Free The Artisans by Julie Reece

I’m not giving up.
    The greenhouse comes into view, and I angle toward the gabled, glass building. A white blur runs around the far side of the structure. A dog? It moves so fast I’m not sure. I hope he’s friendly. A pang of worry fills my chest for Edgar, should he wander out here. No one mentioned other pets. I file my questions away until I can ask Jenny.
    I don’t see the animal as I near the greenhouse, not when I push the door open to enter, and not when I peer through the long, glass windows to the other side. Beyond the pond out back, the mill house looms through the oaks and moss in the distance. A shudder runs over me as I think of the man that died out there. Drowning. Suffocation. What a horrible death. I rub my arms against an imaginary chill as my gaze sweeps the little hothouse.
    Three gardening tables sit here and there piled with clay pots filled with dirt. Tools are scattered around the floor, half buried in dust and dead leaves. No one appears to use the place. Sad, because it’s pretty cool, or could be. Plastic containers are bunched in one corner filled with dead plants. On closer inspection, the spiny thorns reveal they used to be roses. My favorite. I imagine the lush bushes they once were, bursting with color instead of the skeletal remains they are now. And just like that, inspiration hits. I’m picturing scads of designs, dresses, separates, and accessories based on the slick bark and black thorns. Yes!
    Frustrated, I curse myself for leaving my sketchbook in my room. I make for the door, anxious to get started. I’ll grab my book, a pencil, maybe pack a lunch, and come back here to draw. In my defense, I’ve been so empty artistically, it’s no surprise I’m unprepared. Easily fixed, but as I turn to shut the door of the greenhouse, my gaze rests on the hazy image of the mill house through the dirty panes. If a few withered rose bushes spark so many ideas, what might a gloomy old mill do?
    Ignoring the tape of Jenny’s voice warning me away from the rickety building, I pivot toward the pond. My plan is simple: check out the mill, steer clear of the black muck of death, and use my head. What can go wrong?
    I choose not to answer my own stupid question as I make my way toward the crumbling mill house steps. Clouds thicken in the sky casting long shadows over the pond. The wind ripples the water. In the center, something moves under the surface. With no desire to meet an alligator, I hope the pond water is brackish. The ground under my feet gives, and I cut a wider berth from the water’s soggy border.
    The mill is dark wood with a few holes in need of patching. A huge wheel on the side of the structure no longer turns. Lime green algae clogs the base. The slate roof is still intact, though it sags in the middle. Rafters poke through in places like broken teeth. The round handle on the front door spins, apparently unlocked, but the old door is swollen and stuck. I hit it twice with my shoulder, and it shudders open. Light pours through the opening.
    The building stands empty, aside from a few barrels, sawhorses and the mill gears themselves. Birds flutter in the rafters, at least I hope they’re birds and not bats. I hate bats. Making a slow circle, my feet brush the gritty floor as I view my surroundings. Dust motes dance like waltzing couples in shafts of sunlight. Another bird takes flight causing my heart to skip a beat. My hand involuntarily flies to my chest. “Stupid bird.” My voice echoes in the empty room.
    Then I see him.
    The boy from my room. The ghost from my nightmares. He stands next to a wooden wheel fixed between two poles, part of the machinery that ran the mill at some point. Cole, I think that’s what Jenny called him. He isn’t blue, just pale as paper. And though I know he must be dead, he looks real enough. Solid. Not all shimmery and see-through like the ghosts in a movie.
    My glance shifts to the door and back. I should probably run, but my feet are cement