Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
“We’re almost there.”
I put down my pen and glance at the car clock. It’s just after midnight. While Kit drove us to the old grist mill, I decided to write some more. “That was quick.”
“For you. What were you writing about?”
“Um, an ex who stole my coffee maker.”
“He stole your coffee maker?” he questions.
“Yeah. Left a note to break up with me and stole my coffee maker. I found it after I came home from investigating this old, abandoned mini golf course close to my mom’s house. That’s what I started writing about, but that good memory bleeds into the bad one.”
“That was a shitty way to break up with you.”
I suck my teeth. “Yeah, well, Jack was shitty.”
“Why would you…?”
“What? Date him?” I gnaw my lip, wondering how to explain. I answer as simply as I can, “Because he was good at what I wanted from him. And I knew I wouldn’t get attached.”
Kit’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Isn’t the point of dating to get attached? I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve done it, so maybe I’m off base.”
“Sure. Generally. But why would I want to get attached to someone if they’re just going to leave? Nothing and no one is permanent.”
He softly counters, “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, I do. If you don’t fall in love, your heart can’t get broken.” I clear my throat, changing the subject. I tap my window, looking before us. “Is this it?”
Gravel crunches under the tires as Kit slows the car to a stop at the end of the road.
The headlights shine on a wood-paneled building surrounded by trees, with square windows and a crooked front door.
The red trim around the windows and door is peeling, and the glass on a few of the windows is broken or cracked.
Kit dressed my body in a standard ghost hunting outfit: jeans, a T-shirt, a jacket, and my fingerless gloves, which I appreciate.
I half-expected him to put me back in that miniskirt and insist we go braless again.
I have my cameras and tripods, which is normally all I need, however, Kit insisted we bring salt and holy water as well.
“I should also stay away from the stuff, but better safe than sorry,” he said as he dug the salt out of my pantry earlier that evening.
He didn’t tell me where or when he acquired the holy water.
Kit cranks off the ignition of my car, running his thumb over the metal of the key after it’s removed.
When he opens the car door, I can hear water rushing.
I can’t see it, but I know there is a waterwheel attached to the back of the building, the river the mill is built on turning it, offering power that is no longer needed.
Kit stomps through the weeds surrounding us as he makes his way to the front door.
It’s secured by a thick padlock on a metal hinge that looks forty years newer than the rest of the building.
Great. I scan the building to see if there are any open windows.
None that I can tell beyond the broken ones out of our reach, but Kit needs to move his head some more so I can get a better look.
However, this turns out to not be a problem, because Kit reaches out and yanks down on the lock, breaking it easily and pulling the hinge off with it, like they were made of clay.
My jaw drops. “How did you do that?”
“Simplest answer is magic.”
“Magic is never a simple answer.”
Kit doesn’t dispute this as he pushes the door open with a loud screech.
The floorboards creak under his feet as he takes cautious steps inside, closing the door gently behind us.
“Where do you want the cameras?” he whispers inside my head, as though the ghosts would be able to hear him if he spoke normally. Who knows? Maybe they can.
“Hmm,” I muse as I survey the space. “Rotate for me. Slowly.”
Kit does as I ask, spinning in an unhurried circle so I can get an idea of the entire space.
The floors, walls, ceilings, and support beams are all made of wood.
There are a couple of large wooden boxes built into the building that I assume were used to hold grain, and multiple barrels, upright and overturned, scattered through the space.
To the right, a wooden ladder leads to a floor or attic above, and on the left is a large broken-down tubular contraption that I assume was the grinder for the grain.
The metal wheel once attached to it has fallen off or been removed, but I can make out where the waterwheel must have once been used to turn it.
I choose a spot in the back corner that should be able to get most of the room in the shot. Kit takes the tripod over to the corner and sets it up. He places one camera atop, hits a few buttons, and starts to grumble.
“What?” I prod.
“How do you get this on night mode?”
“Flip the gray button.”
“What gray button?”
“The one literally under your thumb.”
He groans and says, “You do it. Honestly, you should have control right now anyway.”
I’m hurled back into my body, stumbling from the shock.
“What the fuck,” I mumble, hand to my skull in a sore attempt to keep my spinning mind steady.
“Try to talk to me inside your head,” Kit says.
I shudder. Now that is disturbing. When I hear his voice inside my head when I am also inside my head, it doesn’t feel wrong. But a voice that is not mine lurking around my mind feels wrong.
I try to lift my right hand to turn the camera on night mode but find I can’t move it. I gnaw my lip, trying to remain calm.
In my mind, I think, “Kit, I can’t move my right arm.”
“I have to keep control of a part of you. Otherwise, you may accidentally boot me out.”
“I’m right-handed, though.”
“Okay. Let me try to focus on a smaller area.”
My arm tingles as the sensation spreads back to it, all except my pinky. My pinky wiggles free of my own will, making my stomach churn. Disturbing with a capital D.
“Ew,” I mutter. I switch the camera on night mode and hit record.
“Okay, Lace. Work your magic,” Kit says encouragingly.
I take note of the temperature, warmer than I expected. I like doing investigations when it’s warm, because ghosts can drop the temperature with their presence. If it’s already cold, it’s more difficult to notice the drop.
I take out my other camera to do a sweep of the room.
Normally, I talk while doing this, but the words aren’t coming to me.
It’s fine. I add the official narration in later, anyways.
It’s just, the energy in here…it’s wrong.
I felt it as soon as Kit gave me my body.
It’s not haunted-wrong, it’s wrong-wrong.
That’s the only way I can explain it. I’m afraid to breathe, let alone speak, right now.
The quiet is overwhelming, thick and impenetrable.
I know I’ll need to speak, but narrating my thoughts feels silly. I’ll save my voice for the direct conversation.
“What are you doing?” Kit asks curiously.
“Shush,” I say in my head.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Please stop talking. This freaks me out.”
He chuckles. “Now you know how I feel.”
My nose scrunches. “I’m doing a sweep of the room. It’s a good shot to add in post. Now, be quiet. I can’t concentrate.”
I finish my sweep and then take a seat in the middle of the room, facing the corner where the camera on the tripod is set up, keeping the grinder in my sightline.
I know at least one person had a fatal interaction with that out of the four people who died on site while the mill was operational.
One other had a heart attack. The final two drowned in the river out back.
Several more people have died here since the mill shut down.
A few other drownings, a supposed suicide, and some that have no real explanation at all.
I pull out my flashlight, turn my phone on voice record, and switch on my EVP recorder.
I mess with the flashlight a moment, setting it to the right level so the ghost can tap it and turn on the light without much effort.
I place it back on the ground. Okay. All set.
I reach in my jacket pocket and remove my dad’s lighter, thankful that Kit has kept it on me.
I press it to my lips, hoping it’ll give me the bravery I need right now, before putting it back in my pocket.
I take a deep breath in, a light scent of mildew filling my nostrils. I can do this.
“Hi,” I say, my voice coming out softer than intended. Surely because I’m not used to using it. I clear my throat and try again. “Hi, my name is Lacy Gordon. Is there anyone here with me right now?”
I don’t get any form of response. I’m used to this, however, so I push on.
“I was hoping to talk to you tonight. I’m not sure if anyone else has asked you to do this before, but I like to communicate with this flashlight. All you have to do is tap it once for yes and twice for no.” I demonstrate the tapping. “Sound good?”
The light blinks once. I bite my lip to keep my grin at bay. This ghost picks things up quickly.
“I’m glad you want to talk.” I ask my first question, “Hate to start with a sore subject, but I have to ask, did you die here?”
The light flashes once.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say genuinely. “I hope there wasn’t any pain.”
One flash. Hopefully that’s a yes, no pain, not a yes, there was pain. The temperature in the room drops dramatically, my skin prickling with goosebumps despite being covered. Excitement courses through me as I square my shoulders, finding comfort in my familiar situation.
“Now, I did a little research and found that a few different people passed away here. Can you confirm who you are? Bernadette Smith, maybe?”