Friends,
I wanted to share a special treat with you this Halloween. While I've been focused on writing the Max Creek book, I've also been working on a story about a haunted mill in Rhode Island. I’ve always wanted to write a scary story that takes place on Halloween night. The current working title is The Lav Rats and this is the prologue. I hope you like it!
HALLOWEEN NIGHT 1992
PAWTUCKET, RHODE ISLAND
Glass exploded in all directions and shattered across the floor of the dilapidated mill.
“What the fuck, dude?” Eric asked.
Scott stepped to the window and examined his handy work. He pointed his flashlight through the broken window and scanned the inside of the old textile mill. “What? This place has been abandoned for years.”
“How about a little heads up the next time you decide to fire a rock past my head and through a window?”
Scott ignored Eric and steadied the beam of the flashlight. “Whoa. Check this out.”
A thick vine penetrated a section of sunken floor and slithered its way around an industrial-sized cotton gin, squeezing the life out of the long defunct machine. Rusted equipment, covered in cobwebs and dust, lurked in the shadows. The machinery seemed to be emulsified into the mill itself.
Scott pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and brushed away the remaining shards of glass. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
Eric took a deep breath, then glanced over his shoulder.
Scott grinned. “Dude, relax. It’s Halloween. We’re just a couple of kids out ghost hunting, for Christ's sake. Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”
Eric shook his head. “You know I hate ghosts . . . and hunting. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this shit . . . again.” And there better not be a security guard this time, he thought to himself. My parents will kill me if I get busted again.
Scott had already lifted himself up and wiggled headfirst through the broken window. Eric on the other hand examined the casing, frame, and windowsill before climbing through.
Scott surveyed the room with his flashlight. Large chunks of the ceiling were peeling, there were holes in the floor, and the walls were covered in graffiti. A large, faded pentagram was splattered in red paint on the back wall. Empty spray paint cans and piles of trash were scattered throughout the room, and the place smelled like a wet dog. “This must have been the workshop.”
Eric walked over to Scott. “This place is disgusting.”
“Come on. The pentagram is a nice touch, and I really loved what they did with the beer cans and drug paraphernalia.”
Eric whipped around. “Did you hear that?”
Scott’s flashlight flickered and everything went black.
The hair on the back of Eric’s neck stood up. “I think someone’s in here with us.”
Scott smacked the back of the flashlight with the palm of his hand, illuminating his face with the beam of light. His chin was dotted with pimples and there was a thin patch of reddish-yellow stubble above his upper lip. “Someone or something?” He dropped his chin, stuck out his tongue, and made a goofy dead face.
Eric rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”
Scott smiled and aimed the flashlight at the doorway. “This way.”
The weathered floor of the workshop creaked as they stepped over the threshold and into the next room. The room was cold and damp with visible water damage. The smell of mold rippled across the room.
Eric shivered as his breath drifted into the chilly air. “Is it me or did the temperature just drop like ten degrees here?”
“It’s not you.” Scott pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. “It’s cold as balls in here.”
Eric opened his backpack, pushing a tape recorder and an EMF meter aside, pulled out a flashlight and turned it on. Suddenly, a shadow resembling a small child darted past the thin beam of light. “Did you see that?”
“It was probably just an animal.”
“That was no animal. Come on, man. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Scott reached for Eric. “Wait—”
Eric took a step forward, and the floor collapsed below him. A whoosh of smoke erupted out of the gaping hole, blasting Scott with dirt and debris, as he teetered on the edge of the hole. A floorboard snapped and was swallowed into the void. Scott jumped back and gasped for breath. He coughed, rubbed his eyes, and tried to regain his composure.
“Er-Er-Eric. Can you hear me? Eric!”
Scott took two steps back and dropped to his knees. The dust dissipated. He cleared his throat. “Eric, are you okay?” He heard a groan then a dry cough below.
“I—” Eric coughed again. “I think so.”
Scott closed his eyes and exhaled, then plopped to his belly and inched forward with his flashlight. He spotted Eric’s backpack sticking out of the wreckage. “I see you, buddy. Can you stand up and grab my hand?”
Eric slid a large, wooden plank that was draped over his right leg aside and slowly stood up. He winced in pain and rubbed his ankle. He grunted as dust and debris tumbled off his head and shoulders. “I jacked my ankle up.”
“Is it broken?”
Eric limped into the light, looked up, and shielded his eyes. “I think it’s just sprained.”
Scott reached closer. “Give me your hand.”
Eric tried to stand on his tippy toes and a bolt of pain shot through his ankle and rushed up his leg. His eyes filled with tears and his bottom lip trembled. “I, I can’t reach.”
Scott stood up. “Hold tight. I’ll go find a ladder or some shit like that. There must be something in this old mill. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”
“Scott, wait—”
Everything went dark.
Eric wiped a tear from his cheek. “Let’s go ghost hunting on Halloween, he said. It will be a ton of fun, he said. Not a shot I’m doing this again. Not. A. Shot.” He slumped down to his hands and knees and sifted through the debris.
I have to find my flashlight.
Eric felt his way through the wreckage, running his hands over the cold, wet dirt and turning over shattered pieces of wood. “Ouch,” he jerked his hand back. “Son of a bitch.” He pulled a one-inch sliver of wood from his hand and flicked the splinter into the darkness. “That frigging hurt.”
Eric inched forward and to his surprise, put his hand right on top of the flashlight. He let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, thank God.” He put his thumb on the switch and slid it forward. Nothing. “God damn it.” He pushed the switch to the off position and shook the flashlight. The batteries rattled inside the handle. “Please work. For the love of God, please work.” He turned the flashlight back on and a beam of light burst through the lens. Eric breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, that’s more like it.”
He looked around the room. It was short and narrow and encased in stone. There were no doors or windows and it was cold. Much colder than the room above. A surge of claustrophobia rushed over Eric and he closed his eyes.
Relax. Just breathe. Scott will get me out of here.
He opened his eyes. To his right was an old power loom the size of a kitchen stove. The machine had a steel base and a curved arch along the top. There was a large gear with a crank on the right side. Scraps of thread dangled over the front roller and in the shadows, looked like saliva dripping from a rabid dog’s mouth.
Eric limped over to the machine. It had to be at least 150 years old but appeared to be in pristine condition. He ran his hand over the brass plate on the front of the loom, inscribed were the words, “Mors Tua, Vita Mea.”
Eric tried his best to read the phrase out loud. “Moores. Tooah. Veeta. Meeah. It looks like Spanish, or maybe even Portuguese.”
He examined the back of the machine. “How in the world did you get in here?” Then he pointed the flashlight to the floor and searched for a hidden passageway. There was nothing. The only opening in the room was the hole in the ceiling he unceremoniously crashed through.
I don’t get it. Could this be some sort of vault or secret compartment? Eric thought about what he learned in history class. Rhode Island was ground zero for the Industrial Revolution. Working conditions in mills and factories were terrible. Some machines were operated by kids who were accidentally hurt, or even worse, killed. “Why would someone want to hide this machine? Could this hunk of junk be worth something?”
He examined the crank on the side of the machine. “I wonder what this—”
“Good news. I found some rope.” Scott carefully tiptoed to the edge of the hole and looked down. “It’s a little beat up like most of the shit in here, but—”
Eric looked up. “Check this out.”
Scott shook his head. “And? This place is filled with crappy machines.”
“Not like this one.“
Scott coiled the rope. “Come on. Let’s get you out of there.”
Eric placed his flashlight on the front of the loom and illuminated the gears. “Hold on a sec.” He clutched the crank and methodically turned it clockwise 180 degrees. It turned with surprising ease. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the child-like shadow again and everything went black. He let go of the crank and took a step back. “Who’s there?”
Scott peered into the hole. “What’s going on down there?”
The flashlight fell off the loom and crashed to the floor. Something ice-cold grazed Eric’s hand, and he screamed. “Get me out of here!”
Scott quickly wrapped one end of the rope around his fist, planted his feet, and tossed the other end into the hole. “Grab the rope and I’ll pull you up.”
There was a soft hiss, then a yellowish green gas seeped out of the machine and drifted across the floor. Eric caught a whiff of a strange chemical odor and pulled his shirt over his nose. The gas swept across the room and engulfed Eric, wrapping itself around his chest and legs. His skin began to boil. He felt a wave of panic wash over him, and he knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble.
He called out to Scott. “Help!”
The gas constricted and tightened its grip. Eric opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The gas traveled up his chest, around his neck, and poured into his mouth, filling his lungs. He convulsed and collapsed to the floor. The yellowish, green gas retracted and floated back into the machine as Eric’s body laid lifeless on the ground.
Scott plummeted through the hole and crashed to the floor of the vault. He hurdled a large wooden beam, rushed over to the machine, and cradled Eric in his arms. “Come on, man. Stay with me. You got this.”
Eric’s flashlight flickered back on, illuminating his limp body as his head fell gently into Scott’s shoulder. Scott’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t do this to me . . . please don’t—” Scott looked up into the gaping hole of darkness and cried. “Help!”