The Whispering Dead (Gravekeeper #1) - Darcy Coates Page 0,50

through the town’s residential section and into the rural areas. The street was almost unrecognizable under the moon’s cold light. Keira had begun to question whether she was going in the right direction, until the wall of ivy to her left identified the Crispin estate. She was tempted to slow and peek through the gate once again, but instead fixed her eyes ahead and quickened her pace.

Before long, the mill loomed into view. Keira slowed to a brisk walk. Her breathing was rough, and she was looking forward to washing the sweat off once she returned to the cottage, but the run had done its job of warming her core. She paused on the edge of the field, then took a deep breath and stepped into the long, weedy grass.

Now that she was expecting it, she registered the change instantly. The temperature began to plummet as tiny chills crawled up her limbs.

It felt different that night, though. During her first encounter with the mill, she hadn’t realized what was happening until she was standing in the thick of it. This time, she was prepared for the sensation of suffering. She let it wash over her, felt its thousand facets, and tasted its intensity. The emotional imprint was strong enough to sway her for a moment, but then she swallowed, pushed the sensation down, waited until her head was clear, and kept walking.

She pulled the flashlight out of her pocket as she moved toward the window Zoe had looked through earlier that day. The glass was blurred with grime and shrouded in cobwebs, but she leaned close, turned on the flashlight, and aimed it inside.

A jumble of shapes emerged under her light. Great machines, long dormant, dominated the room, and a medley of abandoned furniture was scattered around it. It was hard to see clearly through the glass, so she stepped back and looked for a way in. The huge doors stood farther down the building. Keira could visualize the workers filing through every morning and the metal doors slamming shut behind them. Shivers dug their way down her spine.

As she neared the doors, she saw their handles had been chained together. She rattled the binds, but they didn’t come loose. The metal looked ancient—it had probably been installed when the mill closed—but like the brick building, it hadn’t yet deteriorated enough to break.

Zoe and Mason said kids went into the mill. There must be a way inside.

Keira began circling the building and shone her flashlight over every part of the wall she passed. Most of the windows were broken, but none were large enough or low enough for her to worm her way through.

At last, at the back of the building, she found a window that had come out of its frame completely. A stack of decayed crates and barrels were packed underneath to act as crude stairs.

She wasn’t sure she could trust the rotting wood to take her weight, but it seemed the only option. Keira put the flashlight’s handle between her teeth and carefully lifted herself onto the first crate. It groaned but didn’t collapse. She kept her breathing shallow as she shuffled onto the highest barrel, then eased toward the window. The opening was barely large enough for her to fit, but she managed by squeezing her shoulder blades together and wiggling her torso through. She hung there as she spat the flashlight back into her hand and shone it on the ground below.

The kids had stacked piles of wool below the window to cushion their landing. Even from her perch ten feet above, she could smell a disgusting musk that was the result of centuries of exposure to the elements. She held her breath as she dropped onto it.

The bundle of wool exhaled a series of sharp cries as she landed, and dozens of tiny shapes flicked away from her light. She’d accidentally disturbed a mouse nest. Mason might have come here as a child, but I doubt any of the most recent generation have stepped into the building. I don’t blame them. If I had the choice between this and TV, I know which I’d pick.

Keira straightened and turned her flashlight across the mill. It was an open room—probably bitterly cold during winter and boiling hot in summer—with a row of offices along one wall.

The machines took up nearly half of the building, and the other half was filled with long, low tables where the workers could sort through the wool. The shadows they cast