He walked slowly around to the left side of the building and saw the dirt driveway leading up to the large entrance where once two barn doors stood. He walked up the pathway to the opening and was surprised to see that the floor of the mill still appeared to be fairly intact and structurally sound. He could see how the builders had obviously constructed the floor supports with thick wooden beams. He also noted there was still a fair amount of light in the mill streaming through the broken western-facing window panes as well as bright setting sun flooding in from the gaping holes in the building’s roof.
Paul stepped cautiously out onto the floor, testing each step to assure himself that the structure was as sturdy as it appeared to be. Before he realized it, he had taken several steps inside the mill and was turning to look down the length of the building. To his surprise, twenty or thirty feet ahead, he saw a large worktable, above which hung a giant rusted and pitted circular saw blade from the legendary and notorious saw he had heard so much about. It was the same blade which local legends touted as the "saw of death." Looking up toward the ceiling, he could see where once the huge canvas drive belts, which had been used to power the blade, once hung. Now all that remained were just dry-rotted torn strips hanging limply like giant pieces of shredded noodles, useless for powering any machinery ever again—or so Paul thought.
He walked forward toward the work table and as he looked down he noticed a dark brown stain soaked into the wooden slab. Looking upward more closely at the rusted circular blade, he saw a similar dark stain. Blood, Paul thought. A bloodstain from the last night the saw was ever used. Once again, the uncontrollable shiver returned and Paul felt a pang of apprehension at the resurgence of his earlier fears.
As Paul stared in amazement at the useless rusted blade, he noticed it begin to change. Before his eyes, the rust began to flake off in thousands of tiny bits of falling debris and orange dust, revealing a shiny metal blade below the surface. The dark area encircling the teeth of the blade was now bright red and drips of fresh blood began to fall from the blade’s teeth to the bench below where it puddled, reflecting the last remaining glimmer of the setting sun. Paul could smell a coppery scent in the air and instinctively knew it was coming from the blood. Above him, the rotted sagging drive belts regained the luster of a new product and began to climb upward, all the while knitting themselves miraculously back together; repairing themselves right before his unbelieving eyes, and looking as if they were new.
Paul tried to turn and run from the nightmare unfolding before him but was unable to move. Suddenly he felt someone grab him from behind. He turned to try to see who held him and saw a portion of something he would have never believed possible. A translucent being stood behind him holding him securely, preventing him from escape. He was certain it was a thing of no substance, yet he could feel the impossible pressure of its icy fingers holding him in its death grip as an incredible coldness permeated his body. He couldn’t quite make out the thing’s appearance but sensed it must have looked hideous. He felt his heart pounding violently in his chest harder than he had ever felt before.
Then he heard a familiar voice in his mind. It was the same voice he had heard earlier saying, “Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill.” He looked in the direction of the sound and saw someone slowly walking from the darkness toward him. It appeared to be a man dressed in early twentieth century clothing, a business suit that appeared to be stained with blood. As Paul looked closer he could see that the right side of the man’s skull was missing and his face was splattered with chunks of skin and blood. Then Paul realized it was not really a man but some horrible specter made manifest before him. He realized it was that he was seeing was the ghost of J. J Hanson.
Behind the hideous ghost, another such creature of the damned came lumbering out of the blackness. The thing appeared to have once been a man, but now was something unimaginably hideous. This wretched creature stood naked with no visible genitalia. From the place where its crotch should have been, a long continuously twisting line of awkwardly sewn stitching worked its way up along the stomach area, past the chest, then the neck and finally passing through the center of its face and skull. Paul understood immediately that what he was seeing was what he had heard described in the local stories. It was one of the unfortunate workers Jonas had cut in two on the very table before him using the very circular blade that now glimmered overhead.
On the right side of its face the blade must have cut into the man’s eye since the raggedly stitched path went up and through the empty black eye socket. Paul noticed the air in the mill had become thick with the stench of decay; a stink that turned his stomach and revolted him beyond description.
He then made the assumption that the creature holding him from behind must be the second of Jonas’s victims. He still couldn’t comprehend how these spirits had the ability to restrain him so. Then he suddenly understood. In reality, he was not actually being physically manhandled by the creatures but his subconscious mind believed it was happening and that was apparently sufficient to curtail his movements and make him feel as if the demon was actually touching him. One might say it was all in his head, yet he could not move any more than if the specter had been made of flesh and bone.
An involuntary scream built in Paul’s throat but was cut off as he found himself unable to utter a sound. The shambling creature that stood next to the ghost of Jonas J. Hanson shambled jerkily forward and grabbed Paul’s legs, somehow impossibly lifting them upward and placing them on the saw table. Unable to move or resist, Paul was helpless to do anything to free himself.
Within a few moments the saw blade rotate slowly at first; then it began to spin madly until it became a whirling blur spraying droplets of blood down upon him. Soon the blade moved ever so slowly downward, heading directly toward the center of Paul’s chest. In his mind he heard a chorus of ghostly shrieks screaming, “Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill,” repeatedly, just before everything went black.
***
Laura stood silently at the gravesite of her dead husband, dressed in widow’s black, surrounded by friends and a few relatives. One by one, the mourners approached her to offer their condolences until soon all were gone and she found herself standing alone. That was, except for one lone man who lingered next to the grave. She recognized him immediately as the local medical examiner. He had told Laura he would tell her of his final determination of cause of death as soon as he had an answer. He was waiting to tell her of his findings.
The examiner approached Laura and said, “Once again, Mrs. Simmons, I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Doctor Anderson. I appreciate it very much,” she replied. Then wanting to get the unpleasantness over with quickly she asked, “I was wondering . . . did you finalize your report . . . you know . . . on Paul’s cause of death? Was it . . . was it a heart attack?”
“Yes, my dear. That was the cause; a massive cardiac infarction. Unusual in one so young—but not unheard of. No one could have anticipated it. Again please accept my deepest sympathy,” the doctor replied.
Laura’s face took on the appearance of sad resignation that often accompanies the feeling of closure in such uncontrollable situations. “Thank you for all you have done, Doctor.” Laura replied as the doctor nodded, turned, and left without further comment.
Walking slowly back to his car, the doctor saw his assistant waiting to drive him back to the office.
“Did you tell her?” the assistant inquired.
“I told her what she needed to hear,” the doctor replied, “Her husband had a heart attack and that is why he died. End of story.”
“But what about . . .?” the young assistant asked curiously stopping short of completing his question.
The doctor stared at him sternly and insisted, “I told her nothing. And as far as you and I are concerned, there is nothing else to tell; nothing to tell her and nothing to ever tell anyone else. And since you and I are the only two people who know the entire truth and we will never speak of it again the secret s
hould remain a secret. Also, I had better never hear anyone else in this township repeating any such story back to me, or I will most certainly know exactly where it came from. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Clear as clear can be,” the assistant replied appropriately chastised. “I swear, I won’t say a word about it to anyone.”
With that, the doctor and his assistant got into their car and drove away in silence. The doctor went over in his mind the incredibly impossible results of his examination. It was beyond his understanding, beyond his comprehension how such a thing could possibly have occurred.
When he had autopsied Paul Simmons, he never expected to discover what he saw upon cracking open the man’s chest cavity. No one ever would have anticipated finding the dead man’s heart impossibly split cleanly in two.
Be Careful What You Wish For
Be careful what you wish for because you
just might get it.
—Unknown
The only suitable gift for the man who has everything is your deepest sympathy.
—Imogene Fey
Protect me from what I want.
—Jenny Holzer
It had been yet another in a seemingly endless series of monotonous days; a day just like every other boring day of late and Stephen had become frustrated beyond his ability to reason. He had had enough of walking about aimlessly with no destination, no plan. Was this truly to be how he would spend the rest of his natural life? He felt as if he might lose his mind and scream with insanity just thinking about how miserable his life had become. How it consisted of the same old tiring routines day after day, week after week for low these many years.
This was all the more frustrating because Stephen knew he had enough money to be in complete control of every aspect of his life—much more so than most people. Nonetheless he continued to trudge along with the same mundane daily routine without deviation. And although he hated his life he did nothing to try to change it because he knew it was of his own making and emotionally he no longer had the ability to change anything. An outside observer might say he had everything, but Stephen knew in reality he had nothing, at least nothing that really mattered to him any longer.
Stephen had fallen into an exceptionally deep pit of depression having no idea how he might possibly go about digging himself out and really no longer caring if he ever did. He had been depressed before, several times over the years but this time it seemed much worse than ever. The creeping bouts of malaise had slowly begun several years earlier shortly after it had all happened; after his pitifully bad luck had done an abrupt about face; that is to say, at least from an economic standpoint.
Now Stephen had the kind of financial good fortune most people only dreamed of. He had never even imagined having such vast amounts of money. However he knew if he could be granted just one wish, that is to say one more wish, it would be for everything to return to the way it had once been and all of what he now possessed would simply go away. But Stephen knew there would be no more wishes for him; those days were long gone. If he were going to find a way out of this miserable pit of despair he would have to do so of his own volition.
What Stephen did understand however was he had to come up with some means by which to put some sort of distraction or excitement into his life; something new; something to stimulate him; even if that something was something out of his control and potentially dangerous. He needed to find some activity that might possibly represent some sort of alteration to his normal mind-numbing practices; any sort of change whatsoever.
Stephen no longer worried about death or injury; his luck was much too good to allow something as trivial as physical injury to occur. He had tried all of the most hazardous of activities he could think of, from mountain climbing to sky diving to bungee jumping to walking down a dark alley with one hundred dollar bills hanging out of his pockets, but he realized his good luck would not allow him to be hurt.
At one point during one of his past bouts of depression he had actually considered trying to commit suicide but he instinctively knew no matter how hard he tried he would never succeed; his good fortune simply would not permit it. He was destined to live a long and healthy live of great wealth; a life he no longer wanted.
As he stepped onto the elaborate brick and stone porch of his enormous mansion, Stephen thought about all he had acquired and about all he had lost and about how foolish and naïve he had been. God, he missed his wife and daughter so much, and no matter how much money or good fortune came his way it would never even begin to make of for their loss.
He inserted his key into the lock on the finely handcrafted front door, and with a click he walked into the darkened hallway. He switched on the overhead hall light, which simultaneously turned on a small lamp on the oak hall table. He knew he should have put the table lamp on a timer but Stephen had no interest taking the time to bother with such things. The dense mist of apathy that had taken over his psyche like a creeping fog of malcontention was most likely responsible. It could also have been that he simply found technology to be more of an annoyance than a benefit. This was also the reason why he was able to enter the home without hearing the blaring of an alarm system in desperate need of resetting. He just didn’t feel like dealing with the hassles of owning such devices. Besides, he knew he had nothing to worry about from any living being.
Stephen casually approached the hall table and placed the large grocery bag he was carrying on top of the table, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled lottery ticket and laid it next to the bag. He took off his coat and hung it in the hall closet, deciding to walk down the hall past the living room and out to his kitchen. Perhaps he could make himself something exciting for dinner. He was not much of a cook, but maybe the distraction would be a good thing. He knew he could simply select any one of hundreds of phone numbers in his smart phone and he would be able to order whatever he wanted from wherever he chose any time day or night. If he so desired, he could hop on a plane and fly to France or Italy or even China simply for the purpose of having an interesting meal.
“I think that’s about far enough,” Stephen heard a gruff voice say from inside the living room as he attempted to pass by the wide arched opening. He looked up and saw a trace of shadowed movement from deep within the darkness. A few seconds later he caught a glimpse of two dark eyes reflected in the light from the hall, along with a flash of something metallic located approximately waist high.
A gun, Stephen thought. There’s an intruder in my home and he has a gun. Yet he remained surprisingly calm as if the sight of a weapon pointed in his direction was a daily occurrence, which of course it was not.
It was just that Stephen had realized the intruder, who although intent on something nefarious, might actually prove to be exactly what he was looking for; the answer to his own unending plight. He tried to see back into the gloom to determine what the prowler might look like but could only see the man’s pale extended hand; the one holding a very menacing looking pistol.
“You know,” the mysterious stranger said, “owning a house like this and not bothering to install a security system is pretty damn stupid, in my opinion.”
Stephen didn’t reply but stood staring into the darkness. The intruder continued, “I could have simply come up behind you and slit your fool throat if I was so inclined. You are either extremely naïve or very stupid. If you hadn’t come home just now I had every intention of robbing you blind. Oh, and for the record, I still plan to do just that.” The robber was caught off guard when instead of appearing terrified Stephen shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t care one way or the other. Stephen stood quietly for a few more moments before shaking his head as if disbelieving the strange situation he now found himself in. And then to make matters worse, Stephen chuckled aloud, unable to control himself.
“I don’t see what you find so funny,” the stranger said with rising indignation and a significant amount of confusion. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a gun here,
Einstein. And that means I hold your life in my hands and can end it at any time I choose with the simple pull of this trigger.”
Stephen was perfectly aware of the severity of his situation but what the intruder didn’t realize was that it was this entire situation that Stephen found so oddly amusing.
After a few more moments of silence, Stephen finally decided to speak up and said with surprising calm, “Yes, I see your gun. And, yes, I can also see it’s pointed directly at me. But I think I need to let you in on a little secret. If you truly believe you hold my life in your hands, then you are sadly mistaken, my friend; because you do not. However, if it makes you happy to believe in such fairy tales then by all means go right ahead and shoot.” Then Stephen waited a beat expecting to hear the crack of gunfire, feigning nonchalance while all the time hoping against hope that his amazing luck would suddenly fail him and he would be shot and finally reunited with his family. But there was no gunshot.
Although Stephen couldn’t see the man’s face he was quite certain he must have worn an expression of utter astonishment at this last audacious statement. After all, what sort of madman would so boldly suggest to someone pointing a gun at him that the attacker should pull the trigger? But Stephen knew things, many things that the intruder did not. And even without that knowledge Stephen was fairly certain the man was not even an experienced burglar and certain by the man’s actions so far he was not a murderer by nature. Had the intruder been so inclined he would have simply knocked Stephen unconscious or killed him already rather than stopping him and issuing what Stephen was certain was an idle threat.
“No, I didn’t think so. I don’t believe you’re a killer, my new mysterious friend,” Stephen said now standing in a surprisingly relaxed pose as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
Ghost Shadows Page 16
