May 1, 2019

Here’s how I imagine it happened, back in 2001:

The weather outside was almost unbearable. An early heatwave loomed over the fields, and the storms that rolled through that afternoon left behind a swampy, balmy soup of thick air and hovering mosquitos. Bad as that was, the atmosphere inside the mill was worse. Thirty some bodies crammed into a dark, dusty space, all breathing and dancing and spilling drinks, jumping around to music so loud it shook your brains, yelling and singing, and just hot, frenetic chaos.  

“I’m going outside,” Jo Whitney said to no one in particular, because no one could hear her, anyway. At least, that’s how I imagine it. I’ve been told I have a good imagination.

People wondered later where she’d gone, and no one told the police about the party when they came around asking questions. A bunch of kids drinking alcohol in an abandoned, condemned building on the night before graduation? Not one of them said a word, and they wouldn’t have had anything to say, either, because Jo slipped out of the mill and into the night, and that was the last any of them – or anyone at all – ever saw of her.

May 2, 2019

Joanna Whitney’s was the tenth disappearance associated with Sally’s Mill. It wouldn’t be the last, and I think we’re on number thirteen now. Or so the rumors say. And still people go there. Kids party, the curious search, police patrol, and every few years, some unlucky soul goes missing. It’s not our town’s oldest tradition – that would be the Winter Hunt – but it is the most talked about. Well, that would probably also be the Winter Hunt, but Sally’s Mill is a pretty close second. There’s even a rhyme we say, when we’re young and more amused than afraid: “Stay away from the hill, and from old Sally’s Mill.”

It’s not much, I know.

May 5, 2019

As it turns out, my dad got caught up in it once, all the Sally’s Mill craziness, when he was about seventeen. He told me this story today, and I’m recording it here, in my second journal of the year, because I feel like someone should write this down, and because he never reads my journals and so he won’t know I told on him.

Here’s what he said:

It was a stormy night, heavy and damp and dark. Thunder rumbled through the trees, and on the horizon, lightning flashed bright and white against the black sky. My dad was at a party, and went outside to get cigarettes from his car. As he stood outside the door of the mill, smoking (gross, Dad!), he heard hounds and the call of hunting horns, howls and yelps, and people shouting, and the braying and steady gallop of horses. He heard them over the music from the party, and the rush of the wind. He said it sounded like they were only down the hill, so close by, but he didn’t see anyone. And as the sound moved closer and closer to him, he said it was like the air froze, and all he could think was, “What in the hell?” And then he ran inside, and he never told anyone. Not because he was scared. He never told anyone because he dropped his cigarette when he ran, and it started a small fire in the brush, and everyone had to run away and the police investigated and declared it an arson. The good news is, no one got hurt, and the fire didn’t do too much damage. The bad news is, my dad’s guilty of arson, I guess.

They say nothing good ever happens at Sally’s Mill. I guess they’re right, huh?

May 11, 2019

It shouldn’t be ninety degrees in early May, but here we are. Today is Saturday, but you couldn’t pay me to go outside in this. Today will be a reading day for me.

I feel bad for writing down what my dad told me. I think it’s sort of a silly story, but I wouldn’t want him to get in trouble for something that happened so long ago, especially when it was an accident and it didn’t hurt anybody. I’m thinking about tearing out that page.

May 12, 2019

I did some reading yesterday on fox hunting. I’m surprised it’s not obsolete. But I did learn that it never happens at night, so I don’t know what my dad heard. He was probably drunk. It was dark, and the weather was awful. He was just a kid who made a mistake, and I wonder if he made up the whole story just to justify what he did. It’s a horrible thing to think, isn’t it?

May 18, 2019

I just can’t help but wonder why people keep going to the mill. I guess people just can’t get enough of scary stories, but still: I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. My grandmother always told me she was proud of how curious I am. I’m starting to think it’s actually a curse. There are always more questions than answers, and every time you get an answer, it just leads to more questions. It’s enough to drive someone crazy. Not me, but someone.

May 20, 2019

Okay, so I’ve done some research. It’s interesting, actually. There’s nothing in the history of Sally’s Mill that makes it a haunted or a frightening or an unsafe place, other than the fact that it’s condemned, of course. It was built around 1810 by the Marsden family. They’re still around. Named for John Marsden’s wife, who lived long and happy, and tended by that same family or their relatives until it closed down for good in 1981. John and Sally had several children, kept a couple of houses in the state, and were involved in all sorts of local issues and events. The only thing I found that made me nervous is that there was a Civil War battle in the area, and some of the soldiers did hide in the mill at one point. They got caught, of course, and carted away as prisoners.

And then, I guess, there are the disappearances, but maybe that’s just coincidence? I should do some research on those, too, but I’ve got end of school exams and essays and such coming up, so I don’t know when I’ll have time.

May 25, 2019

There’s a party at Sally’s Mill tonight. Should I go? I’m not actually invited, but one of my friends is, and I’m sure I could tag along unnoticed.

May 25, 2019 (later)

I’m going. Even though it’s hotter than Hades right now and I’m not really invited, I’m going. But I’m going in smart. I’m bringing supplies: a flashlight, a whistle, a camera, a recorder, and just because I know it will be loud and miserably sweaty, some earplugs and my portable neck fan. I know I’ll look like a dork. I don’t care. People don’t really notice me, anyway.

I’m nervous, though, still. Maybe because I’m not a social creature, or maybe because of the disappearances, or my dad’s story. I’ll update tomorrow. If I come home, that is! (Oh, God, why did I even write that?)

May 26, 2019

What an absolute waste of time! A big, fat, annoying nothing. I stood inside, I stood outside. I waited. I saw nothing. There was nothing. Just the mill, and the hot weather, and a bunch of kids drinking warm beer. My head hurts. I dripped enough sweat last night to fill five buckets, and I came home with a bruise of my knee from falling down a set of rickety old stairs. And I ripped my favorite jeans.

Never again, Sally’s Mill. You and I – we’re not friends.

May 26, 2019 (later)

I spoke too soon. I feel awful. I can’t believe it.

Jackson Fletcher disappeared last night.

He never came home after the party. I did see him there, in a corner with his buddies, but I don’t remember if he left before me or not. I did see him go outside. Did I see him come back in? I’m not sure. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. Maybe he’s just at a friend’s house. Maybe he crashed his car and he’s in a ditch somewhere. That’s not better, is it?

WHY DOES ANYONE GO TO SALLY’S MILL?

And why him? Why him, of everyone there? Why not anyone else? Why not me?

May 30, 2019

I’ve considered ripping out all of these pages and burning them. I don’t know where I’d burn them, but I just don’t know if I ever want anyone to read them. I’m only a few pages into this journal, anyway, and I could scrap the whole thing.

Jackson Fletcher is still missing. I don’t think he’ll ever come home. I see it in my head. His mother saying goodbye to her son for the last time on Saturday evening, his face at the party, laughing and bobbing his head to the beat of the music, and not one of them knew. Not one of them knew it would be the last time, that he wouldn’t come home. It’s just horrible.

I looked back today on my entries about Jo Whitney, and I just…I can’t believe I wrote about it like that, like her life was a story. I can’t believe it happened again. I guess it just never seemed real.

I don’t know what I’ll do with this. I don’t know who I can tell – about this journal, my dad’s story, Jackson, the mill. Any of it. But if I don’t trash it, and you find it, and you read this one day, I’ll tell you, because now I know it’s true, what they say. I hope you stay away. I hope they tear the whole building down. I hope it burns. I hope it collapses. I hope it rots away and becomes just a distant, terrible memory. I hope you believe me.

Nothing good ever happens at Sally’s Mill.

************

Thank you for reading! This is the fifth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

Here are the first four, if you’d like to read them:

The Winter Woman

The Lady in the Stars

Silly Superstitions

In Search

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.

The next story will be posted at the end of June.

“She must be lonely,” I say, and inch closer to my mother, burrowing into her shoulder. “She must be bored, too.”

“She’s not lonely, sweetheart,” says my mother. She pulls the blanket tighter around us, and we huddle together, gazing up at the night sky.

This is our tradition, every February, to greet the end of winter, and to say goodbye to the lady in the stars. Tonight, we sit together on a blanket in the sand, listening to the rhythm of the waves and the cold wind blowing through the dune grass.

“I’d be lonely,” I say. “And I bet she’s tired of the quiet, too.”

“She’s very old,” my mother tells me, “and very wise. She sees all of us, and our joys bring her joy. She’s not lonely, with the whole world and the moon and stars to keep her company.”

My family has lived on this island for as long as anyone can remember. We’re as tough as the sea and as sturdy as the land, my mother says. Together here, we’ve made it through ferocious storms and sweltering summers. We’ve learned how to live on the outskirts, on the edge of the country, and all that time, we’ve passed down the story of the lady and her home in the winter sky. And tomorrow, I’ll leave her, and my family, and this island, forever.

“James is a good man,” my mother says, “and he’ll take care of you. You’ll make lots of friends. You’ll have pretty babies, and you’ll be happy.”

She always could read my mind.

“You can come to visit,” she says. “A boat ride across the bay isn’t a trip across the ocean.”

“I know,” I say. And I do, but right now, the bay feels a lot like an endless, angry ocean, dangerous and impossible to cross.

“The lady was scared, once, too,” my mother reminds me. “She had to leave her home and family.”

“The stars needed a guardian,” I answer back, parroting the story I’ve known my whole life. “And she was chosen among all her people to be that guardian, and she accepted, because she was brave and smart, but also because she was kind.”

“Most importantly because she was kind,” my mother clarifies.

“I’m not kind,” I say. I sit up and fidget with my bootlaces. “And I’m not brave, either.”

“You’ve never been afraid of the waves,” says my mother.

“I can swim.”

“And you’ve always taken care of the gulls,” she says.

“I can’t stand to see them hungry.”

“Other people would call them a nuisance,” my mother tells me.

“I find other people to be a nuisance,” I say.

“You want to argue,” she says, “and I understand. The lady didn’t think she was brave or smart, or kind. She ran. You’re not planning on running?”

“No,” I say, and sigh. “No, I’m not going to run away. Where would I even go?”

“See!” my mother says with a laugh. “You’re very smart.”

I lie back and look up. The stars shine bright white, like diamonds on black satin.

I know what it’s like in the city, where the stars hide from the streetlights. I’ve read about it, and about the crowds and the noise.

“The lady tried to hide,” I say, continuing the story, “but the moon found her, and reminded her that imperfect things can still light the way in the dark.”

My life will look very different from my mother’s, and from what I envisioned when I was small. Back then, many families called our island home, and children ran on the beach, and lovers huddled together on the dunes, and old grandfathers sat at the pub to drink ale and tell stories. Most of them have gone now, and there certainly weren’t any men of marriageable age left for me to choose from when the time came. And so my father chose for me, a well-to-do man on the mainland, with a nice brick house and an old family. Like ours, but not like ours at all.

“The moon lit her way into the sky and walked with her to her new home,” my mother says. “And there, she cares for the stars and watches the world.”

“And they say,” I add, finishing the story, “that if the world should ever need her, strong and caring guardian that she is, she will leave the sky and walk the earth again.”

“There is always a path home,” my mother says. She reaches down and squeezes my hand. “But you might find you like your new one better, and that it gives you purpose and something to care for, just like the lady.”

“The lady isn’t real,” I whisper.

“She’s as real as you and me,” my mother says. “She’s as real as this island and the ocean, and as real as the moon and the stars.”

“She’s just a story.”

“And like I said before, you just want to argue.”

“I don’t,” I say. “I really don’t. I’m just pointing out the truth. The lady isn’t real. I’m leaving tomorrow. Everything’s going to change.”

I stand up, walk out to the water. I let it slide over my boots, and I can feel the cold through the leather. I’ve probably ruined this pair. I don’t care. I hear my mother behind me, her steady steps in the sand. She places a hand on my shoulder. I turn, and she sweeps a stray hair off my cheek. My cheek is damp, and I realize I’ve been crying. She does, too.

“My brave, smart, kind girl,” she tells me. “Your life will be just as beautiful and vibrant as you want it to be. That’s your choice to make.”

“And even the lady had a choice,” I say.

“Your father chose James,” my mother says, “because he is a good man. You can choose him, too.”

James has written me letters and sent me pictures. He’s told me all about the life we’ll lead together, and how excited he is to marry his island woman. We’ve exchanged books, and shared our favorite memories. I don’t love him yet, but I know I can.

“I do,” I tell her. “I have. But I wish I could have both, James and this island. His home and mine. Why do women always have to choose?”

“Because only women are strong enough to do it,” my mother says. “But don’t tell your father I said that.”

We smile together, and turn back towards the dunes. It’s time to go home, for the last time.

“Someday,” my mother says, “I hope you’ll tell your children about the lady. I hope you’ll tell them about this island and our life here.”

“I will,” I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being, right down to my soul. “I will.”

************

Thank you for reading! This is the second of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

Here’s the first story, if you’d like to read it:

The Winter Woman

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.

The next story will be posted at the end of March.

My grandmother always says stories don’t have to be real to be true.

We’re sitting at her table by the fire, eating midnight cookies and drinking hot chocolate.

She takes a sip and tells me, “Real and true, they’re not the same thing.”

“What do you mean, grandma?” I ask.

The fire crackles, and outside, I hear the wind. It moans like it feels sad. Snow started falling while we ate dinner, and it hasn’t stopped. It’s the perfect night for a story, and my grandmother tells the best.

“Do you know about the Winter Woman?” she asks.

I know all about the Winter Woman, and I say so.

“When I was little,” my grandmother says, “they would tell us, over and over, that the woods aren’t safe. Not safe for children, not safe at night, and especially not safe in winter, when the other wild things sleep.”

I know this part, so I add, “She never sleeps.”

“Exactly,” my grandmother says. “Don’t go into the woods. Be afraid of the woods, and most of all, be afraid of the Winter Woman.”

My grandmother lives in the oldest house in town, right on the edge of the woods.

“Have you ever seen her?”

“No,” she says. “But that doesn’t matter.”

I ask why.

“Stories have power,” my grandmother answers, “because we believe in them. They have the power we give them.”

“Where did the Winter Woman come from?”

“Somewhere far away, and old,” says my grandmother.

I ask what she’s even doing here, then.

“She followed us,” my grandmother says.  

I ask who, exactly, she followed, and why, and where from.

“She’s been with us for a very long time,” my grandmother says, “and she’ll stay with us even after you and I are gone.”

“What does she want?”

My grandmother smiles, and picks up my empty plate. “I think it’s time you go to bed,” she tells me.

She does this every time, every story. She tells just enough, just enough that I want more.

“Tell me, please,” I say, drawing out the “please” for as long as I can. “You always stop at this part.”

“What would you want?” she asks me.

I have to think about it. “Maybe something warm to wear,” I say, “if I’m out in the cold all the time.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, if she’s from far away, and everything else in the woods is sleeping, and people don’t want to see her, then I bet she’s lonely,” I say.

My grandmother smiles again, and ushers me out of the room.

“You’re a sweet girl to think of that,” she tells me, as we make our way up the stairs.

“So, I’m right? She wants friends?”

“We all want friends,” my grandmother says.  

She tucks me in and sits by the bed in an old rocking chair. It creaks as she rocks back and forth.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” she says.

“Grandma,” I say, “is the Winter Woman bad?”

“Did I scare you?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m not scared. No one actually believes in the Winter Woman anymore.”

“Is that so?”

I yawn. “Yeah,” I say, and yawn again.

“Then she probably is lonely,” my grandmother says. “Now, go to sleep.”

And lulled by the rhythm of the chair, and the howl of the winter wind, I do.

************

Thank you for reading! This is the first of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here. 😊

The next story will be posted at the end of February.