Chapter Six #2
When it finally stops, I walk as fast as my legs will take me into the warm carriage.
My thoughts begin to ease off me as the warmth engulfs me completely and I plop down on a red velvet upholstered seat.
Amos meows beside me, uncertain and confused.
I reach into the top of the carrier and pet his mane, his thick fur eases my nerves.
I look out the window one last time at my new town.
“Sorry, but someone has to solve my mother’s case.” I whisper and lie back in my seat.
The train begins to move and in an instant it's up to speed.
The town's fields, school, and vintage homes fly past the window, blurring into one.
The whistle cries out and my eyes close.
The lie feels wrong, ugly, but someone has to do something to redeem her death and the truth lies in our home town.
A place where secrets are buried to keep the truth hidden.
My boots hit the asphalt of my hometown. The familiar stench of the mill and its rotten scent makes me not miss Windale. I remember how badly my mother hated it. She said it reminded her of all the deaths that took place there.
I scrunch my nose up in displeasure and begin walking down the road to our old home.
Where she was last seen alive.
“We’re here Amos, back in our town.” I look down at him, his carrier heavy on my shoulder. I don’t care as long as he's with me.
He doesn’t move, still tired from the long ride here. His face is buried in his paws and low snores leave him.
The metal wheels of the train behind me screech as it pulls off and my steps increase.
I have about two to three hours before the train home comes round and I can’t risk missing it after lying to my father.
I pull my denim tighter around my body, even with two layers of clothes on, the wind here seems to nip at me harder, combined with the fact that the dreaded memory of her clung to this town.
I glance at all the ‘perfect’ homes I pass, each one mimicking the last. People have begun decorating their porches with Thanksgiving decor. Languid leaves lay out across their steps and pumpkins adorn their front doors. I hum with contentment and make it to the door of the place I shouldn’t be.
I look behind me, feeling like someone is watching me, but don’t see anyone.
I shakily grab the door and unlock it. I push it open and the familiar groan slows down my rapid heart.
Only being gone a day, the place still smells of us.
The giveaway is the still, dense air inside.
It’s freezing, lacking any sort of human warmth.
I place Amos’ carrier on the floor and open it for him to free roam as I look around. He stretches out before rubbing against my leg. My mother said he does it to comfort me, always knowing exactly how I feel and right now sadness coats my skin.
Amos walks ahead of me, looking around and remembering this old space. Everything is how we left it and the mostly empty spaces make it easy for me to move around.
The clock we left on the mantle still ticks, the sound reverberating through the empty space almost threateningly.
I walk past the stairs and over to the door he closed once we left—her studio.
The hinges of the door let out a small groan as I push it open completely.
I don’t know what I expected but everything remains where she left it.
Jars of dried paintbrushes, an unfinished canvas, and a tea cup perched on her desk is still brown at the bottom with residue. I step closer, almost afraid, my legs trembling below me. The floors whisper with each step and fill me with guilt.
I can’t get the thought out of my head that I left her behind in a place full of people who couldn’t care less about her. She was young in my eyes, 60 barely grazing her features, yet, she’s gone.
I can feel the tears festering, dancing across my lower lid with hesitation. My lips wobble and a weak cry leaves my throat.
“Mama.” My inner child comes to life as I place my palm over her unfinished canvas.
This feeling, I hate it.
My heart lurches in my chest as I sit down on her forgotten stool.
I can feel the warmth of her bottom still on the seat and the scent of lavender invades my senses like never before.
Amos jumps on the desk, rubbing his body underneath my chin and I place my hand on his back to feel his steady heartbeat, something to ground me before I spin out of control.
She had painted a woman sitting by the river. Her face slightly facing my view but her wet eyes on something unseen. My gaze traces to where hers are and the outline of the old mill sits on an unfinished hill. A chill skates across my arm, unpleasantly, and a knowing feeling settles in my gut.
My mother had been trying to tell me something all along. That mill, that place, is covered in blood. Our bedtime stories in Windale were never normal. They always consisted of that haunted mill and all the angry people that died there.
I look down at her desk drawers, catching one that is slightly ajar. I lean down in the stool and pull open the drawer, its wheels wobbling in desperate need to keep up with my aggressive pulling.
A pile of newspaper clippings stare back at me. Their headlines trigger something in me and make me pull them out. I spread them out across her desk and read each bold headline.
‘Local Dies in Fall.’
‘Mill Destroys Many Lives.’
Each one only gets hauntingly worse and my eyes grow bigger.
They’re cold, deliberate and to the point.
No remorse scatters the paragraphs for these people, no hesitation that it was an accident.
I study all of them, remembering each date, name, and word.
Underneath each headline is her scrawled handwriting.
‘not an accident, ask Lilith, Mark was murdered.’
My heart lurches. She knew each crime was no accident. She tried saving, redeeming, these poor souls and ended up their next victim. And they took from her all that she had.
Amos hisses and his tail flicks toward the window. I turn toward the window and the curtains are slightly open. My heart skips a beat as I see movement, maybe a shadow of some sort, moving across the yard and disappearing.
I blink, confused. Amos' concerned gaze meets mine but I turn back to the papers with determination.
“We can’t leave yet. It was probably just the wind, Amos.” I scratch behind his ears but his eyes snap back to the window.
At least he’ll be here to watch over me.
My finger dabbles on a note taped across one of the newspapers, attached is a purple lilac—the ones in front of the only church here.
I flip it over and the name Lewis Mill is written in faint lettering.
Lewis Mill was the previous owner of the mill before it burned down years ago.
Underneath his name are the words ‘they wanted silence’, again in her writing.
Something sinister is lurking in this room, with these papers. So many secrets, lies, and deaths were ignored, swept underneath the rug because of some man named Lewis Mill.
The watch on my wrist chimes and the ticking seems to get louder as I look down at the time.
I can practically hear the sound of the train whistling, telling me it’s time to go home before father finds out.
It already took three hours to get here.
The sun outside peeks over the horizon and I can tell the air is only colder than it was before.
I tuck the papers into my jacket and clutch them closer to me as I step out of her studio. Her scent and all her belongings get left behind but her plan is with me—I’ll be damned if her death was for no reason.