the house, she crossed to the garage, and entered it through a side door. Turning on the lights, she reached into her purse and found the keys to the old Rolls-Royce that her husband had steadfastly refused to sell, though he hadn’t driven it in years. Instead, he had kept it in the garage, insisting that it be taken out on a monthly basis, to be driven a few miles, gone over by a mechanic, then returned to the garage, where it would be available on the day when he finally decided to take it out himself. That day had never come. When he died, he hadn’t been behind the wheel of the car for nearly a decade. But it was in perfect condition, ready for Abigail now.
She got stiffly behind the wheel, found the slot for the key, and twisted the starter.
Immediately, the engine purred into nearly silent life. Abigail reached up and pressed the button attached to the sun visor, and the garage door opened behind her. Putting the car in gear, she backed carefully out into the driveway, changed gears, and rolled sedately around the lawn and out the gates.
A few seconds later, she had left the estate, and was starting down the hill into Westover.
She parked the car on Prospect Street, across from the mill, and sat for a long time, wondering whether or not she was doing the right thing.
On the day nearly forty-five years before, when they had buried Conrad Junior, Abigail had accompanied her husband to the mill. There, she had watched as he placed the padlock on the door, then turned to her and made her swear never to set foot inside the building again. To humor him she had agreed. And though she had helped Phillip plan the reconstruction, she had not toured the building with him. Now, as she steeled herself to her task, the oath came back to her and she felt herself shiver slightly.
But it was ridiculous. She was going into the mill this time not to violate Conrad’s wishes, but to implement them.
She left the car, and crossed Prospect Street, unaware that the men who were finishing up their day’s work on the scaffolding covering the mill’s facade were staring at her.
She made her way down the path along the northern wall of the mill, ignoring the stream of workmen coming the other way, making them step off the path to make way for her. Finally she stepped through the open door that broke the wall halfway to the end.
She paused. The worklights glittered with a surprising intensity that cut away the gloom she had expected. Almost immediately, she heard a voice behind her. She turned to see Alan Rogers emerging from the construction shack. “Mrs. Sturgess,” he was saying. “Can I do something for you?”
Abigail’s lips tightened slightly, and she regarded him with open contempt. “I have decided that we shall stop work,” she said without preamble. “You may dismiss your crew, Mr. Rogers. I have changed my mind.”
Alan stopped abruptly, and stared at the old woman. What the hell was she talking about? “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sturgess,” he said aloud. “Did you say you’d changed your mind?”
“I did,” Abigail replied.
“About what?” Alan asked, deciding to buy some time while he decided how to handle her.
“Don’t pretend to be more of a fool than you are, Mr. Rogers,” Abigail said coldly. “I have decided not to go ahead with the reconstruction. I want the mill sealed up again.”
Alan licked his lips uncertainly. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get into a fight with Abigail Sturgess. “Well, I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple, Mrs. Sturgess,” he began, but Abigail cut him off.
“Of course it’s that simple,” she snapped. “It’s my mill. You will be paid, of course. But the work is to stop immediately.”
Alan said nothing, but shook his head.
Abigail’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Did you hear me, Mr. Rogers?”
Alan sighed, then nodded. “I did, Mrs. Sturgess. But I’m afraid I can’t stop the work on your authority. It was Phillip who signed the contract. If he’s changed his mind, he’ll have to tell me himself. He was here this morning,” he added with elaborate casualness, “and he didn’t say a word about stopping the project. In fact, just the opposite. We were figuring out ways to speed the job up.”
Abigail was silent for a moment, then nodded curtly. “I see.” She turned away, and started back into the cavernous interior of the building. Before she had taken two steps, though, she felt Alan’s hand on her arm.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there.”
She brushed his hand away as if it were an annoying insect. “Of course I can go in,” she snapped. “If I wish to inspect my property, I have the right to do so.” Her eyes met his, as if challenging him to stop her. “The men are gone, Mr. Rogers,” she went on. “I’ll hardly be in the way.”
Alan nodded a reluctant agreement. “All right. But I’ll go with you.’ ”
“That’s not necessary,” Abigail replied.
“I’m afraid it is,” Alan told her. “You may own the mill, Mrs. Sturgess, but right now I’m responsible for it. I don’t leave in the afternoon until I know that it’s empty, and locked. And I’m not about to allow you to wander around by yourself.”
Abigail’s nod of assent was almost imperceptible. “Very well.”
Twenty minutes later they stood at the top of the stairs to the basement. Without looking at Alan, Abigail spoke. “Give me your flashlight, Mr. Rogers. I wish to go downstairs.”
“Mrs. Sturgess—” Alan began, but Abigail cut him off.
“Mr. Rogers, one of my sons died down there many years ago, and my dearest friend’s grandson died in the same place two days ago. I wish to visit the spot where the tragedies occurred, and I wish to visit it alone. You will give me your flashlight, and then you will wait for me at the door.”
Alan hesitated. “Let me at least turn on the lights down there.” He started toward the electrical panel, but Abigail stopped him.
“No,” she said. “I wish to see it the way my son and Jeff Bailey saw it.” When Alan still hesitated, she allowed the faintest note of pleading to enter her voice. “I have my reasons, Mr. Rogers. Please.”
Reluctantly, Alan turned his flashlight over to the old woman, then, as she started slowly down the stairs, headed back to the site shack. He would give her twenty minutes, no more.
Only when she reached the basement, and the darkness of it had closed around her, did Abigail turn on the flashlight and let its beam wander through the dusty expanse of the cellar.
There seemed to be nothing there.
Only piles of crates and stacks of plasterboard.
She stepped onto the floor of the basement, and turned right. She took five more steps, then turned right again, so that she was facing the area below the stairs.
Holding the flashlight firmly, she played its beam into the darkness there.
Abigail’s thoughts were fueled by the memory of her husband’s strange fixations about this place, and her eyes began to play tricks on her.
A face loomed out of the darkness, pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, the mouth drawn back in a grimace of terror.
Eyes glared at her, sparkling with hatred.
Another face, twisted in agony.
A mouth, hanging in the blackness — open — screaming silently.
Abigail’s heart began to pound as the faces surrounded her, all of them hanging in the darkness, all of them staring at her, accusing her, judging her.
Laughter began to ring in Abigail’s ears. Then the laughter turned to screams of agony and anguish.
A stabbing pain shot through Abigail’s left arm, up into her shoulder, and through her chest.
The flashlight dropped to the floor, its lens and bulb shattering on the hard concrete.
Her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to sink to the floor.
But still the faces — faces of children — loomed in the darkness, coming closer, closing in on her. Their screams echoed through the old building, and rang in her ears, louder and louder, until the screaming seemed to be inside her head. Then, as she felt herself losing consciousness, she thought she saw a flash of light, a glow, thought she saw flames licking from the edges of the fire door.
