by John Saul
Almost in spite of herself, Carolyn felt a flicker of sympathy for the old lady. “Abigail, what you’re saying just doesn’t make any sense. The mill is dangerous—we all know that. And it was locked up precisely in order to prevent any more accidents like the ones that happened to your son and Jeff Bailey.”
“But what if it wasn’t an accident?” Tracy suddenly asked. “What if there was someone else in there?”
Carolyn glanced at Tracy, then felt her stomach tighten as she saw that although Tracy had directed the question to her, the girl’s eyes were fixed on Beth. “Just what are you suggesting, Tracy?” she asked, her voice cool.
“Nothing,” Tracy replied with exaggerated innocence. “I was just asking a question.”
Before Carolyn could reply, Abigail spoke again. “Conrad’s last words,” she said so quietly that Carolyn wasn’t sure if she was speaking to them or to herself. “He said, ‘She’s still there. She’s there, and she hates us.…’ ”
Tracy’s eyes brightened. “Who, Grandmother? Who hates us?”
But Abigail shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “It was the last thing he said. I … I didn’t think it meant anything. But now—”
“And you were right,” Carolyn declared. “It didn’t mean anything. As it happens, I agreed with your husband about the mill—I don’t think it should be reopened. It was an evil place, a place where people were exploited, worked till they dropped, and I think it should be torn down and forgotten. But let’s not start inventing ghost stories. All right?”
Abigail hesitated, then shook her head. “And what if you’re wrong?” she asked. “What if my husband was right? What if there is something about the mill, and the only way we can keep it safe is by keeping people out of it?”
“For heaven’s sake, Abigail, don’t start filling the children’s heads with a lot of nonsense.”
“But I want to hear,” Tracy protested.
“And I don’t want to hear,” Carolyn said firmly. “And neither does Beth. The mill is nothing but an old building that’s been an eyesore in this town for nearly a hundred years. Frankly, I can’t understand why it wasn’t torn down years ago.” Her eyes fixed on Abigail. “In fact, Abigail, I’d like to know why your husband didn’t tear it down years ago when your son died there.”
Abigail’s strength seemed to flow back into her, and she gazed imperiously at Carolyn. “He didn’t tear it down because he always said that it mustn’t be torn down. He always said that it must stand as a reminder to us.”
“A reminder?” Carolyn replied. Suddenly she had had enough, and did nothing to conceal the fury that welled in her as she stared at the old woman. “A reminder of how big a fortune your family once made in that building? A reminder of all the children who spent their lives in that building, working twelve hours a day for next to no money at all so that your family could build this monstrosity of a house and staff it with the few people in town who weren’t working in your mill? Was that it, Abigail? Did he want the mill to stand there forever to remind us all of the good old days? Well, for my family, those days weren’t so good, though I’m sure you’re not aware of that!”
Abigail remained silent for several long seconds, then finally said, “I don’t know what Conrad thought at the end, Carolyn,” she began quietly. “But I do know that he was terrified of the mill. Until tonight, I paid no attention to it. But now I think perhaps we all ought to rethink the matter.” She walked from the dining room, her back straight, her proud old head held high.
A moment later Tracy followed her grandmother, leaving Carolyn and Beth alone in the dining room. There was a long silence, and finally, for the first time, Beth spoke.
“Mom? What … what if she’s right? What if there is something in the mill? What would it mean?”
Carolyn sighed, and shook her head. “It wouldn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” she said. “It wouldn’t mean anything, because it’s not possible. It doesn’t matter what old Mr. Sturgess thought, or what Abigail thinks now. There’s nothing in the mill.” But even as she said the words, a memory flashed through Carolyn’s mind—a memory of that morning the day after the funeral, when she’d been out hiking with Beth.
For a moment, just before she’d fainted, the mill had looked as if it were burning.
But that was silly. The mill hadn’t been on fire, and she hadn’t actually seen anything. It had simply been a delusion, caused by the fainting spell.
She put the memory out of her mind, and began helping Beth and a silent Hannah clear the table. Surely there was a reasonable explanation for what had happened in the mill that day. When Phillip came home, they would know what it was.
Phillip Sturgess sat in Norm Adcock’s office, facing the chief of the Westover Police Department over a desk that looked even more worn than Phillip felt. In the chair next to him, Alan Rogers sat, his eyes grim as he waited for Phillip to finish reading the report Cosgrove and Jeffers had filed. They’d already listened to Brett Kilpatrick’s story.
For Phillip, there was a dreamlike quality to the whole thing, as if something out of the past were being replayed. And, of course, it was—the events of that afternoon were an eerie replay of what he’d heard about the day his brother had died.
The police, he was beginning to understand, were much more interested in the minutiae of what had happened than in the death of Jeff Bailey. Of course, he knew why that was. Jeff Bailey, like Phillip himself, was one of “them” to Norm Adcock. One of the rich ones—the ones who lived in Westover but were seldom seen in the town. Not, to Adcock, really a part of the town at all. Had it been this way when his brother had died?
Undoubtedly it had.
He finished reading the report, and put it back on the police chief’s desk. “But the door had to be locked,” he said now, in response to the question he’d heard Adcock asking Alan Rogers. “I can’t believe no one checked it before the workmen left Friday.”
His eyes went to Alan, who shook his head. “I’m sorry, Phillip, I’m almost sure I checked the lock myself, but I suppose it’s possible I didn’t. At any rate, it doesn’t matter now. The lock was open, and doesn’t show any signs of being forced. So part of the responsibility for what happened is mine.”
Adcock shrugged. “Or maybe one of the kids had a key that fit. It’s unlikely, but it’s a possibility.”
“What about charges?” Phillip asked. “Will there be any?”
Adcock shrugged noncommittally. “That’s not really up to me, Mr. Sturgess. That’ll be up to the prosecutor. I s’pose he could make a case that the mill is an attractive nuisance, and probably a few other things, too.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers fiddling with a ballpoint pen. “And I think you can probably count on being sued by the boy’s folks.”
“Which is between their attorneys and mine,” Phillip said tightly. Then, hearing how cold his own words sounded, he tried to recover: “I couldn’t feel worse about this if Jeff had been my own son.”
Adcock nodded, though the expression of contempt in his eyes didn’t change. He laid the pen back on the desk. “Then you won’t object to fencing the place off, will you?” he asked, making no attempt to disguise the fact that his words had not been a question but an order.
“You don’t even have to mention it,” Phillip replied. “Alan, you can start the work tomorrow, can’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll post a guard on the place until the fence is finished,” Phillip added.
“I already put a man out there for tonight,” Adcock said. “I know it seems like closing the barn door after the horse is gone, but things like this have a way of gettin’ out of hand. Unless I miss my guess, there’s already kids in town planning to try to sneak in there tonight.”
Phillip nodded. “Bill us for your man’s time, Chief. The mill’s my responsibility, not yours.”
“I wasn’t planning to do anything else,” Adcock observed coolly. He stood up. “Well, I guess there isn�
�t much else we can do tonight. I better get back home before Millie comes looking for me.” He shook his head as he fished in his pocket for his car keys. “Hell of a thing,” he said. Then, again: “Hell of a thing.”
The three men walked together through the small police station, Adcock greeting each of his men by his first name.
All of them replied to the chief, all of them spoke to Alan Rogers.
For Phillip Sturgess, there were no greetings, not even a nod of the head.
Then they were outside, and the chief had gone. Alan and Phillip stood for a moment next to Alan’s car. Silence hung over them until finally Alan reached out and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“I really don’t know what to say, Phillip.”
“There’s not much to say, is there?”
“If you want to fire me, I’ll understand. In fact, I’ve already written a letter withdrawing from the contract.”
Phillip said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I can’t see how that will solve anything. It won’t bring Jeff Bailey back, and the job still has to be finished.”
Alan nodded, then got into his car. “Can I buy you a drink? I know I could use one.”
Again Phillip shook his head. “Thanks, but not tonight. I think I’d better go home and start taking care of things.”
“Okay.” He turned the key in the ignition. The engine of the old Fiat coughed twice, then caught. “Phillip, try not to let this get to you. What happened today was just an accident, nothing more. But people are going to talk—it’s all too much like what happened to your brother. All I can tell you is, don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to any of them.” Then, before the other man could answer, Alan put his car in gear and drove off into the night, leaving Phillip Sturgess alone on the sidewalk.
Phillip parked his car on Prospect Street, and sat for a few minutes, staring at the mill, wondering what his father had meant all those years when he’d insisted over and over that it was an evil place. Though Phillip had pressed him to explain, Conrad Sturgess had gone on pronouncing his dire words as though the statement itself were sufficient, adding only that someday he would understand.
But it was all nonsense. There was no such thing as a building that was evil, not even a building as ugly as the mill, with its stark facade and unadorned utilitarian lines.
He switched off the ignition, then reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight he always kept there. Locking the car, he crossed Prospect Street, and started toward the side of the building and the metal door.
“Hold on there, mister,” a voice said from behind him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
Phillip turned, and was immediately blinded by the bright beam of a halogen light. Two seconds later the light went out. “Sorry, Mr. Sturgess,” the voice went on. “I didn’t recognize you.” A man stepped forward. Phillip recognized his police uniform, but not his face.
“It’s all right. I was just going home, and thought I’d stop to have a look around.”
The officer hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Well, I suppose you can go in if you want to. It’s your building.” Another hesitation, and then, with even more reluctance: “Want me to go with you?”
“No, thanks,” Phillip immediately assured him. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Then, with the officer still watching him, he used his key to open the door, and stepped into the black emptiness of the mill. He stood still, listening, then reached out and groped for the light switch. The darkness was washed away by the big worklights suspended from the roof.
Phillip glanced around, then headed toward the back of the building, and the stairs leading downward.
He paused at the top of the stairs, looking into the blackness below, and wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t leave now, and simply go home.
But he couldn’t.
A boy had died here today, and it had happened down below, in the black reaches of the basement.
For some reason—he wasn’t really certain why—he had to see the place where Jeff Bailey had died.
Turning on the flashlight, he started down the stairs.
At the bottom, he paused again, and shone the light around the basement.
Nothing.
As far as the weak beam of the flashlight could penetrate, there was nothing. Only a worn wooden floor, covered with dirt, and a scattering of tools.
He turned the light onto the area beneath the stairs.
There, the dust had been disturbed by many feet. In the midst of the footprints, Phillip saw a brownish smear.
The stain left by Jeff Bailey’s blood.
Swallowing hard in an attempt to quash the wave of nausea that threatened him, Phillip turned away, switched off the flashlight, and started up the stairs.
Halfway up, he stopped.
From the darkness below, he was certain he had heard something.
He listened, waiting for it to come again.
All he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Once more, he started up the stairs.
And he heard it again.
It was faint, almost inaudible, but he was nearly certain that it was there.
It was a crackling noise, almost as if something were burning.
He froze again, straining his ears, struggling to hear the sound once more, hear it clearly.
It didn’t come.
The minutes passed, and his heart finally slowed to a normal pace. In the mill, there was only silence. At last, Phillip went on up the stairs, and walked slowly toward the door. He paused one final time, his hand poised over the light switch, and looked around.
Everything was as it should be.
He switched out the lights, plunging the building back into darkness, then carefully locked the door. From a few feet away, the policeman spoke. “Everything all right, Mr. Sturgess?”
Phillip nodded, about to start back toward his car. Then: “You didn’t hear anything, did you?” he asked. “While I was in the mill?”
The cop frowned in the darkness. “Hear anything, Mr. Sturgess? No, I don’t think so.”
Phillip thought for a moment, then nodded once again. “All right,” he said. “Thanks.”
He walked quickly to his car, unlocked it, and got in. Then he put the flashlight back in the glove compartment, started the engine, and shifted the gears into drive.
He looked at the mill once more.
He decided he hadn’t heard anything. It had only been his imagination, and the stress of the day.
Phillip Sturgess drove away into the night.
Beth woke up just after midnight, screaming.
The dream was still vivid in her memory, and her pajamas were soaked with perspiration. Her heart pounded as her scream faded away.
The door to her bedroom flew open, and the light went on.
“Beth?” she heard her mother’s voice asking. “Beth, what is it? Are you all right?”
Beth shook her head, as if the gesture would shake the hideous images from her mind. “I saw it,” she breathed. “I saw it all!”
“What?” Carolyn asked, crossing the large room to sit on the bed and gather Beth into her arms. “What did you see, honey?”
“Jeff,” Beth sobbed. “I saw what happened to him, Mom.”
“It was a nightmare, sweetheart,” Carolyn crooned, gently stroking her daughter’s forehead. “It was only a dream.”
“But I saw it,” Beth insisted. “I … I was in the mill, downstairs, and there was someone else there. And then there was a sound, and I could hear Jeff’s voice.”
She broke off, sobbing, and Carolyn cradled her. “No,” she whispered. “It was a dream. Only a dream.”
It was as if Beth didn’t hear her. “And then the wall slid away, and all of a sudden I could see Jeff. And then—and then someone pushed him!”
“Pushed him?” Carolyn asked. “What do you mean, honey?”
“I … I don’t know,” Beth stammered. “But someone push
ed him, and he fell onto the pick. He didn’t trip, Mom! She pushed him. She killed him!”
“No, sweetheart,” Carolyn insisted. “All that happened was that you had a bad dream. And what happened to Jeff Bailey today was an accident.”
Beth looked up at her mother with worried eyes. Carolyn brushed the hair back from the child’s forehead with gentle fingers. “A dream?” Beth asked. “But … but it was so real—”
“I know,” Carolyn assured her. “That’s what makes nightmares so scary, honey. They seem so real that even when you wake up, sometimes they seem as if they’re still happening. Is that what happened to you?”
Beth nodded. “I woke up, and it was dark, and it seemed like I was still in the mill. And I could still see it, and … and—”
“And now it’s all over with,” Carolyn finished for her. “Now you’re all wide-awake, and you know it was just a dream, and you can forget all about it.” She eased Beth back onto the pillow, and carefully tucked her in. “Do you want me to leave the light on for a few minutes?”
Beth hesitated, then nodded.
“Okay. Now, you just try to go back to sleep, and I’ll come back in later, and turn the light off. How’s that?”
“C-can’t we leave it on all night?” Beth asked.
Carolyn hesitated, thinking about the nightmares that had plagued Beth in the months after she and Alan had separated, and how the only thing that had finally solved them was leaving the light on through the night. It had been less than a year since Beth had finally been able to start sleeping in darkness once again. Was it all about to start over? “All right,” she said. “For tonight, we’ll leave the light on. But just tonight. All right?”
Beth nodded, and Carolyn leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, go back to sleep, honey, and if you have another bad dream, you call me.”
