The once magnificent front door had likewise long since been stolen, allowing an opening for a variety of woodland creatures to wander into the mill to take up residence. Perhaps the missing door was currently being used as someone’s front door in a mansion in another state or another country, or maybe it had simply been burned for firewood. Its fate remained a mystery as did much about the mill. Where the stained glass transom once proudly displayed the mill owner’s name, nothing remained but an empty pitted wooden frame covered in spider webs, teaming with insects, many of which would no doubt eventually end up cocooned in gossamer awaiting digestion by the families of spiders.
At one time, a large double-sided fireplace was located in the middle of the mill providing heat for the workers in the winter. It led to an enormous chimney stretching high above the center of the roofline, making for breathtaking spectacle as it spewed its smoke into the icy sky during the coldest, most frigid months. Now the chimney was all but gone above the roofline, its mortar disintegrated by years of exposure to the elements, its bricks having fallen to the ground below; many plummeting through the roof itself, making large gaping holes in the rotting cedar shake shingles.
Through the center of the chimney, large branches grew skyward from an oak tree that had taken root a few years after the mill had been shut down. Branches likewise protruded through the broken windows looking as if the tree and its massive limbs might be the only thing keeping the mill standing; which could very well have been true.
The locals called it “Saw-Kill” because of the mill’s tragic history, or perhaps more accurately, the tragic history of the mill’s owner, J. J. Hanson. The tale of Jonas J. Hanson had been a sad one when told with historic accuracy. However, through the years the tale had grown and evolved, each time being told with the addition of more fantastic and even impossible elements, until it had become the stuff of legend. It was no longer simply a tragic tale but one of terror and mystery.
Jonas had been the only child of a British father and a German mother who had immigrated to the United States toward the end of the nineteenth century. Shortly after his arrival, Jonas’s father, William, built the mill and began growing his business. Jonas was born in 1880, and by the turn of the century the mill had become a very prosperous business. Jonas took over ownership and operation of the mill in 1905, at the age of twenty-five when his father died suddenly. A heart attack had truly been the cause of his father’s untimely death, but through the years a number of rumors and stories came into being suggesting that perhaps young Jonas had actually murdered his father to get control of the mill. It didn’t seem to matter that the stories were complete fabrications; many people believed them to be true.
The bottom line was, the workers didn’t take well to Jonas running the operation, as they looked at him as having been privileged and being given everything as a result of the hard work of his father’s success. They all respected and had great admiration for William, as he was not only hardworking and intelligent but was generous to a fault. He always put the welfare of his workers before profit.
Such was not the case for Jonas. He knew how his employees felt about him, but he didn’t care. So instead of trying to win the workers over and gain their respect, Jonas took a firm, autocratic approach, driving his workers with an iron fist, firing anyone who gave him even the slightest provocation. The economy was not prosperous in the poor rural Pennsylvania community, as was often the case in such areas, so the employees had little choice but to put up with Jonas’s tyranny or starve. They may have started out disliking Jonas, but soon they despised him.
Jonas never married or had any children. He took over the family homestead, a large farmhouse on the same parcel of land, but located several hundred yards in the woods behind the mill. His mother, Greta, lived in the house with him until she died of cancer, then known as “the waste of life,” around 1925. Jonas soon found himself alone, in the big house and did not consider the isolation comforting.
Locals rumored that his mental decline started after his mother’s death. Many said the spirits of the dead parents haunted the homestead, tormenting Jonas relentlessly because of his poor treatment of the workforce. That particular rumor was probably started by a group of irate workers who hated Jonas and simply wished deep inside, such an impossible phenomenon might actually have occurred.
Others, who dared to be so vulgar, hinted about an unnatural intimate relationship between Jonas and his mother after his father’s death, which caused him to go mad with grief following her subsequent passing. Whatever the reason, after a number of years alone in the “big house,” as it was known, Jonas started to act irrationally and could often be seen carrying on conversations with people who were not present; some said he was speaking with his dead mother and father. This probably helped to fuel the ghost rumors as well.
Eventually, for whatever reason, Jonas lost his mind completely. Unfortunately, no one realized the extent of his insanity until it was much too late. Until then, most of his employees simply thought of him as being a bit “off,” and chose to ignore his steady mental decline in order to remain gainfully employed at the mill.
Then one day it happened. After the long workday had ended and most of the workers had gone home, Jonas was hunched over his desk in his office, mumbling to himself as usual, working on the business’s books. A group of four obviously angry workers approached him demanding to speak to him about the working conditions. When he refused to talk with the men, they told Jonas they were in the process of forming a labor union and he would either have to give in to their demands or they would be forced to call a strike and would shut the mill down.
Even though most of what they said was simply bluster, they had started talking among themselves about the possibility of forming a union. Though they were actually years away from making it a reality, Hanson was unaware of this. And in his deteriorated mental state he couldn’t distinguish between what portion of their threat was real and what might be contrived.
He snapped. While the four men were spelling out their demands he reached into the top drawer of his desk, retrieved a Smith and Wesson .38 special revolver and proceeded to shoot each of them without a second of forethought. One of the men died instantly when the bullet entered just above his right eye, blowing out the back of his skull and spattering his blood and bits of skull and brain all over the back wall of the office.
One of the men took one through the neck and lay on the floor gasping for several long minutes as his severed carotid artery pumped his lifeblood onto the floor where it pooled about him, soaking into the planking. The other two workers were not so lucky. Though one was shot once and the other twice their wounds were crippling but not fatal. In reality, they would have been much better off had they died instantly like their partners. The two men screamed in agony and tried to crawl toward the door desperately struggling to get away from the homicidal mad man.
Unfortunately, they didn’t see him grab a souvenir baseball bat, which was presented to him by a customer and company that purchased his lumber to make their sports equipment. He shattered both of their legs so they couldn’t escape, then broke their arms and dislocated their shoulders so they could not fight back. Whether he originally planned to kill them with the bat or whether he changed his mind during the process no one would ever know for certain. But the result was he only knocked them both unconscious.
When the men finally regained consciousness they found themselves inside the sawmill, strapped to the huge saw table, legs spread as the belts above the table spun on their pulleys, powering the enormous saw blade, causing it to whirr above the table directly in front of them. Then the blade began its journey down toward them preparing to split them from crotches to their skulls, and within a few moments the screaming and thrashing was over, as each half of the workers separated and collapsed to the table top, which became slick with their blood, entrails, and stomach contents.
Apparently, Jonas had saved one bullet for himself, and aft
er his gruesome work was completed he went back to his office, sat behind his desk, put the barrel of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger The police investigating the crime scene were sickened by the manner in which he fell face-forward on top of his desk, his sodden brains oozing out onto a photo of his parents, which had fallen over and lay beneath his ruined skull.
***
Paul Simmons was a twenty-first century transplant to the area, but knew about the history of the mill, having heard local children discussing it while they played in the streets of his nearby suburban neighborhood. He and his wife, Laura, had only recently built their split-level home, having completed it several months earlier. Theirs was one of the last lots remaining in an already established development. Paul and Laura were both professionals, referred to as D.I.N.K.s by their coworkers; double income—no kids. They both wanted to have children someday, but so far they had not attempted to conceive.
During the workweek, they both attended a nearby gym and fitness center, but on the weekends, weather permitting, they enjoyed walking along the country roads near their new neighborhood. They would leave the development and head east on Abington Lane until they reached Sawmill. Then they would walk the half-mile length of the road, past the sawmill; unconsciously keeping their distance from the ruins. Next they would turn right on Prescott Road and follow it until it intersected with the very steep Dairy Road, which eventually met back up with Abington Lane on the other side of their development, completing about a two mile circle.
Often, when he would walk by the mill, Paul would deliberately stare at the structure, thinking about the stories surrounding the mill’s history. He suspected that what he had heard might be close to what really happened although it was likely that the truth had been blown way out of proportion throughout the years. He often felt a strange, uneasy sensation in his stomach when passing the mill. Sometimes he even imagined that there might be some unearthly force calling to him; urging him to come inside the mill and investigate.
Most of the locals believed or wanted to believe the place was haunted. Many stories suggested that the ghost of J. J. Hanson wandered about the inside the mill, his spirit still insane and looking for another victim to saw in two. Paul, of course, refused to allow himself to even consider believing in such local folklore, thinking it ridiculous. Even the nickname “Saw-Kill” sounded juvenile and corny to him. In fact, he was fairly sure once, several years ago, when he and Laura had lived in California, he had seen a sign in a seasonal Halloween store reading “Saw-Kill Road.”
As he recalled it was one of those cheap foam or cardboard road signs, probably mass-produced in China or some other low-cost country, for a US company eager for cheap labor. The sign had been designed with a green background and reflective white lettering, just like a typical road sign would be. It read “Saw Mill Road,” however the “Mill” portion of the sign was obscured by the scribbled word “KILL” done in a way to appear to be written with dripping blood. Paul was fairly certain neither the workers in China, the businessmen in the United States, or even the designers who created the idea for the sign had any prior knowledge of this particular Sawmill Road in Pennsylvania, or any knowledge of its ominous history.
In fact, there were probably hundreds of Sawmill Roads around the country. Then he suddenly thought for a moment about a line he remembered from the promotion of the horror movie, “Nightmare on Elm Street,” which read, “There’s an Elm Street in every town.” Paul figured there must also be a Sawmill Road in almost every rural community as well. Hence, the popularity of the novelty sign, he supposed.
As Paul became more familiar with the area he began to feel less apprehensive about the dilapidated building and eventually had no trouble walking past it. In fact, the previous day he had taken the walk alone as Laura was not feeling well. He deliberately slowed down as he got to the mill, bold enough to leave the road and walk up to the structure and stand within a few feet of its battered and rotted front stairs.
Now, a day later, he sat at the kitchen table having just finished his Sunday evening dinner and asked Laura if she was up for a walk; he suspected she might not yet be ready for one, as she hadn’t seemed to eat very much at dinner.
“No.” She replied, “I’m still not feeling so well in my stomach. It must just be a bug or something. If I don’t feel much better by tomorrow morning, I suspect I’ll have to stay home from work and go to the doctor.”
Paul thought how odd it was to hear Laura consider staying home since she rarely missed work no matter how sick she might be. “If you feel that bad, do you think we ought to take you to the emergency room?”
“No thanks,” she said with a sarcastic laugh. “I would rather lie around here all night than spend five or six hours in a room full of sick and injured weekend warriors. You know how poor people always flock to the hospital for their medical needs. Do you remember the last time we were there? It seemed like most of the families knew each other; like it is a party they all go to every weekend or something.”
“Yeah. I remember,” Paul said, thinking about how about two months ago he had cut his finger doing yard work and Laura had to drive him into the hospital for stitches. It was a four-hour snore-fest before the physician’s assistant even had an opportunity to look at his injury. “You're probably right.”
“I think I’ll just go in and lie down on the couch for a while and watch TV,” Laura said.
“Would you mind if I took our Sawmill walk alone?” he asked. Laura looked out the window and noticed the sun was beginning to set. “Are you sure you want to do that?” she suggested, not wanting to express her apprehension about the waning light too strongly, feeling somewhat foolish at the thought of doing so.
Sure,” he said. “In fact, I might even run part of the way to make sure I get back before dark. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“I suppose, if you say so,” Laura replied with discomfort. “Take your cell phone along with you in case you trip and fall or get hit by a car or something.”
“I will,” he said with confidence as he held up his phone to show her he would be just a phone call away. He walked her to the couch and made sure she was comfortable before kissing her goodbye.
Paul walked out the front door of their home and strode at a brisk pace through the development for about a half-mile until the cement sidewalks ended abruptly at Abington Lane. Checking for oncoming traffic, he crossed Abington to the right side of the road walking steadily until he came to the intersection with Sawmill.
“Saw-Kill” a quiet, raspy voice echoed in his head and he felt himself mouthing the words silently along with the thought.
As he turned right onto Sawmill Road, he felt a strange sensation, as if he not only had just stepped onto another road but was actually entering another world. He looked out along the curves of Sawmill, which seemed to take on a dreamlike, surrealistic appearance. Paul knew that just around the next turn in the road ahead the ominous saw mill awaited like a hideous specter lurking in the shadows as if in anticipation of his arrival.
For a moment, he thought perhaps he should simply turn around, head home. He could always tell Laura he was more tired than he had realized or he could say he got a cramp in his leg or some other type of lame excuse. But he knew if he did she might deduce the real reason why he didn’t want to walk by the mill. Although Paul was certain Laura would understand completely, never call him on it, and most certainly not think less of him, he didn’t like the idea of her knowing he had backed out. If he went home early she would always know he was unable to bring himself to walk by the mill alone as the sun began to set.
Paul decided instead, he would walk at a deliberate pace up Sawmill Road with his head focused on the highway in front of him and do everything he could to not change the direction of his vision until he was well past the mill. He actually considered jogging past the mill to get it over with more quickly, but felt somehow that doing so wouldn’t be much different than if he had turned arou
nd and gone home. So instead, he walked with his eyes focused on the blacktop, purposefully moving up Sawmill Road. “Saw-Kill” he again heard a strange unfamiliar voice whisper in his mind. He tried desperately to ignore the strange voice, blaming it on an overactive imagination.
As he approached the area where the mill stood he heard the voice in his head grow stronger, taking on a tone that sounded eerily insane. “Saw-Kill” the voice said repeatedly; first slowly, growing louder and more frantic with each utterance; “Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill” over and over. Paul stopped in the middle of the road and slowly raised his head, turning it cautiously to the right where the decaying saw mill stood. Instantly, the voice that had been assaulting him inside his mind stopped and was replaced by blessed silence. As he looked at the opening where the front door of the mill once stood he saw a cavern of darkness resembling the gaping maw of some hideous demonic creature.
But regardless of the doorway’s appearance, Paul realized the apprehension he had previously felt was now completely gone. In fact, he felt foolish for having the strange feelings in the first place. It was as if he suddenly realized the mill was an abandoned building, a run-down wreck, nothing more. He felt an incredible exhilaration flow through him as he stood in the diminishing sunlight of dusk in front of the community’s most feared legend. He felt nothing but pity for the unfortunate, superstitious locals who allowed themselves to fall prey to such wild imaginings.
Before he realized he was doing so, Paul stepped off the roadway, through the tall weeds and wild grass, walking directly toward the front of the building. He stood for a moment looking up at the precarious structure as if defying it to collapse, which of course it did not.
Ghost Shadows Page 15
