by Ron Ripley
“Do you have any idea where she is?” Shane asked, his voice as shaky as his hands.
“No,” Carl said, his voice wavering. “We are searching the hidden rooms and the places between the walls, but it could be some time. I thought, perhaps, it might be advisable for you to vacate the premises for a short time.”
Shane snorted. “No. This is my home, Carl. I’m not going to leave it. Not because of the dead. I didn’t do it as a boy and I sure as hell won’t do it as a man.”
Carl shook his head. “This is not a question of your manhood, my friend, but of the girl murdering you while you sleep.”
“She won’t,” Shane said aloud, thinking, No, she’ll want to look me in the eyes when she kills me. She’s insane now.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he wiped them away.
“You will not leave?” Carl asked.
“No,” Shane answered, shaking his head. “I won’t.”
“We will watch over you then,” Carl declared. “We will ensure your safety.”
“Don’t,” Shane said. Guilt, never far from his thoughts, rose up, a leering monster in his mind. “Look for her. If she comes to me, I will let you know.”
Carl hesitated, then nodded. “Alright, Shane. We will listen for you.”
“Thanks,” Shane said.
Carl bowed and left the room.
The silence in the library weighed upon Shane like a stone. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. Carl’s suggestion had been a wise one. Shane had no idea what Courtney might do. He knew she still harbored murderous intentions towards him.
Taking a deep breath, Shane let it out slowly through his nose and then stood up.
To the emptiness of the room, he spoke in a soft voice, “Courtney, can you hear me?”
Silence answered him.
Shane looked around and raised his voice. “Courtney?”
“I can hear you,” she hissed, her words coming from the walls.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice moving from right to left.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Do you know what I want?” Her voice was harsh, unforgiving.
“No,” he lied. “What do you want, Courtney?”
“I want you to love me!” she snarled.
“I’ve never stopped loving you,” Shane said. “I will always love you.”
Silence greeted his statement.
Then the room shook, and an unseen hand yanked all of the books off of the left wall. They went hurdling through the air, and Shane ducked down, but not before a thick volume struck him in the ribs.
Grimacing at the pain, Shane moved towards the safety of his desk. When the last of the books fell to the floor, Carl barreled in.
“Where is she?!” Carl demanded.
Shane shook his head. He didn’t know.
With a curse, Carl ran and vanished into the bookcases on the left wall, leaving Shane alone in the room.
Shane straightened up and examined the mess around him. Some of the books were open, flat on their backs or face down. Pages were bent, and spines cracked.
Shane shook his head, bent down, and began picking up the books.
Chapter 9: Watching Slater Mill
It was Kurt’s one night off from work, and he was sitting in his car on Myrtle Street. Through his windshield, he could see the Slater Mill. A third man had been found dead the night before. Jamie Fernandez, a hard man who had done hard time. He had been a figure of violence in the neighborhood but had been in the process of getting his life together after ten years in a cell.
And now he’s dead, Kurt thought. He took a sip of his coffee and winced when the cold brew hit his lips. Kurt hated cold coffee, but he couldn’t leave the Mill. He was on a self-imposed ‘stake out,' observing the building on his own time.
The initial reports on all three of the homicides were mundane. The Hispanic boy had died from injuries resulting in a fall. Old age was the main contributing factor to the Ecuadorian man’s demise. And Jamie Fernandez, according to Doctor Leonard, had a heart issue no one knew about. They wouldn’t know anymore unless the family gave the coroner permission to do an autopsy.
They had already rejected it. The thought of him dead had been too much for them, and Kurt understood. He had felt the same way when his first wife had died at the age of thirty because of an ovarian cyst which had turned out to be ovarian cancer.
That no one had caught.
Kurt pushed the thoughts away and focused his attention on the Mill again.
Why now? he wondered. Why are there deaths now? Not even the owner has gone into the place. He can’t tear it down because it’s a historical building, and he can’t use it because there’s something wrong with the structure, although he isn’t sure what exactly.
Kurt shook his head.
None of it made sense. The only thing he did know was that there was a trio of deaths, and none of them made any sense. Maybe spread out over a few years, but not over a week.
A flicker of light caught his eye and Kurt looked at the building.
On the second floor, a pale glow could be seen from one of the windows.
Kurt leaned forward, staring hard at the light. He watched it move from the bottom row of panes to the center, and then to the top. Kurt blinked, confused as the glow disappeared behind a wall to reappear at the next window, at the same height. Then onto the third.
He felt confused. There shouldn’t be anyone in the Mill, and he didn’t know of anyone who would be able to reach the top of the Mill windows. They were easily ten feet tall, and four feet wide.
An uncomfortable feeling filled him, and Kurt reached for the radio.
But there wasn’t one in his personal car.
He contemplated going into the building, but he didn’t have any backup, and he couldn’t see or hear anything happening inside.
Kurt picked up his phone, hesitated, then put it back down. He wanted to call his brother, but Erick wasn’t exactly the soul of discretion. If the two Warner brothers went into the Mill, Erick would be sure to post the experience on every social media platform before they even left the building.
Just observe, he told himself after several minutes of debate. If someone goes in or comes out, then I can intervene.
Satisfied with his decision, Kurt got as comfortable as he could in the seat, folded his arms across his chest, and settled in to watch and wait.
Chapter 10: Jose Seeks to Cleanse the Mill
Jose saw the cop in his car, watching the mill.
With a shake of his head, Jose walked past the vehicle and made his way past the side of the Mill. He turned right around the building, approaching it from the back side. As he drew nearer to the fence, he felt the power radiating from the bricks. It was a curious feeling, similar to being on a roller coaster, his stomach felt as if it dropped down to his knees.
Jose hesitated and looked at the building with dread.
Whatever was inside of the Mill was getting stronger.
For years, Jose had passed the structure and never had he experienced the new, charged atmosphere now surrounding it.
A flicker of doubt, an insecurity about his own abilities, occupied his heart. It grew steadily, like a spark bursting into flames and devouring a piece of paper.
Suddenly unsure, Jose stepped back.
It was then that he saw the man standing by the wall.
Jose squinted, recognizing the man. “Jamie?”
Jamie smiled.
“What are you doing in there?” Jose called in Spanish.
“Waiting,” Jamie replied.
“Waiting?” Jose asked. “Waiting for what?”
“More.” The smile on Jamie’s face faltered, then crumbled. “You should run, Jose. You should tell everyone to run.”
“Run from what?” Jose asked, feeling confused.
“From him,” Jamie answered, a mournful expression accompanied the words as he looked past Jose.
Twisting around, Jose saw a sm
all man standing a few feet away from him. He was dressed in starched jeans and a stiff, khaki shirt. The man glared at Jose. The stranger asked Jose a question, and it took him a moment to realize that the words were French.
Jose’s mind scrambled to translate. It had been years since he had traveled through Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
The stranger repeated the question, and Jose was able to understand it.
“Why are you here?”
“There’s something wrong with the building,” Jose explained, faltering and stumbling on some of the words. “I will cleanse it.”
“You are a Catholic Priest?” the man asked, squinting warily.
Jose chuckled, surprised at the question. “No. I am not. I am an Oloricha of Santeria. A priest of Santeria, if you will.”
The man frowned, stepped forward, and asked, “Not a Catholic?”
Jose shook his head.
“Not a Catholic,” the man repeated in a murmur.
Jose started to speak again but stopped. There was something off about the man. He didn’t look quite like a man should, but Jose knew it might be nothing more than an optical illusion. The stars and the city lights could make strange things appear, and people look odd, especially around a place as powerful as the Mill was turning out to be.
“You are a heathen,” the stranger said, taking a step closer. “But you look strong. Are you?”
“Strong?” Jose asked, confused. “I don’t know.”
“Yes,” the stranger said, nodding. “You’re strong. You’ll do well. And you can speak the proper tongue.”
Jose stepped to the left and contemplated calling for help. He wondered if the cop he had seen would hear him. There was a disturbing, frightening quality to the stranger. An intensity that caused Jose’s knees to quiver in fear.
Then it struck him.
This is the ghost, he realized, and that knowledge was accompanied by the understanding that he would never be able to turn the spirit away.
It was too strong.
Terrifyingly so.
Jose turned and ran, opening his mouth to scream for help when he was struck in the back. The blow was cold and hard, sending him sprawling on the asphalt. He felt his pants tear and his lower lip burst open. Blood gushed down his chin and stars exploded in his eyes. He struggled to get to his hands and feet, to get away from the ghost, but the dead man was waiting.
Jose tried to scream again, but the man grabbed him on either side of the face and squeezed his mouth closed.
“Shh,” the man said. “Let us not disturb our neighbors.”
Jose tried to twist away, jerking his head from left to right. He struck at the man’s hands but only succeeded in hurting himself. Wherever the dead man touched Jose’s flesh, an excruciating pain shot through his skin. The stranger’s hands were cold, unbearably so.
Frantic, Jose struggled to pull away, but the stranger pinched Jose’s nose closed. Jose couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do anything. He fought but his efforts were useless. The dead man’s hands weren’t accessible; Jose couldn’t pull the fingers back. When he tried to kick the man, all that happened was a fresh pain. It exploded through his foot and traveled up and into his calf.
Jose would have screamed if he had the air to do so.
The stranger had robbed him of it.
Jose’s lungs screamed for air, yet there was none.
As blackness ate away at the edges of his vision, Jose comprehended that he was going to die. And it would not be pleasant.
He struggled to see, and when his vision cleared, he saw three men standing around the stranger. They too were dead, and one of them was Jamie.
“Almost there,” the dead man whispered with a smile, “and when you are dead, well, then you can come work with me.”
With a last effort, Jose forced himself to focus, reminded himself that it was a dead man he fought, and acted accordingly.
He plunged his hand into his shirt pocket, found the iron dust he had placed there, and grasped it. Jose tore the fabric as he removed his hand and cast the iron into the ghost.
A shriek exploded in the night and the dead man was gone. Jose’s body screamed for oxygen and he sucked in great lungfuls of it. Ignoring Jamie and the other two ghosts, he dragged himself to his feet and fled for the safety of his home.
Chapter 11: In the Bedroom
Shane had moved his studying from the library to his bedroom, where he had found Eloise standing at the window and looking outside.
“Hello, Shane,” the dead girl greeted him.
“Hello, Eloise,” Shane replied, sitting down on his bed.
She turned and faced him, her lips set in a grim line.
“What?” Shane asked, putting the book down. “What’s wrong?”
“Carl spoke with you.”
“Yes,” Shane said. “He often does.”
Eloise pointed a finger at him. “Do not get smart with me, Shane Ryan! I died when I was a little girl, but that was a hundred years before you were born!”
Shane held up his hands, palms outward. “I’m sorry. Yes, Carl spoke with me. About Courtney.”
It hurt him to say her name.
Some of the anger fell away from Eloise’s face. She nodded. “And you will not leave?”
Shane shook his head. “No. I have work to do. Something’s happening at one of the mills.”
Eloise frowned. “Which one?”
“The Slater Mill.”
The dead girl clapped her hands and smiled at him. “I know that mill!”
“Wow,” Shane said, blinking. “Really?”
“Yes,” she said, skipping around. “Wait. What’s happening at the Mill?”
“People are dying,” Shane said.
Eloise made a dismissive gesture. “People die all of the time in the mills.”
“This one hasn’t run for a hundred years,” Shane added.
She stopped in mid skip and looked at him. “Ah. Yes. That would be a little different then.”
Eloise returned to the window, pulled on one of her braids and then sat down on the end of the bed.
“You should probably speak with my father,” she finally said.
“I’m assuming he’s dead?” Shane asked.
“Of course he’s dead, silly,” Eloise said, her laughter filling the room. “He was old before I was killed. But even if he’s dead, he’ll know what’s going on. He always knew what was happening at that Mill. He ran it for Mr. Slater.”
“And where might I find your father?” Shane asked, hoping it was some small, family burial ground.
“Edgewood Cemetery,” she answered. “That’s where everyone in the family is buried. Except for me. Well, most of me is buried there.”
Shane didn’t ask for clarification.
“Do you have any idea what part your father might be in?” he asked. “Edgewood’s a big place.”
“By the Andersons,” Eloise answered. “They were good friends. When my mother killed herself, they even made certain that the Minister buried her in hallowed ground. Silly, isn’t it?”
“What?” Shane asked.
“My mother killing herself,” Eloise said, sighing. “She thought she was going to see me again, but instead she went right to the next world.”
Leaning forward Eloise gave him a grin as she said in a confidential tone, “I heard her screaming as she went past.”
“You’re a bit mad, aren’t you,” Shane said, eyeing her warily.
“Of course, I am,” Eloise said. “And I thank you for noticing. Will you visit my father?”
Shane hesitated and then asked, “He isn’t buried in a crypt, is he?”
Eloise laughed, shaking her head. “No. Not at all.”
“Thank God,” Shane murmured.
“He’s buried in a mausoleum,” she said.
Shane repressed a groan. “Great. And at Edgewood.”
Eloise nodded. “By the Anderson Chapel. It’s very nice, you know.”
“The
mausoleum?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Will you say hello to him for me?”
“Sure,” Shane said. “Wait, how do you know he’s still there?”
“There are those among the dead,” Eloise said, becoming serious, “who know no bounds. I have heard from them about my father. He and others move freely in Edgewood, close to their bones and bound by the iron fence. But ask him, Shane Ryan, and he will tell you who to look for in Slater Mill.”
The girl vanished without another word, leaving Shane alone in the bedroom. Elsewhere, Carl and a few of the others hunted for Courtney. Part of Shane hoped they would find and recapture her. A smaller part hoped he might speak with her again.
Shane got up from his bed, walked to his bureau and picked up the iron rings there. He slid them on before he picked up his knuckle-dusters and slipped them into his pocket. Shane lifted his backpack from the floor, walked with it to the bed, and slipped the Slater Mill book into it.
Well, Shane thought, adjusting the knuckle-dusters in his pocket. Time to talk to the dead.
Chapter 12: The Cultivation of a Ghost
She held the dossier on the foreman open and glanced over it. She had read it after the sudden death of a teenager and she was well familiar with the situation. What she found curious about the dead man, and thus the Slater Mill, was how the Watchers had taken an active role in the recruitment of the man.
An early representative of the organization, a man named Elijah Johnson, had sought out Pierre. The mill foreman’s propensity toward violence had been legendary in the community. Johnson had learned of the man’s enjoyment of industrial accidents. Arms and hands lost. Blindings. Deaths. The foreman had enjoyed the misery caused by every incident, the bloodier the better.
Johnson, according to the field notes, had been on friendly terms with Slater, the owner of the Mill, and he had been granted permission to approach the brute. Johnson had spoken with him and found all of the qualities for a test subject.
The foreman had possessed a level of hatred and rage that had the potential for the man’s spirit to remain past physical death.