by Rick Hautala
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
With a heavy sigh of relief, and feeling a tinge of disgust for allowing himself to get so worked up, he started back down the road toward home. With every step, he berated himself for letting something as innocent as a simple question about this place from his son bring him out here in the middle of the night to stir up memories … memories of things that were over and done with thirty years ago. Like regrets, they were gone, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
“And maybe that’s all for the best,” he whispered to himself because he was damned sure, if he had his way, that’s just where he would keep all those memories—lost and buried and rotting down there in the darkness of the old mill’s cellar.
Chapter Fourteen
A Bad Day
Brian didn’t sleep late that next morning. In fact, he was up and out of bed long before his father and stepmother. His thoughts and dreams had been filled to overflowing with questions as well as tantalizing fears about the old mill. He hadn’t been able to stop wondering what treasures might be hidden out there, what secrets the mill might contain … and why it would be the source of such a vivid nightmare. He got dressed and came downstairs as quietly as possible just as the sun was peeking in through the kitchen window, washing the countertop with a patina of gold.
As soon as he entered the kitchen, he saw the utility flashlight on the kitchen table where his father had left it last night. A long, angled beam of sunlight illuminated it like a spotlight, as if it had been purposely placed there just for him to see. Brian immediately thought of a use for the flashlight, so after scarfing down a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice, he grabbed the flashlight and pulled on his jacket against the early morning chill. He left the house and headed straight into the woods.
Warm morning sunlight was burning off the cool mists of night as Brian followed the twisting path through the woods. Plenty of doubts entered his mind about what he was doing, but after so many weeks of being bored just hanging around the house—especially with his witch of a stepmother home all the time!—he was glad finally to have something that actually intrigued him. He was intent on exploring the old mill … especially now that his father had told him so emphatically that he didn’t want him coming out here. As he followed the twists and turns of the path, it seemed unnervingly familiar, as if he had trod it dozens or hundreds of times before.
A stirring of apprehension filled him when, through a break in the trees up ahead, he saw the stretch of dirt road. He again considered turning around, but he couldn’t stop thinking how strange, how really weird he had felt yesterday as soon as he had entered the mill. He didn’t deny that he was feeling cautious, now, if not outright fear, but he had experienced something else out there, too—a sensation almost of recognition about the place, of familiarity … as if, like this path, he had been out there many times before in his life.
He knew that was impossible. He had lived in Phoenix since he was four years old, and had visited with his father in Maine only a few times for very short stays over the past seven years. Unless his parents had taken him out here when he was a baby, he knew he had never seen this place before yesterday. Whatever the case, the old mill stirred deep feelings within him, reminding him of something that he found irresistibly intriguing.
The day was heating up quickly. By the time he broke out onto the road and the mill came into view, he was sweating. He shucked off his jacket and tied it around his waist like a loincloth. His grip on the flashlight handle was slippery with sweat as he approached the building. Sunlight angled across the front wall, illuminating every detail of the rotting wood and moss-covered stone foundation. Again, that surge of familiarity came over him, stronger this time. Every board, every granite block in the foundation, every empty window and door frame, even the punched-in roof and the building’s placement on the land, backed by the wall of pine forest and the slick, blue Saco River—everything about this place seemed as clearly etched in his mind as if he had seen it every day of his life.
He drew to a halt and stared, long and hard, at the empty window where, the day before, he had thought he had seen a person standing—or hanging! With a different angle of sunlight, he could see now how the contours of the ruined walls and the shadows inside might suggest such a shape. He trembled, as much from excitement and allure as from fear.
What the heck is it about this place?
Taking long, confident strides, he started toward the building once again. He was momentarily concerned that someone might be out here and see him, but he dismissed the thought, telling himself that the mill was, after all, on his father’s property; he had as much right as anyone else to be here—maybe more.
He went straight to the side door he had entered yesterday and hiked himself up onto the first floor. He tensed when he heard a faint ruffling noise from overhead, but then he remembered that there were pigeons, roosting up on the second floor.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, trying to bolster his courage. “Nothing at all to sweat.”
He walked carefully across the floor, pausing every time a floorboard creaked or buckled underfoot. In spite of its age, he thought the building seemed to be holding up quite well. He snapped on his flashlight and swung it around, but the beam was swallowed by the dusty gloom inside the building; it barely pierced the darker corners of the expansive room. He cautiously made his way across the floor to the large, square gap at the far end of the building. Through the open doorway, he could hear the hissing, hypnotic rush of the river. Holding his breath, he looked down through the trapdoor. Not much light entered the cellar from the windows. Looking at it from above, the pile of rotting sawdust looked like a gigantic splotch of gray oatmeal or vomit.
“This must be it!” he said in an excited whisper. “This has to be where that kid fell and broke his back!”
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he directed the flashlight beam straight down and studied the rat holes that honeycombed the sawdust pile. Dead leaves and other trash littered the dirt floor as well as the scuff marks of footprints. Again he was struck by how fresh some of the prints looked. He wanted to believe that, protected from wind and weather, even year-old footprints would look fresh, but he couldn’t stop thinking that some of them looked as if they had been made within the past day or two.
Or maybe even today!
For a moment or two, he considered jumping down into the cellar through the trapdoor opening, but he decided against it, not wanting to risk breaking his neck, much less disturbing the rats who probably still lived in the sawdust pile below. Besides, if he got his courage up enough to go down into the cellar later to have a look around, there were plenty of other, easier ways to get down there. Keeping a wary eye on the opening, he started backing away from it toward the other side of the building, heading back to the doorway through which he had first entered.
He spent the next hour or two casually inspecting the downstairs, including the part of the mill out back that had burned flat. Outside he found more evidence that people had been poking around out here. Some of the burned timbers had been moved around, and there were more footprints in the loose dirt. He went around to the front of the building and looked down the stone stairway leading into the cellar, but still—even with his flashlight—he couldn’t quite get up his nerve to go down there. Instead, he went back into the building through the side door and poked around some more on the first floor.
Convinced that, even after all these years, there might still be something of value that had been overlooked by everyone else, he rapped on the few remaining wall sections, hoping to discover a hidden compartment behind one of them. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the cellar. That’s where the neat stuff would be. He definitely wanted to go down there and have a look around, but he felt a certain caution because of what his father had told him about the mill … especially the story about that friend of his who had fallen through the trapdoor and was paralyzed from the wais
t down.
The floorboards creaked underfoot with every step he took, and grit sifted between the cracks in the floor. Other than the sound of his own footsteps, though, a strange, muffled silence filled the mill. Brian found being inside the abandoned building soothing but somewhat disconcerting. Whenever he glanced out one of the large, empty windows or doorways, the warm summer morning seemed curiously distant, almost like a flat, movie-screen projection. The trees tossed back and forth in a fitful breeze, but there was no sound, even when a gust of wind carried yellow dust swirling up from the loading yard and sprinkled it like snow onto the windowsills and floor. The whole effect had an almost dreamlike dissociation.
After a while, the hollowness in his stomach told him it must be getting near to lunchtime. He was just about to leave by the side door when, down the road, he saw something shifting in the shadows under the trees. He tensed. It took him a moment to realize that someone was walking up the road, heading toward the mill. At first the person was hard to see, lost as he was in the splatter of shadows from the trees, but when he stepped out into the direct sunlight, Brian instantly recognized him.
“Oh, shit! It’s dad!”
Brian dropped to his knees so he wouldn’t be seen through the open window. He knew his father would be mad as hell at him for defying his order not to come out here, so he knew he had to hide.
But where?
There weren’t any good places on the first floor. The cavernous room had been stripped bare. Most of the wall partitions were either gone or knocked down. The attic, with its bats clinging to the deepest shadows in the rafters, didn’t seem like a very likely spot, either; then again, neither did the cellar.
Maybe he’s finished lunch and is just out for a little walk, Brian thought frantically, Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m out here. But then again, maybe not. He should be out at the construction site.
Nearly paralyzed with panic, Brian skittered across the floor over to a window. Gripping the sill, he peeked outside but had to duck back quickly out of sight when he saw that his father had left the road and was angling across the weed field, heading straight for the mill.
Oh, shit! How the heck did he know I was out here? Boy oh boy, am I ever going to catch it if he finds me!
Brian knew he didn’t have many options left: he could either give himself up now and face the music, or else find a place to hide—fast!
Over by the side door, he knew there was a rectangular opening in the floor where a stairway had once led down into the cellar. Crawling like he was doing a Cossack dance, he made his way over to it and shined his flashlight down onto the pyramid stack of granite blocks that were piled up below the opening. The pile was tall enough so he could at least get down there without breaking his neck, and he knew he had to get down there in a hurry if he didn’t want to get caught.
Why not just give up and suffer the consequences? he thought, but he already knew the answer to that. Just yesterday his father had told him to stay out of here, and no doubt he had guessed that Brian might disobey him; that was why he was coming out here now.
Brian’s grip on his father’s flashlight tightened as he swung his legs into the opening and then dropped down. He almost lost his footing on the uneven pile of stones but quickly regained his balance and crawled halfway down the rock pile before jumping the rest of the way to the dirt floor. He made a loud grunt noise when he hit but hoped that it hadn’t been loud enough for anyone outside to hear.
Crouching low, he snapped on his flashlight and quickly swept the area, looking for the best place to hide. There were lots of tumbled-down walls and piles of rotting junk, but over by the far wall looked like the best place. There was a wooden door behind an uneven barrier of loosely piled granite blocks. The stones had been stacked about waist-high and looked like a giant’s grin with several teeth missing.
As good a place as any, Brian thought.
His sneakers scuffed the dirt floor as he raced over to the doorway and snapped off the flashlight before flattening himself on the ground behind the rock wall. He fought back a rush of fear as the darkness of the cellar closed down on him, and he started imagining all sorts of things, lurking around him just out of sight. His throat felt raw and dry, and his lungs were aching, but he forced himself to take slow, even breaths.
Just be quiet and wait it out, he cautioned himself. Just wait it out.
His ears began to ring as he waited to hear the heavy clomp of his father’s footsteps upstairs, but they didn’t come, even after he knew his father had had more than enough time to get up into the building. Could his father move that silently, or had he walked past the building, maybe gone down to the river?
Consumed with curiosity, Brian finally chanced a peek up over the edge of the makeshift rock wall. He scanned the area, shifting his gaze from one narrow cellar window to another. A dusty gloom hung like smoke in the air which was dank and laced with the aromas of mold and decay. After his eyes had adjusted to the diffused glow of sunlight, he looked over at the sawdust pile at the far end of the cellar. He thought he saw a plump, dark shape scurry out of sight.
He was beginning to think that, rather than enter the building which he had said was dangerous, his father had walked on by. Maybe he was heading someplace else … or maybe he was circling around to the back of the building, hoping to catch him off guard. Brian tensed, waiting to hear footsteps or see his father’s feet and legs shift by one of the windows he could see, but the glow of daylight was never interrupted, and he never heard the creaking of floorboards overhead. The mill was encased in silence as palpable as darkness.
What the heck is going on out there? Brian wondered. Has he gone home or back to work? Or is he positive I’m hiding in here and is just waiting for me to show myself?
The damp cellar air sent a chill through Brian as he sat hunched behind the stone wall. His leg and shoulder muscles began to cramp up. After what he thought was a safe enough wait, he silently shifted to his feet and crouched in the darkness. He still waited, listening, but the cellar was as quiet as a tomb. He could hear nothing from outside—not even the high hiss of the wind or the distant singing of birds.
He wasn’t wearing his watch, but he figured he had been down here for at least ten, more like fifteen or twenty minutes. He was positive his father would have gone by now; but still, he didn’t dare move.
What if it’s just a trick? he thought. No, he should stay right where he was.
Then again, he knew he couldn’t very well stay down here all day. In all likelihood, his father was long gone. If he had known he was hiding in here, wouldn’t he have come into the mill and called for him? Brian was positive he would have heard something by now. He started to think this whole thing was a silly waste of time, hiding and waiting to get caught. His legs were tingling with pins-’n-needles, and the damp chill was working deeper into his bones.
At last, heaving a deep sigh, he unfolded his body and stood up. Blood rushed from his head to his legs, making him dizzy for a moment as he flexed his arms over his head. He was just about to move out into the cellar when a loud bang sounded behind him. Brian screamed and turned around just in time to see the wooden door behind him slam against the stone foundation wall. A dark, impossibly large shadow filled the open doorway, and then powerful hands reached out and took hold of him, locking him in a tight grip as they turned him around. Strong arms hugged him from behind and began to squeeze tightly.
“—Help! …” Brian managed to say before the air was forced out of his lungs.
Bright lights exploded like comets inside his head. Faintly, from far away, he heard a thud and a tinkle of broken glass and knew that he had dropped and broken his father’s flashlight. But he didn’t care—he was past caring as the arms embracing him squeezed ever tighter, and he spiraled down … down … down into a deep, impenetrable darkness.
It was a little past ten o’clock in the morning, and already Dianne was having a bad day … a very bad day.
After the e
uphoria of being released from the hospital the day before yesterday, and the relief of having the second of three operations behind her, she was starting to sink into a deep depression. Dr. Collett had warned her about this and had given her the name of a therapist she could call if she needed someone to talk to, but she wasn’t sure she needed a shrink; she was convinced that all she needed was a couple of good nights sleep. That would get her back on track and allow her natural healing processes to take over.
But for the last two nights, she hadn’t slept well at all. Maybe it was because she was taking so many naps throughout the day, or maybe it was the combination of medications that was screwing her up. Whatever the reasons, what little sleep she got at night was haunted by fearful nightmares. For two nights in a row, masked, green-clad figures leaned over her bed, cackling with laughter as they tugged at her bed covers. Other faces, leering and diseased-looking, appeared out of the darkness around her. Flaps of decaying skin were peeled away from their foreheads so their inside-out faces flapped like strips of wet meat against their lower jaws when they spoke to her, saying things she could never quite understand. Every time she started to drift off to sleep, a sudden, blinding panic would seize her, and she would startle awake with a scream … except it wasn’t a scream because with her jaw wired shut, she couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to scream.
She thought that part of the problem was that she still couldn’t breathe properly, especially when she was lying down. The nosebleeds which, according to Dr. Collett, were a normal occurrence after such an operation weren’t as frequent, but blood and mucus from the operation was still lodged in the back of her throat, sealing off her nasal passages. She could still taste the thick, coppery aftertaste. Breathing in through her nose was nearly impossible as every breath she took, sucking air viciously through the wire mesh that blocked her mouth, sounded like the watery rattle of a severe asthmatic. She had to prop herself up in bed with three pillows to keep herself from choking, but she always ended up sitting there wide awake more than half the night as she stared around the darkened room. The few times she would start to drift off, she would start breathing through her nose and startle awake with a soft, frantic cry.
