaned professionally.

  And now I’m burying Kurt, she thought, anger and bitterness filled her.

  Kurt would be alive if Shane had told him to stay away. To leave the ghosts to someone who at least knew how to handle them properly.

  He should have known, she thought bitterly. Especially after Courtney. Shane should have known.

  It wouldn’t have helped Bill she knew, but it definitely would have helped Kurt.

  There was word around the station that it had been Lisbeth who had killed Kurt. Marie didn’t think so. His ex-wife had been a cold and calculating person. Shooting him down in the middle of the city wouldn’t have been profitable.

  Lisbeth had already taken him for everything he had.

  And Marie knew it couldn’t have been the woman, or at least not her alone. Forensics had pulled bullets from two different pistols from the man.

  More than likely, Kurt had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Marie turned away from the mirror, picked up her dress uniform hat and walked to her bureau. Her phone rang, vibrating beside her wallet.

  Frowning, Marie picked the cell up and looked at the caller ID.

  It was Shane.

  Her thumb rose up, hesitated over the answer button, and then she put the phone back on the bureau. She shook her head.

  Later, she thought. I’ll call him later and then we can figure out what to do about the Mill.

  Marie put the phone on mute and slipped it and her wallet into a back pocket.

  She fitted the cap down on her head, adjusted it, and left her bedroom. Shane, Frank, and the Slater Mill could wait.

  Marie had another funeral to attend.

  Chapter 60: The Machine

  The looms were constructs of the imagination. And each of them formed part of a whole, massive single entity generating power for the possessor.

  For Pierre Gustav.

  Souls were bound to the machines, their energy feeding the looms, and those, in turn, feeding him.

  He moved up and down the floor on the balls of his feet, as he had when he had still been alive. When he still had feet or anything resembling a body in the true sense of the word.

  There had been living people who had visited him. People who spoke French beautifully, potent reminders of his childhood in Canada. They had suggested that he restrain himself, that further expansion of his machine might end badly for him. It had not been a threat, merely a warning. They wanted him to have his power, for whatever excess his workers generated would be sent along the key lines through New England.

  But there were others who did not wish Pierre to succeed.

  And he knew all about such men.

  Three of them had killed him on his work floor. His blood had soaked into the wood, and the building remembered the crime committed against him as well as he did.

  The dead crouched at their machines, backs to him, heads bent in submission.

  All of it brought a smile to his face and a whistle to his lips.

  It was not time to add to the machine. Not yet.

  He would prepare for the men who wanted to stop him, and when they failed, when they died beneath his hands or those of his workers, then they too would join the ranks at the looms.

  Pierre listened to the thrum of the machines, and he whistled louder.

  Chapter 61: Well Planned and Well Executed

  Lyndsey, which was the name Abigail now owned, sat in North Station in Boston. She had a Dunkin Donuts coffee in her hand, and a half-finished bagel in the other. Abigail hated them both.

  Lyndsey, however, loved them, and if Abigail was going to survive, she needed to be Lyndsey in all things.

  All of her credit cards, a checking account, a savings account, and an apartment in Jamaica Plains were all under the name Lyndsey Elwood. Other accounts, established in offshore banks and in countries lacking in extradition treaties, were not part of Lyndsey’s history.

  They were part of the false trail that Abigail had left. A trail for the Watchers to follow, presumably until her new persona could make it to the mid-West and then up into Canada.

  She took a sip of her coffee as an old man sat down next to her. He was far too close for comfort, but it was Boston, and she was in the middle of busy North Station. The old man smelled of aftershave and soap, his clothes pressed. He carried a folded copy of the Boston Globe, and he wore a pair of thick-framed black glasses. From the corner of her eye, she watched him unfold the paper. He selected a section and then folded it again so that only that portion was visible.

  After a moment, he turned, looked at her, and smiled.

  She forced herself to smile back.

  He nodded, returned his attention to the paper, and said in a low voice, “It is quite nice to see you, Abigail.”

  It took her a split second to realize what he had said, and then it was too late.

  Someone sat down beside her, and there was a sharp pain in her left leg. The effects of the toxin were instant, and she found herself pitching forward. Coffee splashed out as the Styrofoam cup was crushed and the bagel went skipping across the stained floor. While she couldn't move or speak, Abigail could hear.

  The old man was calling for an ambulance.

  From her vantage point on the floor, Abigail saw a pair of EMTs running with a gurney. They were far too quick.

  The medics belonged to the Watchers, and she could only wait in paralyzed horror to learn what they would do with her.

  A heartbeat later, the old man was kneeling beside her, speaking low and into her ear.

  To anyone else, he would have looked like a concerned citizen, a kindly grandfather.

  If they had heard him, they would have discovered otherwise.

  "You cannot run from us, Abigail," he whispered, a note of pleasure in his voice. "We watch, remember?"

  Chapter 62: Preparing to enter the Mill

  The plan was simple.

  Shane and Frank would enter the Slater Mill and proceed to the second floor, where Pierre had been killed. Somewhere, among the dust of decades, they would find a finger or some other bone fragment. The last vestige of the ghost.

  Once it was recovered, they would burn it.

  Shane and Frank would have to keep Pierre off balance, a feat which would be difficult considering the ghost's finger was on the same floor. Any effects the salt rounds had on the dead man would be minimal since he would regenerate within a matter of moments.

  But Pierre wasn’t the only ghost they had to be concerned with.

  Shane and Frank had scoured the internet for information on deaths around Slater Mill. What they discovered was that there wasn’t much information out there to begin with, and what there was hadn’t been good. What was more disturbing was the fact that there hadn’t been any reason given as to why it might be haunted. And, from what they could gather, Pierre Gustav had managed to kill at least six people in the past few days. There were rumors that there had been more, random bodies found over the years, but nothing substantial.

  Nothing like what had so recently happened.

  Shane didn't know if Kurt's death counted. Or if the gangland-style execution of two girls was included. He suspected they might be, and that Pierre had grown strong enough to drag the souls of those who died nearby to him.

  The thought was chilling.

  With the understanding that they would be facing more than Pierre in the Mill, Shane and Frank had prepared accordingly. They were armed with shotguns and extra shells. Bags of salt and containers of lighter fluid were in backpacks. Matches, too. Iron rings were on their fing
ers, and Shane's trusted knuckle-dusters were ready as well.

  And the last items, for Shane, were his dog tags.

  The metal wasn’t as cold as it had been. He wore them under his shirt, a reminder of Courtney. Shane also wore them in the hope that she would continue to get better, though he didn’t know if such an event could come to pass.

  Nothing he had read led him towards that belief.

  “You good?” Frank asked, interrupting Shane’s contemplation.

  “Yeah,” Shane nodded. “I’m good. You?”

  “Always,” Frank answered. “Let’s do this.”

  They climbed out of Frank's car, went around to the trunk, and got their gear out of it. Across from them stood the Mill. Shane saw how the second-floor windows glowed as if the city's ambient light ricocheted off the nighttime clouds and found purchase in the dirty glass.

  Shane knew better.

  Pierre was behind the glow. Pierre and his captive souls.

  Frank pushed the trunk closed, and together they crossed the street towards the Mill.

  Chapter 63: An Observation of Tactics

  Two men sat in a car parked a block away from the Slater Mill. They each held a small camera, one recording directly to an SD card while the other transmitted the scene to an office in Boston. Neither of the men spoke as they kept the cameras focused on Shane Ryan and Frank Benedict.

  Those watching from Abigail’s former office had the ability to adjust the camera via a command to the men. None of the observers did so. The men in the car were professionals and to interrupt them could cause a disruption in the feed.

  None of the Watchers wanted that.

  They were content to observe Shane and Frank, individuals who had significantly disrupted the plans of the organization. Earlier, someone had put forward the idea of another assassination attempt, but it had been cast aside as too risky. Three police officers were dead, one of whom had been an asset. The Nashua PD had already increased its presence in the neighborhood, and an attack on the two troublesome men wasn't worth the risk.

  Thus, the Watchers were content with doing exactly what their name implied. They watched as Shane and Frank removed duffel bags from the back of Frank's vehicle. Rings could be seen on the men's hands, and most of those gathered suspected the items were made of iron. The bags themselves more than likely contained the basic tools of any professional ghost killer. Salt, iron, and a means to start a fire.

  The observers watched as the men closed the trunk and then crossed the street, the camera keeping them in the center of the frame the entire time. Some of those who watched nodded in approval, appreciating the direct method of Shane and Frank as they walked towards the entrance of the Mill. Others admired the courage of the men.

  All of them hated Shane and Frank, for if anyone could disrupt what the Watchers were attempting to build, they saw that it could be the two battle-scarred ghost killers.

  In less than a minute, Shane and Frank crossed the road and reached the door. Without hesitation, they entered the building and left the world of the living behind them.

  In the office in Boston, an old man with thick glasses and a pressed suit, the one who had been responsible for the apprehension of Abigail, leaned forward. A bony finger reached out, tapped a key on the computer, and said in an old and strong voice, "That is enough, gentlemen. Thank you. Please fall back and return to your assignments.”

  The view on the monitor winked out, and the old man turned to face the others.

  “So,” he said, “what shall we do about them?”

  In the late hours of the night, earnest and dangerous men discussed the fate of Shane Ryan and Frank Benedict.

  Chapter 64: A Brutal Cold

  When they reached the second floor, Shane regretted his choice of wardrobe. Before they had left, he had considered a jacket or even a thicker sweatshirt, but in the end, he had sacrificed warmth for maneuverability.

  As he shivered outside the door to the work floor, Shane wished he had chosen the jacket.

  Pushing the discomfort of the cold out of his thoughts, Shane unslung the duffel bag and put it on the floor. From it, he took his shotgun and stuffed as many spare shells into the front pouch of his hoodie as he could. When he looked like a swollen and pregnant kangaroo, Shane slung the duffel bag back over his shoulder and waited for Frank to do the same.

  A soft noise interrupted them both and the two men turned simultaneously and looked at the stairs. From the darkness, a man emerged. His neck was wrapped in a bright white bandage and he looked at them with surprise as he came to a stop a few steps below the second floor.

  Shane saw the man had a length of chain in one hand. The old iron links swinging from left to right and back again. He had a fanny-pack on one hip, the zipper half open. Images of various saints hung from cords around his neck.

  The man whispered a question to them.

  “Have you come for the dead?”

  Shane and Frank nodded.

  “So have I,” he said.

  Frank glanced at him, and Shane gave him a thumbs up.

  Stepping up to the door, Shane grasped the handle with his diminished left hand and looked back to Frank. The other man held up three fingers, and then silently counted down to zero, and Shane jerked the door backward in its track. By the time it slammed into the stop, Shane and Frank were through the opening and onto the work floor, with the stranger close behind them.

  Giant, monstrous looms thrummed and clanked, their noises a curious mixture of real and hollow at the same time. Ghosts worked at the machines, and not a single one of the dead turned their attention to the men.

  One of the ghosts, down at the far end, did more than look at them. He started towards them.

  “Find the bone,” Frank said, and he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder as he advanced on the ghost who moved.

  Still holding onto his shotgun, Shane scanned the floor, taking small steps to not miss anything.

  Frank’s shotgun roared at the same time that Shane saw a pair of tactical boots. He straightened up and found himself in front of Kurt’s partner. The man he had tried to save.

  “Bill,” Shane said, remembering the man’s name.

  The ghost’s eyes widened in surprise. In a voice that was less than a whisper the man said, “Yes.”

  Before Shane could speak again, Frank yelled out, "Down!"

  Shane dropped to the floor, and the shotgun roared again. Scrambling to his feet, Shane twisted around and said, "Bill, I'm looking for a bit of bone. Something that was part of Pierre have you seen anything like it?"

  Bill gave a slight nod of assent even as a howl of pain rang out through the second floor.

  Shane turned and saw Pierre attack the unknown man from behind. The man let out a grunt of pain, twisted, and swung the chain. When the links passed through Pierre, the ghost vanished.

  Frank reloaded the shotgun and fired a single barrel when Pierre appeared on the right. A heartbeat later, the ghost emerged from the shadows and grabbed hold of the unknown man’s wrist, above the chain. The man screamed, his eyes widening.

  Frank fired the second shot and Pierre vanished. The stranger staggered away, clutching his arm with his free hand. A torrent of Spanish escaped from the man’s mouth, and Shane heard them for the prayers they were.

  Pierre appeared again, throwing a punch that would have done a professional boxer proud. It connected with the side of the stranger’s head, sending him spiraling down. Frank cursed and Shane saw him cast the shotgun down.

  The stranger staggered like a drunk, swung his arm in a wide arc and managed to hit Pierre with the chain. A scream of fury exploded from the dead man as he disappeared again.

  Pierre appeared behind Frank and kicked him in the back of his knee, causing the man to twist down to the floor, rolling with the blow. As Frank got to his feet, Shane saw the stranger turn on Pierre, the length of chain raised in defense.

  Pierre laughed, raced forward, and tried to duck beneath the iron l
inks as they crashed down.

  The end of the last piece of metal struck the dead man, and he vanished.

  In a heartbeat, Pierre was back, focused again on the stranger. As the ghost grabbed hold of the man’s neck, the stranger wrenched one of the icons from around his neck and thrust it into Pierre’s chest.

  Pierre laughed and then plunged his hands into the back of the man’s head. Shane knew the man was dead, and he wondered if the stranger’s death had been as painless as it was quick.

  As the man collapsed, Frank rushed forward and threw a punch, but the ghost ducked and grabbed Frank’s thigh. Frank’s eyes bulged, the milky one looking as though it might pop from the pain he was experiencing.

  When Pierre yanked his hand back, Frank fell, his shotgun skittering across the floor.

  All of the looms had stopped, the ghosts who manned them stared at Frank and Shane with lost, hopeless expressions.

  Shane brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The weapon had misfired.

  He tried it again, and when it refused to fire once more, he dropped it. Anger flared up in him, and he pulled the knuckle-dusters out of his back pocket, sliding them on. As his rage built up, Shane felt something curious. A sense of power fluctuating around him.

  It was a sensation he had last felt at the lighthouse, and before that, it had been when he had faced off against her.

  An angry, harsh smile spread across his face, and he called out in French, "Come, Pierre, I would have words with you."

  The ghost hesitated, surprise flashing across his face.

  Whether it was from Shane’s knowledge of the man’s name, or his ability to speak French, Shane neither knew nor cared.

  He straightened up and spread his arms out to either side. The sense of power pulsated around him. It was the strength of the dead, their hatred towards Pierre. Their rage at the prison he had built for them.

  Their enslavement.