Ghost Shadows (22 page)

“I will
,
”
h
e said with confidence as he held up his phone to show her he would be just a phone call away. He walked her to the couch and made sure she was comfortable before kissing her goodbye.
 

Paul walked out the front door of their home and strode at a brisk pace through the development for about a half-mile until the cement sidewalks ended abruptly at Abington Lane. Checking for oncoming traffic, he crossed Abington to the right side of the road walking steadily until he came to the intersection with Sawmill.

“Saw-Kill” a quiet, raspy voice echoed in his head and he felt himself mouthing the words silently along with the thought.
 
 

As he turned right onto Sawmill Road, he felt a strange sensation, as if he not only had just stepped onto another road but was actually entering another world. He looked out along the curves of Sawmill, which seemed to take on a dreamlike, surrealistic appearance. Paul knew that just around the next turn in the road ahead the ominous saw mill awaited like a hideous specter lurking in the shadows as if in anticipation of his arrival.

For a moment, he thought perhaps he should simply turn around, head home
.
He could always tell Laura he was more tired than he had realized or he could say he got a cramp in his leg or some other type of lame excuse. But he knew if he did she might deduce the real reason why he didn't want to walk by the mill. Although Paul was certain Laura would understand completely, never call him on it
,
and most certainly not think less of him, he didn't like the idea of her knowing he had backed out. If he went home early she would always know he was unable to bring himself to walk by the mill alone as the sun began to set.
 

Paul decided instead, he would walk at a deliberate pace up Sawmill Road with his head focused on the highway in front of him and do everything he could to not change the direction of his vision until he was well past the mill. He actually considered jogging past the mill to get it over with more quickly, but felt somehow
that
doing so wouldn't be much different than if he had turned around and gone home. So instead, he walked with his eyes focused on the blacktop, purposefully moving up Sawmill Road. “Saw-Kill” he again heard a strange unfamiliar voice whisper in his mind. He tried desperately to ignore the strange voice, blaming it on an overactive imagination.
 

As he approached the area where the mill stood he heard the voice in his head grow stronger, taking on a tone
that
sounded eerily insane. “Saw-Kill” the voice said repeatedly; first slowly, growing louder and more frantic with each utterance; “Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill” over and over. Paul stopped
 
 in the middle of the road and slowly raised his head, turning it cautiously to the right where the decaying saw mill stood. Instantly, the voice
that
had been
assaulting him inside his mind stopped and was replaced by blessed silence. As he looked at the opening where the front door of the mill once stood he saw a cavern of darkness resembling the gaping maw of some hideous demonic creature.
 

But regardless of the doorway's appearance, Paul realized the apprehension he had previously felt was now completely gone. In fact, he felt foolish for having the strange feelings in the first place. It was as if he suddenly realized the mill was an abandoned building, a run-down wreck, nothing more. He felt an incredible exhilaration flow through him as he stood in the diminishing sunlight of dusk in front of the community's most feared legend
.
H
e felt nothing but pity for the unfortunate, superstitious locals who allowed themselves to fall prey to such wild imaginings.
 

Before he realized he was doing so, Paul stepped off the roadway, through the tall weeds and wild grass, walking directly toward the front of the building. He stood for a moment looking up at the precarious structure as if defying it to collapse, which of course it did not.

He walked slowly around to the left side of the building and saw the dirt driveway leading up to the large entrance where once two barn doors stood. He walked up the pathway to the opening and was surprised to see
that
the floor of the mill still appeared to be fairly intact and structurally sound. He could see how the builders had obviously constructed the floor supports
with
thick wooden beams. He also noted there was still a fair amount of light in the mill streaming through the broken western-facing window panes as well as
bright setting sun
flooding in from the gaping holes in the building's roof
.
 

Paul stepped cautiously out onto the floor, testing each step to assure himself
that
the structure was as sturdy as it appeared to be. Before he realized it, he had taken several steps inside the mill and was turning to look down the length of the building. To his surprise, twenty or thirty feet ahead, he saw a large worktable, above which hung a giant rusted and pitted circular saw blade from the legendary and notorious saw he had heard so much about. It was the same blade which local legends touted as the "saw of death
.
" Looking up toward the ceiling, he could see where once the huge canvas drive belts, which had been
used to power the blade
,
once hung. Now all that remained were just dry-rotted torn strips hanging limply like giant pieces of shredded noodles, useless for powering any machinery ever again—or so Paul thought.
 

He walked forward toward the work table and as he looked down he noticed a dark brown stain soaked into the wooden slab. Looking upward more closely at the rusted circular blade, he saw a similar dark stain. Blood
,
Paul thought
.
A bloodstain from the last night the saw was ever used. Once again, the uncontrollable shiver returned and Paul
felt
a pang of apprehension at the resurgence of his earlier fears.
 

As Paul stared in amazement at the useless rusted blade, he noticed it begin to change. Before his eyes, the rust began to flake off in thousands of tiny bits of falling debris and orange dust, revealing a shiny metal blade below the surface. The dark area encircling the teeth of the blade was now bright red and drips of fresh blood began to fall from the blade's teeth to the bench below where it puddled, reflecting the last remaining glimmer of the setting sun. Paul could smell a coppery scent in the air and instinctively knew it was coming from the blood. Above him, the rotted sagging drive belts regain
ed
the luster of a new product and began to climb upward, all the while knitting themselves miraculously back together; repairing themselves right before his unbelieving eyes, and looking
as if they were new.  
 

Paul tried to turn and run from the nightmare unfolding before him but was unable to move. Suddenly he felt someone grab him from behind. He turned to try to see who held him and saw a portion of something he would have never believed possible. A translucent being stood behind him holding him securely, preventing him from escape. He was certain it was a thing of no substance, yet he could feel the impossible pressure of its icy fingers holding him in its death grip as an incredible coldness permeated his body. He couldn't quite make out the thing's appearance but sensed it must have looked hideous. He felt his heart pound
ing
violently in his chest harder than he had ever felt before.
 

Then he heard a familiar voice in his mind. It was the same voice he had heard earlier saying
,
“Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill
.
” He looked in the direction of the sound and saw
someone slowly walking from the darkness toward him. It appeared to be a man dressed in early twentieth century clothing, a business suit
that
appeared to be stained with blood. As Paul looked closer he could see
that
the right side of the man's skull was missing and his face was splattered with chunks of skin and blood. Then Paul realized it was not really a man but some horrible specter made manifest before him. He realized it was
that
he was seeing was the ghost of J. J Hanson.
 

Behind the hideous ghost, another such creature of the damned came lumbering out of the blackness. The thing appeared to have once been a man, but now was something unimaginably hideous. This wretched creature stood naked with no visible genitalia. From the place where its crotch should have been, a long continuously twisting line of awkwardly sewn stitching worked its way up along the stomach area, past the chest, then the neck and finally passing through the center of its face and skull. Paul understood immediately
that
what he was seeing was what he had heard described in the local stories. It was one of the unfortunate workers
Jonas
had
cut in two on the very table before him using the very circular blade
that
now glimmered overhead.
 

On the right side of its face the blade must have cut into the man's eye since the raggedly stitched path went up and through the empty black eye socket. Paul noticed the air in the mill had become thick with the stench of decay; a stink
that
turned his stomach and revolted him beyond
description.
 
 
 

He then made the assumption
that
the creature holding him from behind must be the second of
Jonas
's victims. He still couldn't comprehend how these spirits had the ability to restrain him so. Then he suddenly understood.
In reality, he
was not actually being physically manhandled by the creatures but his subconscious mind believed it was happening and that was apparently sufficient to curtail his movements and make him feel as if the demon was actually touching him. One might say it was all in his head, yet he could not move any more than if the specter had been made of flesh and bone.
 

An involuntary scream built in Paul's throat but was cut off as he found himself unable to utter a sound. The shambling creature
that
stood next to the ghost of
Jonas J.
Hanson shambled jerkily forward and grabbed Paul's legs, somehow impossibly lifting them upward and placing them on the saw table. Unable to move or resist, Paul was helpless to do anything to free himself.
 

Within a few moments the saw blade rotate slowly at first
;
then it began to spin madly until it became a whirling blur spraying droplets of blood down upon him. Soon the blade move
d
ever so slowly down
ward,
heading directly toward the center of Paul's chest. In his mind he heard a chorus of ghostly shrieks screaming
,
“Saw-Kill, Saw-Kill
,
” repeatedly
,
just before everything went black.
 

***

Laura stood silently at the gravesite of her dead husband
,
dressed in widow's black, surrounded by friends and a few relatives. One by one, the mourners approached her to offer their condolences until soon all were gone and she found herself standing alone. That was, except for one lone man who lingered next to the grave. She recognized him immediately as the local medical examiner. He had told Laura he would tell her of his final determination of cause of death as soon as he had an answer. He was waiting to tell her of his findings.
 

The examiner approached Laura and said, “Once again, Mrs. Simmons, I am so very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Doctor Anderson. I appreciate it very much
,
”
s
he replied. Then wanting to get the unpleasantness over with quickly she asked, “I was wondering
. . .
did you finalize your report
. . .
you know
. . .
on Paul's cause of death? Was it
. . .
was it a heart attack?”
 

“Yes, my dear. That was the cause; a massive cardiac infarction. Unusual in one so young—but not unheard of. No one could have anticipated it. Again please accept my deepest sympathy
,
”
t
he doctor replied.
 

Laura's face took on the appearance of sad resignation
that
often accompanies the feeling of closure in such uncontrollable situations. “Thank you for all you have done
,
Doctor.” Laura replied as the doctor nodded, turned
,
and left without further comment.
 

Walking slowly back to his car, the doctor saw his assistant waiting to drive him back to the office.

“Did you tell her?”
t
he assistant inquired.
 

“I told her what she needed to hear
,
”
t
he doctor replied,
“Her husband had a heart attack and that is why he died. End of story.”