by Ron Ripley
The dead seemed to feel their energy as it was drawn towards Shane, and they fed it to him. What had been gentle pulses became raw, battering waves. Shane nearly collapsed beneath the weight of it, but he forced himself to remain upright.
To wait for Pierre.
The dead Frenchman seemed to understand what was going on as well, and the look of hate that exploded onto his face told Shane that the ghost would not stand for it.
Up and down the work floor, the dead stepped away from the looms, staring at Shane, funneling all of their energy into him. Shane felt a thousand stings of electricity dance along his flesh, and he laughed.
Pierre Gustav screamed with rage and charged towards him.
Shane stripped off his rings and his knuckle-dusters, dropping the iron to the floor. Then he stepped over them and met Pierre head on.
The ghost slammed into him, rocked Shane on his feet, but didn’t knock him down.
Pierre took a surprised step back, his eyes wide.
“Hello, Pierre,” Shane whispered, and he punched Pierre in the forehead.
The gathered energy of the dead flowed through Shane and gave force and fury to the blow.
Pierre stutter-stepped backward, his knees wobbling before he fell to the floor. Dazed, the ghost stared up at the ceiling, sinking into the wood.
“No you don’t,” Shane murmured, leaning over and grabbing the man by the shirt. Shane pulled him back up, dragged him close, and glared at him.
In less than a heartbeat, Pierre realized what could happen to him, and he began to fight.
His blows were ineffective.
They felt like nothing more than the flutter of a butterfly’s wings against Shane’s skin. There was no bite, no cold.
Shane held him aloft and asked in a cold voice, “Where is your finger, Pierre?”
Pierre shook his head.
Shane reached out with his free hand, put his thumb on Pierre’s right eye and said, “Tell me, do you think it will hurt to lose your eye even if you’re dead?”
Pierre’s lips curled in a sneer, so Shane pressed down on the eye.
The ghost’s reaction was instantaneous.
A high-pitched scream shattered the curious stillness of the second floor, and his arms and legs flailed about.
Shane pulled his thumb back and asked again, “Where is your finger, Pierre?”
“Why?” Pierre gasped in French.
“Don’t ask why,” Shane hissed, and he placed his thumb on the ghost’s remaining eye. “Shall I take it? Both of your eyes? Gouge this one right out?”
“No,” Pierre moaned. “But you can’t have it. You can’t.”
Shane put pressure on the eye and Pierre screamed.
Easing his thumb back, Shane waited for Pierre to speak.
“To the right,” the ghost whispered. “By the policeman.”
Shane looked past Pierre to Frank, who sat on the floor, a look of shock on his face.
“Frank,” Shane called, “find Pierre’s finger!”
Frank hesitated, then nodded. He managed to get to his feet and limp to where Bill stood. In the strange light of the ghostly machine, Frank looked for the bone. A minute later, he dropped down to his hands and knees, dug at a crack, and then held up a small, yellowish object with a triumphant cry.
“Pierre,” Shane said, looking back to the ghost, “are there any more bits of you lying about the Mill?”
Pierre shook his head.
“Are you telling the truth?” Shane asked.
Pierre nodded frantically.
“If you’re lying,” Shane said in a soft voice, “I’m going to tear you to shreds until we find your other parts.”
“I’m not lying,” Pierre sobbed. “I swear to God above, I am not. But you still haven’t told me why. Why do you want it?”
“That’s not any of your business, Pierre.” To Frank, Shane said in English, "That should be it."
Frank carried the bone back to his duffel bag. As he took out the items needed to burn the last remnant of Pierre, the ghost asked Shane, “What is he doing?”
“Don’t worry, Pierre,” Shane said.
A moment later, the finger was doused in lighter fluid and set aflame.
Pierre titled his head back and shrieked as bright blue flames erupted from his flesh and clothes. Shane dropped him, although not fast enough. Fire had licked at his arm and set the front of his hoodie ablaze.
“The shells!” Frank yelled.
Without trying to put out the flames, Shane ripped his hoodie off and threw it away from him.
The garment wasn't thrown far enough, and the shells exploded when they struck the floor. Shane found himself falling backward, the blast knocking him down.
He landed on his back, the breath knocked from him. Pierre was beside him, writhing on the floor in agony.
“They’ll come for you!” Pierre screamed in French. “They know who you are! They’re coming!”
If anything else was said by the ghost, it was lost as Shane passed out.
Chapter 65: Unknown Destination
Abigail awoke in the back of a van. She knew it was a van even though she was blindfolded. Just as she knew her hands and feet were secured with zip-ties. She was on her back, which was painful as well as uncomfortable. Abigail reflected on the fact that she had sent more than a few people to their deaths bound and transported in a similar fashion.
“You’re awake,” a woman said.
Abigail didn’t recognize her, but she still responded. “Yes.”
“Good,” the woman said. She didn’t offer up a rebuke, or condemn Abigail for her attempt to escape the consequences of her actions.
They traveled for a while in silence, the body of the van filled with the steady thrum of the engine and the sound of the wheels on asphalt. Abigail could tell they were on a highway, the noises loud and fast.
“Where are you taking me?” Abigail asked, her voice free of any trembling.
“Do you really want to know?” a man asked.
He too, was a stranger.
“I do,” Abigail responded.
Neither the man nor the woman spoke and after several minutes, Abigail resigned herself to the fact that they would not enlighten her.
Then the woman spoke. And she said two words.
“Borgin Keep.”
Abigail screamed until her voice broke and she could scream no more.
Chapter 66: Among the Books
Frank had managed to get Shane home and up to the library. Shane had awoken and passed out several times, and Frank was concerned about whether or not his friend had a concussion. He contemplated a phone call to a friend or two with more medical knowledge than himself, but he loathed the idea of involving anyone else in their troubles.
Frank also wanted to know what it was that Pierre had screamed at Shane in the end.
Sitting in the chair across from Shane’s desk, Frank had a legal-sized notepad on his lap. He had the numbers one through fifteen written down on the yellow paper. Several names were written in. The two police officers, as well as that of the young man who had been found in the building weeks earlier.
Frank had counted fifteen ghosts other than Pierre in the Mill.
Fifteen bodies that would need to be salted and burned if the souls of the dead were to have any peace.
“Hello,” a voice said.
Frank was so startled that he dropped his pen. He looked beyond Shane to see Courtney. She stood behind the unconscious man, her neck slightly crooked. Frank’s heart picked up its pace as he remembered how she had wanted to kill him the last time they had been alone together.
"Hello," Frank replied. He still had an iron ring on, and he hoped he wouldn't have to use it.
“What’s wrong with Shane?” she asked, looking down at him. She reached out and caressed the side of the man’s head, her touch lingering over the mangled left ear.
“We had some trouble,” Frank answered.
She nodded.
&
nbsp; “You brought him to me,” Courtney said after a moment, looking at Frank.
“Yes,” Frank replied.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll keep him safe,” Frank said. “And there are things I need to do tonight. People I need to see. I have to make sure that what was started at the Mill gets finished.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll keep him safe.”
Frank hesitated, then stood up. He clutched the legal pad and asked, “How are you, Courtney?”
She looked surprised at the question, then she smiled and looked down at Shane.
“I am better now that he is here,” she answered.
Frank almost spoke again, but instead, he turned away and left the library. He went to his room, to where his laptop was. Frank needed the names of the others who had died.
He wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew that they could do the same.
As he entered his bedroom, Frank heard Courtney's voice as she began to sing. Sadness wrapped around his heart and he offered a silent prayer for Shane.
Chapter 67: Awakening
A soft voice, singing an even gentler song, woke Shane up.
He was in pain, and that particular fact didn’t surprise him. His attention was focused on the singer, and then on the stunned realization that it was Courtney he heard.
She was beside him, a cold presence pressed close to his own body, and it was comforting. A beautiful, powerful sensation that drove his physical pain into the dark recesses of his mind.
Courtney stopped when she felt he was awake.
“You were hurt again,” she said.
“A little,” Shane admitted. “Nothing too much though.”
She hesitated then said, “You’re going to end up dead.”
Shane realized it was true.
Is this what I’m trying to do, get myself killed? he asked himself. And what in the hell would that prove?
“I don’t want you dead,” Courtney said softly.
“No?” Shane asked, his voice cracking.
“No,” Courtney whispered. “Sometimes, sometimes I do. When I’m here, alone in the library. I remember what it was like to be alive. When you held me. Then I wish you dead. It’s like I go crazy, and I try not to. But there’s something eating away at me.”
She sighed. “In the end, I don’t want you dead, Shane. I want you alive. I want you to live. You shouldn’t be locked in here with me. With any of us.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Shane whispered.
“You don’t have to,” she replied. “But you should rest. I’ll be quiet now. No more singing.”
“Please,” Shane said, his voice hoarse. “Please, don’t stop.”
“All right,” she said, a pleased tone in her voice.
A cool finger caressed the back of his neck, traced the scar that curled up from the collar of his shirt, and Courtney took up the song once more.
Shane closed his eyes, listened to her voice, and dreamed of what life could have been.
* * *
Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Slater’s Office, July 1910
Noah Slater stood by the windows, happy for the warmth at his back as he looked at his guest.
Mr. Johnson sat in a chair across from Noah's desk. The presence of the man robbed the day of its glory, reducing the July sun to its weak, February cousin. There was a coldness to Mr. Johnson, a sense of brutality highlighted by the man’s sharp cheekbones and gray eyes which lacked any sort of empathy.
Noah was a strong man, forceful and vicious in his own right.
But he was afraid of Mr. Johnson.
Noah, who had survived hundreds of fights in the logging towns of Maine and New Hampshire. Part of him wanted to scoff at the idea of being afraid of the thin man in the chair, but he knew he couldn’t.
Noah was many things, but he had never been suicidal.
He realized his cigar had gone out and he muttered a curse as he strode to his desk and sat down in his chair. Noah struck a match and relit his cigar. He shook out the small flame on the match head and dropped the charred stick into the ashtray.
“Why are you here, Mr. Johnson?” Noah asked, keeping his voice neutral and empty of fear.
“One might ask why any of us are here,” the man responded. “But we shouldn’t travel down that road. It leads only to madness.”
Noah waited.
A slim smile cracked the grim façade of Mr. Johnson’s face as he said, “That is why I always like to deal with you, Mr. Slater, you never bandy words. I am here because we have become aware of a certain foreman in your factory.”
“Who?” Noah asked.
Mr. Johnson reached into his jacket, removed a notepad and opened it. “One Mr. Pierre Gustav, age thirty-six, originally of Montreal, Canada. Emigrated at the age of nineteen and has steadily moved up within your mill for the past ten years.”
“You want Pierre?” Noah asked, unable to hide his surprise.
“Ah,” Mr. Johnson said. “He is still employed here then.”
“Of course,” Noah replied. “He is exceptional when it comes to motivating his workers.”
"He is, indeed," Mr. Johnson said, smiling and revealing teeth far too white and far too long to be normal. He looked down at his notepad again. "Since the beginning of this year, there have been a large number of accidents and two deaths on his floor."
“A large number might be an exaggeration,” Noah protested.
Mr. Johnson held up a hand. “I don’t care about whether or not he’s done something wrong, Mr. Slater. I only care about the numbers. Seventeen men and three women permanently crippled due to the loss of an arm. Six blindings. Eight feet lost, and how does one lose a foot in a loom, Mr. Slater. That is quite the conundrum, is it not?”
Noah didn’t answer.
Mr. Johnson flashed his wicked smile and then continued.
"Twenty-seven women have literally been snatched bald by the machines," Mr. Johnson said. "Two more were effectively scalped. Can't imagine there's been a scalping in New England for quite some time. At least by nothing living."
Noah almost asked what Mr. Johnson meant by that, but the man was already speaking.
“Now, let me see,” Mr. Johnson said, examining his notes again. “Ah, yes. There we are. Most of these incidents seem to involve one machine.”
Noah cleared his throat.
“Have you replaced the machine?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“No,” Noah said, not looking at the man. “We have not.”
“And why is that?” Mr. Johnson inquired.
Noah didn’t respond.
“Mr. Slater,” Mr. Johnson said in a low voice. Each syllable was like a knife being dragged along his skin. “I’m certain I asked you a question, Mr. Slater.”
“He won’t work here anymore if we remove the machine or adjust it,” Noah grumbled.
“But he’s only a foreman,” Mr. Johnson said, snapping the notepad closed and tucking it away. “Is that how your business is run?”
“You don’t understand,” Noah said. “His people produce so much more. Thirty percent in some cases. I can’t have him going to another company.”
“Then why not kill him?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“What?” Noah said, shaking his head. “You’re not serious!”
Mr. Johnson smiled. “No. No of course not. Now tell me, Mr. Slater, how might I find Mr. Gustav?”
“Why?” Noah asked.
Mr. Johnson leaned forward, and a surprisingly genuine smile appeared on his face.
“Because, Mr. Slater,” Mr. Johnson said in a whisper, “I’d like to watch him work.”
Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 2: On the Killing Floor
Pierre stood, the master of all he surveyed. He kept his arms folded over his chest as he stood by the second floor’s only exit. The air was heavy with a heavy mixture of sweat and fear, textiles and machine oil. Windows were painted black and bare electric bulbs hung down above each loom.
The workers leaned in to their work. Men and women chained by debt and the need to eat. They were ragged, in body and spirit. Their clothes were no better than tatters. No one on the second floor wanted to be there.
None of them wished to work for Pierre.
In Slater's Mill, you went to Pierre's floor when you were insubordinate. When you had the audacity to miss a day for being ill. And God help you if you did try to bury a loved one.
As far as Pierre was concerned, and he merely echoed the sentiment of Mr. Slater, the Mill was all and everything. Breath and bread.
Pierre could think of nothing other than the Mill. His work not only fed him, it entertained him.
At the thought of entertainment, Pierre’s eyes naturally went to Machine Twelve. It stood in the far right corner, the farthest in the room. The darkest as well.
Hs gaze locked onto the machine and he watched Dmitri Denisovitch struggle with it. The young man’s shirt sleeves were cut to ribbons and lacerations bled freely along his forearms.
None of the others on the floor looked at Dmitri. Or at Pierre, for that matter. Looking away from a machine meant that the work was too easy, and Pierre had many ways to correct such a misconception.
The last of which was assignment to Machine Twelve.
To Pierre's surprise, the door behind him opened and Armand L’Isle motioned for him to step out. Armand assisted Mr. Slater when it came to breaking up unionization attempts.
Pierre hurried out of the room, closing the large door and turning to see a thin man standing beside Armand. The stranger gave off an aura of cold cruelty that chilled even Pierre.
“Pierre,” Armand said. “This is Mr. Johnson. He is a friend of Mr. Slater.”
Pierre gave a short bow and said, “A pleasure, sir. I would offer my hand, but it is dirty, I am afraid.”
“I don’t mind dirt,” Mr. Johnson said, his voice low and cold, his smile lacking any warmth. He extended his hand.
Pierre had no choice but to shake it with his own oil and blood stained hand.
"Are you cut?" Mr. Johnson asked after they had finished shaking hands.
“No, sir,” Pierre said, struggling with his English. “The blood is that of another.”