Ghost Shadows (13 page)

His wife was staring at him as if in a trance, unable to speak coherently, her breath hitching in her chest and coming in short uneven gasps. She was stippled with blood, gore, and fragments of crimson flesh.

“P—pl—please, Joe. Please . . . don't do this! I—I love you, Joe,” she somehow managed to stammer.

Joseph just looked down at her and even after her feeble pleas for mercy and her eventual screams of terror he proceeded to fire shot after shot splattering the back wall with her blood and brains.

Next, without a moment's hesitation, Joseph lifted the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The pistol had either misfired or was out of bullets. Joseph couldn't recall how many bullets he had fired, nor did he care as his mind was broken and he was beyond all reason.

With no emotion, or remorse, Joseph simply turned and left the room, went downstairs and grabbed several bottles of alcohol from their liquor cabinet and then found a disposable lighter in a drawer in their kitchen. He walked back upstairs then doused the blankets, the corpses, and all the curtains with alcohol while in between taking generous gulps for himself. Once this was done he flicked the lighter to life and set the room ablaze. Then Joseph calmly left the house and headed back to work; the only place he truly felt at home.

The shop was completely empty as it was shut down for the weekend. Being the factory manager, Joseph had his own key. He walked through the dark building, moonlight shining in through the tall windows and roof skylights, slowly making his way back to his favorite machine, his first machine of its kind, the Mill Monster. He powered up the rickety old machine and searched through the tape storage cabinet for the program he wanted. It was a reel of
tape labeled with the number O0001. It was the very first program he had ever written for the very first job to run on the machine. Looking back after some twenty or more years Joseph realized it was just a simple single deep-hole drilling program, but at the time, it had seemed as if writing it was an almost insurmountable challenge.
 

He loaded the Mylar program tape into the machine's ancient mechanical tape reader and pressed the cycle start button. The giant tool changer on the Mill Monster roared as it searched its carousel for the right tool. Joseph knew where the starting point, or origin of the program was in relation to the size of the table, as he had not only written the program but had run the job many times throughout the years.

Then, as he saw the long, two-inch diameter spade drill come into the mill's spindle, he walked up to the machine, hoisted himself up, and leaned backward, lying across its long table and resting the back of his head against its cold cast iron surface. Looking upward through glazed, tear-filled eyes, he saw the steel drill bit rotating rapidly above him in the machine's spindle; at about six hundred revolutions per minute. Joseph could feel the slight table movement as it automatically positioned itself, preparing to carry out its programmed instructions. But instead of getting out the danger zone he simply lay still, staring upward at the large rotating cutting tool.

Next, the Mill Monster did exactly what it did best, what it was programmed to do. It followed the commands of its programmer and brought its tool down toward the table at a rapid feed rate of two hundred inches per minute before slowing down to its programmed feed rate of about two inches per minute. However, before it reached its slowdown point it had already punched its way partially into Joseph's skull, as he knew it would, not quite killing him instantly but rendering him essentially paralyzed, and if he were fortunate enough, brain dead. No one would ever know if he had come to his senses at some point and had realized the mistake he had made, but if so it was far too late for such misgivings.

Then the machine continued its programmed deep hole in and out peck-drilling cycle feeding its way about an inch deeper down into the man's skull before retracting part way out then repeating the process until its final programmed depth was reached. With each peck and retract the spinning tool sprayed a circular area of about twenty feet in diameter with blood and gore as Joseph's body involuntarily thrashed about madly in a unholy dance of death.

That night when the fire department went to Joseph's house to put out the blaze the firemen discovered the charred remnants of Joseph's wife and her lover. At first, they assumed the dead man had been Joseph but one of the volunteer firemen thought he recognized the man as being Jim Erikson, and upon examination of the man's charred wallet contents they confirmed it was him, and not Joseph.

Ashton police chief Max Seiler Jr. soon put together a scenario, which placed Joseph DeNunzio at the top of his suspect list. They searched the house for Joseph's body, assuming a murder-suicide, but did not locate him. Their next thought was that Joseph had fled the scene, skipped town and was now in the wind.

Seiler knew Joseph worked for Nate Bartinski and that they had been good friends for many years so he immediately drove to Nate's home. He hoped Nate might be able to offer some insight into where Joseph might have gone.

“Chief Seiler, there's absolutely no way I can believe Joseph DeNunzio would ever be capable of such an horrendous act,” Nate told the police chief. “I just find it impossible to comprehend.”

The chief hesitated for a moment then replied, “I know it must be tough for you to consider, Nate, but when a man is emotionally pushed past the brink of reason, anything is possible. The important this is that we find Joseph and at least bring him in for questioning; if for no other reason, then to exclude him from the suspect list. But to be honest with you, it doesn't look very good for him. And so the important question is, Nate . . . where might Joseph have gone?”

“But Max,” Nate continued only partially listening to the police chief, “we've both known Joseph for years. Do you really think—” he stopped himself short having finally comprehended what Seiler had just asked and suddenly realizing where Joseph most likely would have gone. “Follow me, Chief,” Nate said. “I think if Joseph went anywhere it would be to my factory. It's probably the one place in the world he considers almost like home.”  

Entering the darkened factory, the group immediately heard the sound of a machine idling, its motors running and emitting an echoing growl, sounding like a wild beast in the otherwise silent cavernous facility. Following the sound they saw the machine's operator light and control panel glowing in the minimal lighting provided by moonlight streaming through the skylights, looking as if it were a museum piece on display. In the center of the macabre tableau they found Joseph's decimated body lying atop the machine table, his arm dangling limply downward, blood dripping from his extended fingers, pooling on the concrete floor in a glistening puddle of crimson gore.

The machine had completed its programmed cycle and had returned to its home position with the tool spindle now stopped, resting high above the table. Staring at the now stationary drill bit Nate saw clumps of hair, torn flesh, and what appeared to be brain matter clinging to the tool as droplets of blood plopped from its tip as if in slow motion falling to the barely recognizable mangled corpse below. Somehow Nate managed to hold back the scream that was desperate to escape his throat, but instead he turned and vomited uncontrollably.

Once the police had removed what was left of the body and finished their investigation, Nate had the machine moved to a dark and seldom used section of the shop and during the next several weeks had it professionally cleaned to remove all traces of that horrible night. The machine sat idle for the entire next year.

Eventually he moved the machine back closer to the manufacturing floor and had tried once again to put the machine into production but each attempt was unsuccessful. Every time he assigned an operator to the machine, that person would inevitably end up getting hurt and often severely injured. One time the result was almost fatal.
 

During one particular incident a tool holder fell from the spindle while an operator was loading a part and crushed the man's hand, requiring several costly surgeries to repair the damage. In addition there was a workman's compensation claim to deal with and a great deal of lost production time. Another time a high speed rotating tool broke while in the midst of a milling process and flew across the unguarded space, blinding another operator in one eye. Nate's business could not afford too many accidents such as those. In addition, after the first several accidents, superstition began to take over and eventually not a single operator would agree to run the machine. Before long, Nate realized the machine could no longer be used. The risk of injury and potential legal ramifications of running what most considered an unsafe machine were simply cost prohibitive.

Yet for some reason, likely born of sentimentality, Nate could never bring himself to have the machine removed from the factory and scrapped, so he chose instead to move the Mill Monster back to the dark corner of the plant and disconnect all of its electric, hydraulic, and pneumatic lines, leaving it to rust to its present day decrepit state.

Since the tragic death of Joseph DeNunzio and the subsequent injuries caused by the machine, its reputation of living up to its nickname, "Mill Monster," grew to the point of legend and folklore. Stories abounded of reports of mysterious sounds and sightings surrounding the machine, especially on late nights and weekend shifts when the factory was practically empty.

Most of the old-timers, especially those who knew Joseph well, believed the machine was haunted by the dead man's spirit. Many told stories of seeing the transparent ghost of Joseph standing by the machine control as he had done so many years earlier, his glowing white aura shimmering in the moonlight. Others who had heard descriptions of the ghastly condition of Joseph's corpse when it had been found claimed to see his tattered, practically headless body appear lying on the surface of the machine table.

Still others told of times when they had heard strange creaking noises coming from the dark corner where the machine stood, while others claimed to have heard moaning and occasionally screaming. Some went so far as to say they actually saw the machine's spindle turn slowly, despite the fact it had been without power for over twenty years.

Nate knew someday, perhaps when his son, Benjamin, took over the business he might take the initiative to relegate the Mill Monster to the scrap yard where it belonged, but for now it stood as it had done for over forty years; both a symbol of the technology, hard work, and determination, which made Nate's company great, and a tragic reminder of the fragility of life. And perhaps it also offered a suggestion of the possible existence of unknown, unexplainable mysteries, incomprehensible by the minds of men.

 

What's Wrong With Our House?

 

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

—
William Faulkner
, Requiem for a Nun
 

 

The white-haired woman stood by the window pulling the drapes carefully aside, attempting to sneak a look out into the street. It was October 31st, another Halloween night, and just like every previous Halloween, trick-or-treaters were busy going from house to house in search of the precious goodies they all so desperately desired. But for some strange, unknown reason they seemed to be avoiding her house; almost deliberately so.

"What's wrong with our house?" Gladys Millbury asked of her husband
,
Harold, who was sitting quietly in his recliner, reading the sports section of the local newspaper and paying little attention to his wife
,
as was typical of him. The room was clean and tastefully decorated with furnishings they had acquired throughout their forty-three years of marriage.

Harold said, "How the hell should I know, Gladys? Who really knows what goes on inside of the minds of young kids these days? Heaven knows I don't have a clue. But what's the big deal anyway? If they show up, they show up and if they don't, they don't. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't really care if they ever come around. Young kids can often mean nothing but trouble these days. In fact, they're often more trouble than they're worth. Good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I am concerned."

"Oh
,
Harold
,
"
s
he replied
,
"
t
hat's no way to talk for pity's sake. You sound like such an old fuddy-duddy.
It's
Halloween night and you know the children in our neighborhood are all good kids. We've always opened our doors to them on Halloween. In the old days we would have been overrun with trick-or-treaters by this time of night. Remember how they always said I gave them the best candy? I was always so proud of that. But now they won't even ring our doorbell anymore. I wonder what happened. It's almost like they seem to be deliberately avoiding us this year. What could possibly be the matter? What in the world do they think is wrong with us?"

"Funny you should ask
,
” Harold replied
.
“I was starting to wonder what might be wrong with you myself. The way you're standing there staring out into the street. You look like a desperate, starving lost little puppy. For heaven's sake, Gladys, just let it go. So what if the kids choose to ignore us this year? It just means more candy for me."

“Like you can eat all of this candy
,
” Gladys replied looking down into her enormous basket of goodies, “
y
ou with your blood sugar issues!”

Gladys and Harold Millbury had been living in the same house at the end
of
Maple Street for well over thirty years.  And for as long as either of them could recall the neighborhood children always flocked to their house for treats faithfully, every Halloween. So Gladys knew something definitely must be amiss to cause them to behave in this fashion.