to go any farther, Brett would never let him forget it.
Holding his breath, he took another step.
He listened to the noises, and began to imagine that they were voices.
Voices, whispering so quietly he could barely hear them.
He took another step, which brought him to the basement floor. Bracing himself, he edged into the horrible blackness around him.
And then, out of the darkness, he sensed something coming for him.
He opened his mouth, but fear choked his throat and no sound came out. From behind him, he felt himself being pushed. He staggered in the darkness, and reached out to find something to brace himself with.
There was nothing.
Now, as he realized what was happening to him, his fear released him, and a scream erupted from his throat—cut off a moment later as he pitched forward and fell.
In a flash, he remembered the story he’d heard about how Tracy’s uncle had died, long before he had even been born. It’s happening again, he thought. Just like it happened before.
In an instant that seemed to go on forever, something hard and sharp pressed against his chest, so cold it seemed to burn as it punctured his shirt, then his skin.
His own weight as he fell thrust the object into his heart, and he heard himself gasp, felt the final racking stab of pain, then heard his own blood bubbling into his lungs.
As he died, a draft of cool air blew around him, and then he smelled a familiar odor.
Smoke.
To Jeff Bailey, death smelled like smoke.…
Brett heard the soft thump of something falling, then silence closed around him once more. “Jeff?”
There was no answer. He called out again, louder, sure that his friend was trying to scare him as he had before. “Come on, Jeff. Quit fooling around.”
Still there was no answer, and Brett took a tentative step down the stairs.
And then, a chill passing through him, he was suddenly certain that Jeff was not fooling around. Turning, he dashed toward the door they had come through twenty minutes earlier, hurled it open, and charged out into the gathering dusk.
“Help!” he yelled. “Somebody help me!” In panic, he began running toward the street in front of the mill.
“All right, son,” Sergeant Peter Cosgrove said a few minutes later. “Just try to calm down, and tell me where your friend is.”
“D-down there,” Brett quavered. He pointed down the stairs, now brightly lit by the worklights that were strung throughout the building. “Something happened to him. I … I don’t know what.”
Cosgrove’s partner, Barney Jeffers, trotted down the stairs, a flashlight in his hand. A moment later, as he flashed his light around the darkness of the basement, they heard him swear. At the same moment, brakes squealed outside, then an ambulance crew with a stretcher hurried through the door.
“Over here,” Cosgrove called. He turned his attention back to Brett. “You stay right here, son. I’m gonna find a light for the basement. Okay?”
Brett nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on the staircase. What seemed like an eternity later, the lights in the basement suddenly flashed on, and he could see Jeff lying on the basement floor. Blood, mixed with dirt, soaked his shirt, and the stillness of death lay over him like a shroud. Brett’s stomach heaved, and he turned away.
“What do you think?” Cosgrove asked Jeffers half an hour later. The ambulance was gone, and they were standing at the top of the stairs while a crew worked below, photographing the site and searching for evidence. Cosgrove was ninety-percent certain they wouldn’t find anything.
“Same as you,” Jeffers replied. “I think the Kilpatrick kid was telling the truth. Looks to me like the boy went down to look around, couldn’t see anything, and tripped. If he’d been anywhere else, he might have skinned his knee. As it was, he landed on that pick.”
“What the hell was it doing lying there?” Cosgrove muttered angrily.
“You want to charge someone with criminal negligence?” Jeffers inquired.
“I’d love to,” Cosgrove replied, his voice tight. “But who do you charge? Might just as well charge the Bailey boy. If he hadn’t been trespassing—”
“It was an accident,” Jeffers interrupted. “Sometimes things happen, Pete. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Cosgrove sighed, letting the tension drain from his body. “I know,” he agreed. “But it’s weird, too, you know?”
“Weird?” Jeffers echoed.
Cosgrove looked around, his eyes surveying the interior of the mill. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird. All my life, I’ve heard stories about this place, and how dangerous it is. Stupid stories. So now they’re fixing