by John Saul
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Brett suggested. He glanced to the west, where the sun was sinking toward the horizon. “Isn’t it pretty dark in there?”
“You can see fine.” Jeff sneered. “Either come in, or stay out, but I’m gonna look around.”
Struggling against his fear, Brett stepped through the door and closed it behind him. For a moment the deep shadows blinded him, but then his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the interior, and he looked around.
Somehow, he had expected it to be empty.
But it wasn’t.
Already, the floor had been subdivided by the skeletal shapes of newly constructed framework, and in the roof, several holes had been cut for skylights. Now, in the late afternoon, little light came through the holes, and it seemed to Brett that all they did was make the place even spookier than it already was.
And the framework, he realized, was almost like a maze. Almost anywhere, there could be someone hiding.
In the silence, Brett could hear the pounding of his own heart.
“Hey!”
The sudden sound jabbed Brett like a needle, and he felt his whole body twitch with a sudden release of tension. Then he realized the sound had come from Jeff. “Jeez!” he whispered loudly. “What did you do that for?”
Jeff gazed at his friend with disgust. “Because,” he explained, “if anybody had answered, we could have said we were looking for someone, and then left. No one ever thinks you’re sneaking in somewhere if you make a lot of noise.” He called out once more: “Anybody here?” A pair of pigeons, frightened by the sudden disturbance, burst from their nests in a flapping of wings.
When silence had fallen once more, Jeff raised his hand, pointing toward the rear wall. “If there’s anything in here, I bet it’s back there,” he said.
Brett gazed into the gathering gloom, and saw the top of the stairs that led down into the basement below. It was in the basement, his father had told him, that Con Sturgess’s body had been found. Brett’s heart pounded harder, and he felt a cold sweat breaking out on his back. “I bet there’s nothing there at all,” he said, though his voice quavered slightly in spite of his efforts to keep it steady. Jeff, catching the slip, grinned.
“Scared?”
“Hell, no,” Brett lied. “What’s to be scared of?”
“Ghoooosts,” Jeff intoned, then snickered. “Come on.”
They started toward the back of the building, with Brett following reluctantly. They had gone only a few yards when Brett felt his skin crawl.
He had the eerie feeling of unseen eyes watching him.
He tried to ignore it, keeping his eyes on Jeff’s back, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. Instead, it got worse.
There was something else in the mill—he was sure of it. But he couldn’t be sure where it was. It seemed to be all around him, following him. Suddenly he could stand it no longer, and whirled around to face whatever was stalking him.
Nothing.
His eyes scanned the tangle of structural supports, searching for a movement, but there was nothing there. Nothing, at least, that he could see.
And then, once again, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his spine began to tingle.
There was a sudden feeling of movement behind him. His stomach lurched. Something touched his shoulder.
Screaming, he jerked free, and whirled once more.
Jeff was staring at him, laughing. “Gotcha!”
“Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me!”
Jeff regarded him with knowing eyes. “You were already scared, weren’t you?”
“I … I thought I heard something,” Brett lied again.
“Well, you didn’t, ’cause there’s nothing here,” Jeff replied. “Let’s go see what’s downstairs.”
Without waiting for Brett to reply, Jeff headed once more for the staircase. Brett, unwilling to stay where he was, or admit by leaving that he was frightened, followed close behind. But when Jeff started down the stairs, Brett stopped, peering fearfully into the blackness below. “I’m not going down there.”
“Chicken,” Jeff taunted.
This time, Brett ignored the taunt. “It’s dark down there, and you can’t see anything.”
“I can see all the way to the bottom of the stairs, and I’m going down whether you come or not.”
Brett said nothing, only shrugged. He was staying where he was.
Jeff started down the stairs, but with each step he took, a little more of his confidence slipped away.
He began to wonder what might actually be waiting in the darkness below.
According to Beth Rogers, there was a ghost here.
But that was ridiculous. He didn’t believe in ghosts.
He tried to remember how funny the ghost story had been a couple of hours ago, when they’d all been lying around on the floor of Tracy’s library.
But it didn’t seem so funny now, not with the dank gloom of the old building gathering around him.
In fact, now that he thought about it, the darkness itself was almost like something alive, reaching out for him.
He stopped near the bottom of the stairs, and tried to shake the feeling off.
He wasn’t scared of the dark. He’d never been scared of the dark, at least not since he was a baby.
But now, here, he found that the dank blackness below was something very much to be afraid of.
Here, he didn’t know what the darkness concealed. It wasn’t at all like being in the dark at home, where you knew everything that was in the room around you, and could identify every sound you heard.
Here, the darkness seemed to go on forever, and the sounds—the little rustling sounds he was beginning to hear now—could be anything at all.
Mice. They could be mice, or even rats.
Or something else.
Something you couldn’t touch, but that could touch you.
He wanted to go back now, but it was too late. Brett was waiting above, and he’d laughed at Brett. If he came back up now, and admitted he’d been afraid to go any farther, Brett would never let him forget it.
Holding his breath, he took another step.
He listened to the noises, and began to imagine that they were voices.
Voices, whispering so quietly he could barely hear them.
He took another step, which brought him to the basement floor. Bracing himself, he edged into the horrible blackness around him.
And then, out of the darkness, he sensed something coming for him.
He opened his mouth, but fear choked his throat and no sound came out. From behind him, he felt himself being pushed. He staggered in the darkness, and reached out to find something to brace himself with.
There was nothing.
Now, as he realized what was happening to him, his fear released him, and a scream erupted from his throat—cut off a moment later as he pitched forward and fell.
In a flash, he remembered the story he’d heard about how Tracy’s uncle had died, long before he had even been born. It’s happening again, he thought. Just like it happened before.
In an instant that seemed to go on forever, something hard and sharp pressed against his chest, so cold it seemed to burn as it punctured his shirt, then his skin.
His own weight as he fell thrust the object into his heart, and he heard himself gasp, felt the final racking stab of pain, then heard his own blood bubbling into his lungs.
As he died, a draft of cool air blew around him, and then he smelled a familiar odor.
Smoke.
To Jeff Bailey, death smelled like smoke.…
Brett heard the soft thump of something falling, then silence closed around him once more. “Jeff?”
There was no answer. He called out again, louder, sure that his friend was trying to scare him as he had before. “Come on, Jeff. Quit fooling around.”
Still there was no answer, and Brett took a tentative step down the stairs.
And then, a chill passing through him, he
was suddenly certain that Jeff was not fooling around. Turning, he dashed toward the door they had come through twenty minutes earlier, hurled it open, and charged out into the gathering dusk.
“Help!” he yelled. “Somebody help me!” In panic, he began running toward the street in front of the mill.
“All right, son,” Sergeant Peter Cosgrove said a few minutes later. “Just try to calm down, and tell me where your friend is.”
“D-down there,” Brett quavered. He pointed down the stairs, now brightly lit by the worklights that were strung throughout the building. “Something happened to him. I … I don’t know what.”
Cosgrove’s partner, Barney Jeffers, trotted down the stairs, a flashlight in his hand. A moment later, as he flashed his light around the darkness of the basement, they heard him swear. At the same moment, brakes squealed outside, then an ambulance crew with a stretcher hurried through the door.
“Over here,” Cosgrove called. He turned his attention back to Brett. “You stay right here, son. I’m gonna find a light for the basement. Okay?”
Brett nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on the staircase. What seemed like an eternity later, the lights in the basement suddenly flashed on, and he could see Jeff lying on the basement floor. Blood, mixed with dirt, soaked his shirt, and the stillness of death lay over him like a shroud. Brett’s stomach heaved, and he turned away.
“What do you think?” Cosgrove asked Jeffers half an hour later. The ambulance was gone, and they were standing at the top of the stairs while a crew worked below, photographing the site and searching for evidence. Cosgrove was ninety-percent certain they wouldn’t find anything.
“Same as you,” Jeffers replied. “I think the Kilpatrick kid was telling the truth. Looks to me like the boy went down to look around, couldn’t see anything, and tripped. If he’d been anywhere else, he might have skinned his knee. As it was, he landed on that pick.”
“What the hell was it doing lying there?” Cosgrove muttered angrily.
“You want to charge someone with criminal negligence?” Jeffers inquired.
“I’d love to,” Cosgrove replied, his voice tight. “But who do you charge? Might just as well charge the Bailey boy. If he hadn’t been trespassing—”
“It was an accident,” Jeffers interrupted. “Sometimes things happen, Pete. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Cosgrove sighed, letting the tension drain from his body. “I know,” he agreed. “But it’s weird, too, you know?”
“Weird?” Jeffers echoed.
Cosgrove looked around, his eyes surveying the interior of the mill. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird. All my life, I’ve heard stories about this place, and how dangerous it is. Stupid stories. So now they’re fixing it up, and what happens? They aren’t even done, and we already got someone dead. That’s what I call weird.”
Jeffers looked at his partner curiously. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”
Cosgrove shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “You didn’t grow up here, like I did. Something like this happened once before. Must have been forty-odd years ago. That time it was Phillip Sturgess’s brother. Conrad Junior.”
Barney Jeffers frowned. “You mean he died? Here in the mill?”
“Not just in the mill, Barney,” Cosgrove said darkly. “Right here. At the bottom of the stairs.”
Jeffers uttered a low whistle. “Jesus. What happened?”
“That’s the thing,” Cosgrove went on. “No one ever found out. No one ever knew if it was an accident, or murder, or what. But it was just like this one.” He fell silent for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Weird,” he muttered. “It’s just—well, it’s weird, that’s all.”
Then, his face grim, he started toward the patrol car, bracing himself for what was ahead. He was about to call Jeff Bailey’s parents to tell them their son had died in the mill, a pickax through his heart.
10
Hannah was in the midst of serving dessert when the telephone rang. Carolyn slid her chair back and started to stand up, but Abigail’s voice, quiet yet firm, made her sink back into her chair. “Hannah will get it.” Silently, Hannah placed the pie she had been serving on a sideboard, and left the room. A moment later she came back.
“It’s for Mr. Phillip. It’s the police, and they say it’s an emergency. I explained you were in the middle of dinner, but they insisted—”
“It’s all right, Hannah,” Phillip said. “I’m sure it’s important.” He turned to his mother. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Abigail glared at her son. “Really, Phillip, it’s most impolite of them to call you now. I simply don’t understand—”
“Maybe you will, after I talk to them,” Phillip interrupted. “Go ahead with dessert.”
When he was gone, Abigail turned her attention to Carolyn. “You simply must learn a few rudimentary things, Carolyn. First, it’s very impolite to call people during the dinner hour. There is, however, little we can do to stop that. It seems that no one has manners anymore. But if the phone does ring while we are dining, Hannah will answer it.”
From the corner of her eye, Carolyn saw Tracy’s smirk, but ignored it. Beth, intently studying her plate, appeared suddenly to have found something fascinating in her pie. Smiling tightly, Carolyn patted Abigail’s hand. “I’ll try to remember that, Abigail,” she promised as the old woman jerked away as if she’d been burned. “But suppose Hannah weren’t here? Suppose it were her day off?”
“One of the other servants—” Abigail began, then abruptly fell silent as she remembered that there were no other servants. “In that case,” she finally admitted, her voice stiff, “I suppose one of us would have to answer it.”
Score one for our side, thought Carolyn as Tracy’s smirk faded and a tiny smile played around the corners of Beth’s mouth. In silence, the four of them began eating their pie. After four or five minutes that seemed to Carolyn like an eternity, Phillip returned, his expression grim.
“I have to go downtown,” he informed them.
“Now?” Abigail immediately asked. “Surely whatever it is can wait until we’ve finished dinner?”
“What’s happened?” The look on Phillip’s face told Carolyn that something was terribly wrong.
“An accident,” he replied. “A couple of kids got into the mill after the party this afternoon.”
Beth’s eyes widened, and her fork stopped in midair. Then, as her hand began to tremble, she carefully put the fork back on her plate.
“And what happened?” Abigail Sturgess asked. Her voice, normally strong and commanding, suddenly sounded hollow. When Carolyn looked at her, the old woman was pale, and there was an anxiety in her eyes that Carolyn had never seen before. “Tell me, Phillip,” she insisted. “What has happened?”
Phillip hesitated a fraction of a second. “Jeff Bailey,” he said at last. “He’s—well, I’m afraid he’s dead.”
There was a sudden shocked silence as the name sank in. It wasn’t a stranger—not even someone they had known only casually. It was a boy they all knew, who had been in their home only that afternoon.
“Jeff?” Tracy echoed. “Jeffs dead?”
“But—how?” Carolyn asked. “What happened?”
Phillip shook his head. “I’m not sure exactly. I have to go down there immediately.”
Abigail rose to her feet. All the blood had drained from her face now, and she was swaying, as if she might faint at any moment. “My God,” she whispered. “It’s like your brother. He was the same age as Jeff when he—when he—” She fell suddenly silent, unable to continue.
Phillip stared at his mother. “Like Conrad?” he echoed. “Mother, what on earth are you talking about? We don’t even know what happened yet—”
But Abigail was shaking her head, and her eyes had taken on a strangely empty look, as if she were seeing something far removed from the dining room. “Your father,” she whispered. “He always said something like this would happen. He was
always afraid—”
“Mother, please,” Phillip said, taking her arm and guiding her back into her chair. “We don’t even know what happened yet,” he repeated.
“What did they say?” Abigail demanded. “Phillip tell me what they said about Jeffrey.”
Phillip swallowed, and glanced at Tracy and Beth, reluctant to repeat what he had been told in front of the girls. But both girls were staring at him, Tracy’s eyes glinting strangely, Beth’s wide and frightened. “Apparently he tripped,” he said quietly. “There was a pick lying on the floor. He fell on it.”
“Oh, God,” Carolyn moaned.
Abigail gasped, and sank limply into her chair. “Like Conrad,” she whispered. “It’s just like Conrad.” Her eyes seemed to focus again, and fixed on her son. “Phillip, maybe your father was right about the mill. Maybe we’ve made a mistake. Perhaps we should simply board it up again.”
But Phillip shook his head, his face setting grimly. “For heaven’s sake, Mother,” he began. “It was an accident. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Jeff shouldn’t have been in there in the first place. He was—” And then he broke off his own words, the look in Abigail’s eyes telling him she wasn’t listening. Once again she seemed to have disappeared into another world. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told Carolyn. He kissed her quickly on the cheek, then was gone.
“I must call Maggie Bailey,” Abigail said suddenly. “I must try to apologize to her for what we’ve done.” She started from the dining room, but before she reached the door, Carolyn blocked her path.
“No,” Carolyn said. “If you call Maggie Bailey, it will only be to tell her how sorry you are about Jeff. But you will not begin filling her head with any superstitions about the mill.”
Slowly, Abigail turned to face her. “Superstitions?” she echoed. Then she smiled bitterly. “Well, I suppose that’s easy for you to say. But you don’t remember the last time something like this happened, do you? Of course not—you weren’t even born then. But it was an evening very much like this. And the telephone rang, and the police told us that Conrad Junior had been found in the mill. He’d tripped, they said. Tripped, and fallen on an old tool.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It was the same thing, Carolyn. My husband always said that what happened to our son was not an accident, but I never believed him. But now? What do you expect me to think? It’s happened again, just as my dear husband was afraid it would.”
