had meant all those years when he’d insisted over and over that it was an evil place. Though Phillip had pressed him to explain, Conrad Sturgess had gone on pronouncing his dire words as though the statement itself were sufficient, adding only that someday he would understand.
But it was all nonsense. There was no such thing as a building that was evil, not even a building as ugly as the mill, with its stark facade and unadorned utilitarian lines.
He switched off the ignition, then reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight he always kept there. Locking the car, he crossed Prospect Street, and started toward the side of the building and the metal door.
“Hold on there, mister,” a voice said from behind him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
Phillip turned, and was immediately blinded by the bright beam of a halogen light. Two seconds later the light went out. “Sorry, Mr. Sturgess,” the voice went on. “I didn’t recognize you.” A man stepped forward. Phillip recognized his police uniform, but not his face.
“It’s all right. I was just going home, and thought I’d stop to have a look around.”
The officer hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Well, I suppose you can go in if you want to. It’s your building.” Another hesitation, and then, with even more reluctance: “Want me to go with you?”
“No, thanks,” Phillip immediately assured him. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Then, with the officer still watching him, he used his key to open the door, and stepped into the black emptiness of the mill. He stood still, listening, then reached out and groped for the light switch. The darkness was washed away by the big worklights suspended from the roof.
Phillip glanced around, then headed toward the back of the building, and the stairs leading downward.
He paused at the top of the stairs, looking into the blackness below, and wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t leave now, and simply go home.
But he couldn’t.
A boy had died here today, and it had happened down below, in the black reaches of the basement.
For some reason—he wasn’t really certain why—he had to see the place where Jeff Bailey had died.
Turning on the flashlight, he started down the stairs.
At the bottom, he paused again, and shone the light around the basement.
Nothing.
As far as the weak beam of the flashlight could penetrate, there was nothing. Only a worn wooden floor, covered with dirt, and a scattering of tools.
He turned the light onto the area beneath the stairs.
There, the dust had been disturbed by many feet. In the midst of the footprints, Phillip saw a brownish smear.
The stain left by Jeff Bailey’s blood.
Swallowing hard in an attempt to quash the wave of nausea that threatened him, Phillip turned away, switched off the flashlight, and started up the stairs.
Halfway up, he stopped.
From the darkness below, he was certain he had heard something.
He listened, waiting for it to come again.
All he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Once more, he started up the stairs.
And he heard it again.
It was faint, almost inaudible, but he was nearly certain that it was there.
It was a crackling noise, almost as if something were burning.
He froze again, straining his ears, struggling to hear the sound once more, hear it clearly.
It didn’t come.
The minutes passed, and his heart finally slowed to a normal pace. In the mill, there was only silence. At last, Phillip went on up the stairs, and walked slowly toward the door. He paused one final time, his hand poised over the light switch, and looked around.
Everything was as it should be.
He switched out the lights, plunging the building back into darkness, then carefully locked the door. From a few feet away, the policeman spoke. “Everything all right, Mr. Sturgess?”
Phillip nodded, about to start back toward his car. Then: “You didn’t hear anything, did you?” he asked. “While I was in the mill?”
The cop frowned in the darkness. “Hear anything, Mr. Sturgess? No, I don’t think so.”
Phillip thought for a moment, then nodded once again. “All right,” he said. “Thanks.”
He walked quickly to his car, unlocked it, and got in. Then he put the flashlight back in the glove compartment, started the engine, and shifted the gears into drive.
He looked at the mill once more.
He decided he hadn’t heard anything. It had only been his imagination, and the stress of the day.
Phillip Sturgess drove away into the night.
Beth woke up just after midnight, screaming.
The dream was still vivid in her memory, and her pajamas were