Mystery Walk

against his hand; if he was supposed to feel anything here, he didn't: no electric shock, no sudden sure realization, nothing.

'I'm gonna turn it on now,' Chatham said quietly. 'You'd best stand back.'

Billy retreated a few paces and put his hands in his pockets, gripping in his right hand the lump of coal. Chatham unlocked a small red box mounted to the wall; there was a series of red buttons and a red lever. He slowly pulled the lever down and Billy herd a generator come to life. The lights brightened.

A chain rattled, and an engine moaned as it gained power. The headrig's circular saw began spinning, slowly at first, then rapidly picking up speed until it was a silver-blue blur. It hummed—a machine sound, Billy thought; not a human sound at all. He could feel Mr. Chatham watching him. He thought of faking it, of pretending to hear something because Chatham seemed to expect it. But no, no, that wouldn't be right. He looked over his shoulder and raised his voice to be heard above the saw's metallic noise. 'I don't hear any . . .'

The saw's voice abruptly changed; it made a shrill sound like a startled cry of pain, then what might have been a harsh grunt of surprise. The noise rippled and faded, and then the machine-humming had returned again.

Billy stared at it, his jaw slack. He wasn't certain what he'd heard; now the saw was quiet, running almost silently but for the clatter of chains. He stepped away from it a few paces, and heard Chatham's harsh breathing behind him.

And then there was a high, terrible scream—an eerie union of a human voice and the sound of the spinning saw—that reverberated through the mill.

The scream faded and died; then came back, stronger than before, more frantic and anguished. With the third scream the windows rattled in their loose casements. Billy had broken out in a cold sweat, the urge to flee from this place gnawing at the back of his neck; he put his hands to his ears to block out the next scream, but he heard it in his bones. He twisted around, saw Chatham's bleached face and terror-stricken eyes; the man was reaching for the lever, to cut power to the headrig.

The scream carried a high note of desperate pleading; and it was the same scream over and over, rising in the same pattern of notes to an abrupt end. Billy's decision was made: whatever this was, he wouldn't run from it. 'No!' he shouted. Chatham froze. 'Don't turn it off!' Each scream was seemingly louder than the one before, each one freezing his spine a little harder. He had to get outside to think, he had to figure out what to do, he couldn't stand this sound anymore and his whole brain was about to burst open. . . .

Billy turned and started for the door, his hands clamped over his ears. Just a machine noise, he told himself. That's all . . . that's all . . . that's . . .

The sound suddenly changed pitch. Through the screaming there was a hushed metallic whisper that stopped the boy in his tracks.

Billlleeeee. . . .

'Jesus Christ!' Chatham croaked. He was plastered against the wall, his face shiny with sweat. 'It . . . knows you're here! It knows you!'

Billy turned and shouted, 'It's just a noise, that's all! It's just a . . . just a . . .' The words choked in his throat; when his voice bubbled up again it was in a frantic yell: 'You're dead! You're dead! You're . . . !'

Above the headrig a light bulb popped and exploded, raining hot fragments of glass. Then another, in the next row of bulbs; blue sparks of electricity leaped from the sockets.

'It's a demon! It's the goddamned Devil himself!' Chatham grasped the red lever and started to throw it. Above his head a bulb exploded and glass hornets stung the man's scalp; he yelped in pain and huddled to the floor, his arms up to protect his head. Two more blubs blew at the same time, zigzagging arcs of electricity. The air was full of ozone, and Billy could feel his hair dancing on his head.

Billlleeeee . . . Billlleeeee . . . Billlleeeee. . . .

'STOP IT!' Bulbs were popping all across the mill now, glass tinkling down into the machinery like off-key piano notes. An instant of sheer panic shook through Billy, but he stood firm until it had passed. No fear, he remembered his mother saying. And then he tasted blood in his mouth and realized he'd bitten into his lower lip. He concentrated on rooting himself to the floor, on clinging to what his mother had told him before he'd left the house. The mill's air had turned tumultuous, thick and hazed; most of the bulbs had exploded, the rest throwing harsh shadows. 'STOP IT!' Billy shouted again. 'STOP IT, MR. PATTERSON!'

Down at the other end of the mill, another bulb popped. The saw's scream faltered, fading to a low moan, a rumbling that seemed to shake the floor He'd called the thing by name, Billy realized, and that had made a difference. It was, in its own way responding. He stepped past the cowering man on the floor 'You don't have to stay here anymore!' Billy shouted. 'You can . . . you can go on to where you're supposed to be! Don't you understand?'

Softer: Billlleeeee . . . Billlleeeee. . . .

'You don't belong here anymore! You've got to go on!'

Billlleeeee. . . .

'LISTEN TO ME! You . . . you can't go home anymore, not to your wife and kids. You've just got to . . . stop trying so hard to stay here. There's no sense in . . .' And then something seemed to crash into him, staggering him back; he moaned, feeling panic bloom in his head like a dark flower. He went to his knees in the sawdust, and his head was jarred as a savage pain sliced into his left eye. There was a burning fever of rage and agony in him, bubbling up to the top of his throat; and then his mouth opened as if it had been forced by rough, spectral hands, and he heard himself cry out, 'No no it's not my time yet! I want to be back again, I'm lost, I'm lost and I can't find my way back! ...'

Chatham whined like a dog, watching the boy writhe and jerk.

Billy shook his head to clear it. He shouted, 'You can't come back! I saw Link Patterson buried today! You can't come back, you have to let everything go! No no I'm lost, I've got to find my way back! You have to rest and forget the pain! You have to help me I'm lost oh God help me!' And then he howled in torment, because he'd had the quick and clear vision of his right hand being chewed away to bloody bone; he cradled the phantom injury to his chest, and rocked back and forth with tears streaming down his cheeks. 'I feel it!' he moaned. 'I feel how it was for you! Oh God . . . please . . . just let the pain go, let everything go . . . just rest and let go. No fear ... no fear . . . no . . .'

The headrig vibrated, about to tear its cleats from the floor. Billy looked up, saw something like a thin blue haze between him and the machine. It undulated and began to take on the shape of a man. 'You don't have to be afraid,' Billy whispered. His arm was on fire, and he gritted his teeth to hold back a scream. 'I've got the pain now. Just ...'

And then the blue haze moved toward him, thickening and roiling; when it touched him he was enveloped with cold and sheer dread, and he recoiled from it, trying to crawl away through the dust. Terror of the unknown swept through him, and he clenched his hands against the floor as if resisting a huge frigid wave. He heard himself shrieking, '. . . let gooooooooo! . . .'

The windows shattered with the noise of shotguns going off, all exploding outward as if from a terrible, awesome pressure.

And then the saw was humming again, the headrig slowing its rocking motions, slowing, slowing . . .

A last light bulb flickered, flickered, and went out. The remaining few buzzed and blinked, and raw sparks jumped from the open sockets. The saw's sound pitched softer, until there was only the noise of the humming generator.

Lying on his side in the dust, Billy heard the mill's door slam shut. Then, in another moment, an engine started. Tires threw gravel. He raised his head with an effort, one side of his face pasted with sawdust, and saw that Mr. Chatham had fled. He lay back down again, totally exhausted; within him flowed the currents of desperate emotions, of fear and confusion and loss. He was sure that he now held within himself the emotions that had bound Link Patterson to this sawmill, to this world, perhaps even to the moment of physical death. He wasn't certain if he'd done it right or not, but he didn't think there was anything left of Mr. Patterson; the revenant had passed on, leaving its pain behind.

Billy forced himself to his feet. The saw was spinning silently, and he turned off the power. Billy clutched his right wrist and worked his hand. There was a needles-and-pins sensation in it, as if the blood flow had been cut off. A soft, warm breeze was blowing in through the shattered windows; in the last blue light a fine mist of golden dust was stirred up and floated through the air to coat the silent sawmill machinery.