Slater Mill

by Ron Ripley

  “And where might I find your father?” Shane asked, hoping it was some small, family burial ground.

  “Edgewood Cemetery,” she answered. “That’s where everyone in the family is buried. Except for me. Well, most of me is buried there.”

  Shane didn’t ask for clarification.

  “Do you have any idea what part your father might be in?” he asked. “Edgewood’s a big place.”

  “By the Andersons,” Eloise answered. “They were good friends. When my mother killed herself, they even made certain that the Minister buried her in hallowed ground. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “My mother killing herself,” Eloise said, sighing. “She thought she was going to see me again, but instead she went right to the next world.”

  Leaning forward Eloise gave him a grin as she said in a confidential tone, “I heard her screaming as she went past.”

  “You’re a bit mad, aren’t you,” Shane said, eyeing her warily.

  “Of course, I am,” Eloise said. “And I thank you for noticing. Will you visit my father?”

  Shane hesitated and then asked, “He isn’t buried in a crypt, is he?”

  Eloise laughed, shaking her head. “No. Not at all.”

  “Thank God,” Shane murmured.

  “He’s buried in a mausoleum,” she said.

  Shane repressed a groan. “Great. And at Edgewood.”

  Eloise nodded. “By the Anderson Chapel. It’s very nice, you know.”

  “The mausoleum?” Shane asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Will you say hello to him for me?”

  “Sure,” Shane said. “Wait, how do you know he’s still there?”

  “There are those among the dead,” Eloise said, becoming serious, “who know no bounds. I have heard from them about my father. He and others move freely in Edgewood, close to their bones and bound by the iron fence. But ask him, Shane Ryan, and he will tell you who to look for in Slater Mill.”

  The girl vanished without another word, leaving Shane alone in the bedroom. Elsewhere, Carl and a few of the others hunted for Courtney. Part of Shane hoped they would find and recapture her. A smaller part hoped he might speak with her again.

  Shane got up from his bed, walked to his bureau and picked up the iron rings there. He slid them on before he picked up his knuckle-dusters and slipped them into his pocket. Shane lifted his backpack from the floor, walked with it to the bed, and slipped the Slater Mill book into it.

  Well, Shane thought, adjusting the knuckle-dusters in his pocket. Time to talk to the dead.

  Chapter 12: The Cultivation of a Ghost

  She held the dossier on the foreman open and glanced over it. She had read it after the sudden death of a teenager and she was well familiar with the situation. What she found curious about the dead man, and thus the Slater Mill, was how the Watchers had taken an active role in the recruitment of the man.

  An early representative of the organization, a man named Elijah Johnson, had sought out Pierre. The mill foreman’s propensity toward violence had been legendary in the community. Johnson had learned of the man’s enjoyment of industrial accidents. Arms and hands lost. Blindings. Deaths. The foreman had enjoyed the misery caused by every incident, the bloodier the better.

  Johnson, according to the field notes, had been on friendly terms with Slater, the owner of the Mill, and he had been granted permission to approach the brute. Johnson had spoken with him and found all of the qualities for a test subject.

  The foreman had possessed a level of hatred and rage that had the potential for the man’s spirit to remain past physical death.

  Unbeknownst to the man, Johnson had arranged for the foreman to be murdered. Considering the man’s reputation, it hadn’t been difficult to enlist the aid of several disgruntled workers.

  She smiled at the idea of it. The organization had never been one to shirk from a distasteful task.

  Johnson had written about the beating, and of how he had removed one of the Pierre’s fingers once his death had been confirmed. Pierre hadn’t materialized immediately, but within five years, he had.

  The looms had claimed more limbs and more lives, all under the brutal hand of the dead foreman.

  And the Watchers had ensured that as long as the Mill was in operation, the ghost had enough to murder. Even after the Mill had been closed down, they had arranged for the occasional individual to be brought there.

  She closed the dossier and put it on her desk.

  After Shane Ryan had become a concern for the organization, she considered the troublesome man’s removal. She had even played with the idea of kidnapping and killing him.

  Too risky though, she decided with a sigh. He has proven far too adept at staying alive. Best to have him removed and not be a bother any longer.

  She tapped her fingers on the desk, then she picked up the second file.

  The one that told her all about Shane Ryan, 125 Berkley Street, and how long the Watchers had kept Shane under surveillance.

  Chapter 13: Edgewood at Night

  Most people, Shane knew, would refrain from entering a cemetery at night. Especially if they suspected it might be haunted.

  Shane was not most people, and he was fully aware of the dangers represented by an angry ghost. Or worse, a crazy one.

  He came to a stop at the side entrance to Edgewood on Ashland Street. The gate was ajar and the cemetery lit by the full moon and bright stars. Shane sighed and walked forward, slipping into the burial ground. The place was suspiciously absent of any animal noises. A few cars passed by in front of the cemetery, their lights illuminating the headstones.

  Shane stopped and got his bearings. To his right was a large chapel made of stone with stained glass in its narrow windows. On the building’s left was a mausoleum, smaller but constructed in the same style. Shane wandered around to the front and saw a name carved into the stone above the chapel’s wooden doors.

  Anderson.

  And there was only the one mausoleum.

  Shane took a deep breath and walked to it. The door was built from thick glass with a brass, oriental style grating over it. Shane stepped up to it, and gave it a nudge.

  The door clicked and swung back towards him.

  In the dim light, Shane saw a trio of stone sarcophagi. Two were adult sized, one on the left and the other on the right. Below the carved image of an angel on the back wall was the third, and much smaller sarcophagus.

  Shane stepped into the building, took his backpack off, and set it on the floor. He pulled his knuckle-dusters out and slipped them onto his right hand. Looking around the tight confines of the room, Shane said, “I’m looking for Eloise’s father.”

  A cold wind rippled through the mausoleum, and Shane smiled.

  A pale shape, vague and difficult to discern, formed in front of Eloise’s sarcophagus.

  “Who are you?” a male voice asked. It was faint and difficult to hear, and Shane could only do so by focusing on the words.

  “My name is Shane. I live in one twenty-five Berkley Street,” he explained.

  The shape became defined, took solid form, and revealed a stern man. His jaw was square, his hair cut short all the way around. The man’s nose was broad, taking up a good portion of his face, and dominated the same. His eyes were narrow and the irises brown. He looked like a man who was used to being in charge.

  “Shane,” the dead man said. “Why are you here?”

  “Your daughter suggested I come and speak with you,” Shane answered.

  The man frowned. “You spoke with Eloise?”

  “Almost every day,” Shane confirmed.

  “She is well?” the dead man asked hesitantly.

  “As well as can be expected,” Shane said, “given the circumstances. She asked me to say hello, by the way.”

  The man nodded. “Thank you. My name is Trevor. What would you ask of me?”

  Shane squatted down, opened up his backpack, and removed the book.
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  “I’m hoping,” Shane said, “that you might be able to help me with the Slater Mill.”

  “In what capacity?” Trevor inquired.

  “There have been some deaths in the main building,” Shane explained. “And I believe I saw the face of a man in a window.”

  “What window?” Trevor asked.

  Shane told the dead man what part of the Mill had been photographed and Trevor nodded.

  Pointing to the book, the dead man asked, “Is that the Death Book?”

  “It is,” Shane acknowledged.

  “Look up August of 1910,” Trevor said.

  Shane took his flashlight out, turned it on, and found the date.

  “There should be a name there, Pierre Gustav, yes?” the dead man asked.

  Shane nodded. “Yeah. Right here, says he died of a heart attack.”

  Trevor chuckled. “A pleasant lie, I am afraid.”

  “A lie?” Shane asked. “Why, what happened?”

  “Pierre was a brute,” Trevor explained. “He was too brutal. There were times to push the workers, and times to let them breathe. Pierre never accepted that fact. One night, when he stayed late, some of the others did as well. They killed him. How, I am not sure, but I have no doubt it was murder.”

  “Was anyone arrested?”

  “No,” Trevor said. “Of the three men suspected of the crime, all were related to police officers. Thus the police were well aware of Pierre’s excesses.”

  “And so he died of a heart attack,” Shane murmured. He turned off his flashlight, closed the book, and put it away.

  “Exactly,” Trevor agreed. “I must advise caution if you are going to seek an audience with Pierre. He was a man notorious for his temper, and his violence. He thrilled at the idea of discipline. If he is unquiet in death, then I can only say you should take exceptional care.”

  “I will,” Shane said.

  “Know this too,” Trevor continued. “I heard Slater speak of Pierre, after the man’s death, and of how there was something of Pierre’s still in the Mill.”

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “A finger,” Trevor replied.

  “A finger,” Shane repeated.

  Trevor nodded his head. “I don’t know why it was there, or why it would concern him. Slater’s voice had not been pleasant when he spoke of it.”

  “I think I know why,” Shane said, shaking his head. He closed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

  “And Shane,” Trevor said, “I would ask a favor of you.”

  “Yes?” Shane asked.

  “Will you say hello to my daughter for me, please?” the dead father said. “Will you tell her that I miss her so?”

  Shane’s throat tightened, and he nodded.

  “Thank you,” Trevor said, smiling. He faded, and in a short time, Shane stood alone among the sarcophagi.

  Shane waited a few minutes, collecting himself, and then he turned and exited the building. The door swung closed of its own accord, clicking into place as Shane walked away.

  He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and thought of the Mill. Shane looked around at the cemetery and wondered how many of them had died in the Mill, or because of it.

  And he wondered if the Mill would kill him too.

  Chapter 14: The Super’s Office

  From his seat, at his desk, Mitch Atherton could see a good deal of the Pine Street and the Mill. He was the superintendent at the Pine Street Estates, which was a nice way of saying ‘ghetto housing.’ The Estates existed in the old casket company building and specialized in over-fifty housing, which Mitch used to think was funny.

  Until he turned fifty.

  Now it was a bad joke.

  The phone on his desk rang and Mitch wished he had a secretary to answer it for him. He knew it would be one of the old cranks or biddies complaining, as always, about their subsidized housing. Someone always needed the wiring checked, or the plumbing checked, or something of the sort.

  Or, he thought bitterly, it’s Mrs. La Flamme needing the toilet plunged again.

  Mitch shivered at the thought and answered the phone.

  A dial tone was all he heard, and he thanked God for small favors.

  He returned his attention to his window and examined the Slater Mill. Police activity around it had been heavy, and the Telegraph hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with any information.

  And all of the cops he had known had long since retired.

  The screensaver on his computer flickered then went out. A moment later, the desk lamp went dark as well.

  He sighed, hating the idea of a blackout, and then he noticed that the traffic light was still running, and the ‘Open’ sign on the bodega was still lit.

  Mitch swore under his breath and stood up.

  If it wasn’t a power outage, it was wiring. And wiring meant he had to call in an electrician.

  Which meant he’d have to justify it to the board at the end of the month.

  Rolling his eyes, Mitch left his office and went into the waiting room, where a man sat in one of the two chairs.

  “Hey,” Mitch said, grabbing his jacket off the coat rack. “I’ll be back in about five minutes. Got to check a breaker out.”

  When the man didn’t answer, Mitch looked over.

  The man was gone.

  Mitch stopped one arm in a sleeve and the other out. His door remained closed, and the stranger hadn’t passed by him to go into his office.

  Pulling his coat on slowly, Mitch turned around. He couldn’t see anything, though. Shaking his head, Mitch shrugged and went to the door. He opened it and stopped.

  The man stood in front of him.

  A wave of cold air rushed into the room, and Mitch stepped back, surprised.

  The man grinned, an act that sent a wave of sickening fear through him. There was something wrong with the man. Something off.

  “Who are you?” Mitch asked.

  The man shook his head as he held a finger up to his lips.

  “What?” Mitch whispered, moving towards his office.

  The stranger glided into the room, the door closing by itself behind him.

  “Listen,” Mitch said, struggling to summon authority into his voice. “You need to leave. If you’re visiting a resident, then go. Otherwise, you need to leave the premises.”

  A laugh, both harsh and grating, escaped the man’s mouth and he shook his head. He gestured with his left hand, and Mitch was knocked to the left, slamming into a filing cabinet. Mitch struggled to regain his balance, and the man stepped forward, punching Mitch in the face.

  Pain exploded in Mitch’s jaw, a tooth exploding from the impact. Mitch screamed as the stranger grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head up. The stranger’s face broke into a wide grin, and the man pointed a finger at Mitch. He wagged it to the left, and then to the right.

  Mitch watched it move, unable to tear his eyes away.

  When the stranger saw he had Mitch’s undivided attention, he moved the finger forward. Mitch tried to focus on it, but it struck his forehead, and the pain was excruciating.

  Writhing in the man’s grip, Mitch let out a shriek as a cold spike drove in through his skull. His vision went black, and the horrific chill pushed deep into Mitch’s brain. Within a few minutes, Mitch couldn’t move. It hurt to breathe, to even think.

  And in a heartbeat, he no longer had to.

  Chapter 15: Alone with His Thoughts

  Kurt sat in his chair in his studio apartment, the only one he was able to afford after his costly divorce. Lisbeth, his second wife, had taken everything, literally, and the court had decided that he needed to pay alimony.

  Which left him just enough to live on if he didn’t work any extra shifts.

  His apartment reflected his lack of funds, the furnishings sparse and decorative items noticeably absent. Blackout shades hung on the windows, and the digital clock by his bed was set to military time.

  It was twelve hundred hours, and Kurt needed to go to sle
ep. The night had been long, and he and Bill had swung by the Mill a few times. Nothing had cropped up, no lights shined from the building’s windows, and no one had been hanging around it.

  Then, when Kurt had finished up in the gym after his shift, he had heard some of the guys talking about another death near the Mill. A middle-aged super at the Estates had had a heart attack or a stroke and died in his office.

  Hearing about that had started an itch in the back of Kurt’s brain. One he couldn’t ignore.

  Deaths were common in Nashua. It was a city with over a hundred thousand people in it, which meant that people died on a regular basis. What they didn’t do was die in a concentrated area.

  Kurt had taken a large, tourist map of the city from the foyer of the station, and brought it home. He had tacked it up on the wall across from his chair and used tape flags to identify the known deaths. Each flag had the date and suspected cause of death. He also had a flag for Jamie Fernandez, who was still missing.

  Fernandez had lived across the street from the Mill. The teenager, Miguel, had died in the Mill. Paolo, the Ecuadorian, had died on the fence against the mill. The super, a man named Mitch, had died in his office, which faced Slater Mill and was three hundred and twenty-one feet away.

  Three known deaths in less than three weeks.

  No obvious signs of foul play. No pattern that could be seen.

  The only similarity between any of the deaths was with their proximity to the Mill.

  But it’s spreading out, Kurt thought. And it’s moving faster.

  He didn’t know why he felt that the deaths were intentional. It was a gut reaction; an instinctive reflex that he had learned to rely on throughout the years.

  When something seemed wrong, he knew that it usually was.

  He stifled a yawn, thinking, I have to go to sleep, or I’m going to be tired as hell for my shift.

  Kurt stood up, stretched out the kinks in his back and legs, and walked to the sink. He filled a cup with water and took his vitamins as his phone buzzed. Frowning, Kurt picked it up off the counter.