Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 10

Chapter 10.

 

The Society.

 

Back at the Crooked Lantern, the members of the Society for the Preservation of Lower Widdersham Mill awaited Amanderella’s return with a great deal of nervousness and, in the case of Trubshaw Paltry and the other gentlemen, a great deal of cider.

Mr Paltry sat bolt upright, clutching his tankard as though it were a flotation device. Mr Pottipans had gone pink around the ears, which meant he was either terrified or on his third refill. Mr Motethrifters was polishing his spectacles in small, frantic circles, fogging them up faster than he could clear them. Lady Honoria Pimm-Ducket sat ramrod straight, hands folded, radiating the sort of authority that could silence a brass band. Majesty sat under the table and said nothing.

Alimans Tringle-Smythe, meanwhile, had arranged his Apparitional Field Diagrams across the table in what he believed was an impressive formation. Every so often he tapped one with a quill and muttered, “Yes… yes, the resonance will have shifted by now…”

Mr Hobbins and Matilda the goose were sharing a plate of bread and cheese. Matilda honked whenever anyone sighed too loudly, which was often. The landlord, who had seen many strange gatherings in his establishment, kept a respectful distance.

A hush fell whenever a footstep sounded outside. Each time it turned out to be someone else entirely—the postman, a child, a cart, a startled sheep—and the Society sagged back into their chairs with a mixture of relief and dread.

“She will return when she is ready,” Lady Honoria declared. “A lady of sense does not rush.”

Mr Paltry drained his tankard. “I do hope she does return. I for one do not fancy going back to the mill to find out what has happened if she does not.”

Alimans straightened his diagrams. “I am confident she is currently neutralising the residual ectoplasmic turbulence. My readings were most promising.”

Mr Pottipans blinked at him. “Your readings were upside down.”

“Precisely,” Alimans said, as though this proved everything.

The Society groaned in unison. And still they waited.

Amanderella returned the tools to Mr Braddlethorpe. He had removed the garlic headgear altogether now.

“Fettled?” he said.

“If by that you mean that the mill is now ghost-free, then, yes,” said Amanderella. She put the tools down on his workbench. “These were just what I needed. Thank you.”

Mr Braddlethorpe beamed, chest swelling with the pride of a man whose hammer had played a vital role in the defeat of supernatural forces. “Knew it,” he said. “Nothing stands up to a proper bit of ironwork.”

“Quite,” Amanderella replied.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you have to whack anything unnatural?”

Amanderella considered this. “Only a board with ideas above its station.”

Mr Braddlethorpe nodded solemnly, as though this confirmed several long-held suspicions about timber. “Well then,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron, “I’ll sleep easier tonight.”

Amanderella inclined her head and stepped back out into the sunlight. The valley wind tugged gently at her skirt as she turned toward the village. Behind her, the mill stood quiet and dignified at last, its timbers settling with the contentment of a creature finally brushed the right way. Ahead of her lay the Crooked Lantern. And the Preservation Society. And their opinions.

She set off with steady boots and a calm heart.

Her entrance into the Crooked Lantern was met with the sort of reaction most often given to someone whom everyone had privately decided was not, under any reasonable circumstances, going to return.

Lady Honoria was the first to detach herself from the group, her lorgnette raised like a weapon. “You are returned,” she declared, in the tone of someone greeting a traveller who had ventured far beyond the limits of common sense and somehow come back. “And intact. I trust the... occupant... has been dealt with?”

“The polecat is currently reconsidering its life choices in the upper loft,” Amanderella replied, stopping to adjust her gloves. “And the mill has ceased its vocal protestations. I have secured the chimney, silenced the shutters, and trimmed the drama from the sails.”

Mr Paltry stepped forward, blinking rapidly. “But the, the whistling, Madam? The ghastly, breathy signals from the beyond?”

“Wind in a bent pipe, Mr Paltry. It now has the decency to pass through silently. I also took the liberty of nailing down a recalcitrant board on the waterwheel. It was attempting to start an argument with the river.”

Alimans Tringle-Smythe leaned forward, eyes shining with hope and theatrical dread. “Did you… sense anything?” he whispered. “Any lingering resonance? Any… thinning of the veil?”

Amanderella brushed a smear of flour from her sleeve. “There was certainly a great deal of disturbance,” she said.

“I knew it!” Alimans gasped. He clutched his diagrams to his chest as though they might leap from his arms and begin prophesying.

Lady Honoria narrowed her eyes. “Disturbance of what nature?”

“Structural,” Amanderella replied.

Alimans deflated slightly, then rallied. “Structural… and metaphysical, no doubt.”

“No,” Amanderella said, removing her hat with calm precision. “Just structural.”

Mr Pottipans let out a long, shaky breath. Mr Paltry sat down rather suddenly. Majesty thumped his tail once, as if to confirm that the world had not, in fact, ended. Alimans, however, was not to be discouraged.

“But you felt something,” he insisted. “A presence. A ripple. A… a vibration of the unseen.”

Amanderella considered this. “I felt a loose shutter, a bent chimney, a frayed sail, and a waterwheel board attempting to express an opinion.”

“Yes. Yes, that aligns perfectly with my readings,” Alimans nodded vigorously. He was already rearranging his diagrams into what he believed was a triumphant configuration.

Lady Honoria cleared her throat with the authority of a woman accustomed to being obeyed by both committees and weather systems. “Lady Gottsnobbler,” she said, “you will, of course, provide us with a full report.”

“Naturally,” Amanderella inclined her head.

“And,” Lady Honoria added, lowering her lorgnette, “you will be pleased to know that we did not panic.”

Mr Paltry choked on his cider.

Amanderella allowed herself the faintest smile. “I am delighted to hear it.”

Later that evening, The Honourable Alimans Tringle-Slyke stood in front of the small, select group of the Psychic Research Society—of which he was, by unanimous accident, the leading member—and adjusted his velvet-lined butterfly net as though it were ceremonial robes.

“With nothing but my intuition,” he declared, “I neutralised a Class Three Ectoplasmic Disturbance in the Lower Widdersham Mill.”

There were impressed murmurs. He bowed modestly, before going on to describe in great detail the precise moment at which he had sensed the “entity’s resistance falter”. This moment, according to Alimans, had occurred just after luncheon, when he had felt “a sudden thinning of the aether” while buttering a scone.

He tapped a diagram with his quill. “You will observe here the dip in the Apparitional Field. This corresponds exactly with the moment the spirit realised it was outmatched.”

The Society leaned in, nodding with the solemnity of people who had long ago surrendered the ability to distinguish between fact and Alimans.

Professor Tiddlewick adjusted his shawl. “Remarkable. And you achieved this without entering the mill?”

“Indeed,” Alimans said, swelling with pride. “Direct confrontation is rarely necessary when one possesses a sufficiently attuned metaphysical presence.”

Mrs Pomeroy clasped her hands. “Such bravery.”

Alimans accepted this with a gracious incline of the head. “I merely did what was required,” he said. “The veil was trembling. The entity was restless. The village was in peril. I acted.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his heroism to settle over the room like incense. “Of course,” he added, “Lady Gottsnobbler assisted with the… physical tidying. But the spiritual cleansing was entirely my doing.”

There were murmurs of admiration. Someone dabbed their eyes. Someone else took notes. Alimans lifted his butterfly net in a gesture of a blessing “And now,” he said, “I believe we may safely declare the Lower Widdersham Mill free of all ectoplasmic interference.”

The Psychic Research Society applauded. Outside, a passing dog barked at nothing in particular. Inside, Alimans took this as confirmation.

The Psychic Society eventually dispersed, some with relief, some with cider, and Alimans with the air of a man who had just saved civilisation. The Crooked Lantern settled back into its usual evening hum: the fire crackling, the beams creaking, and Majesty snoring under the table with the contentment of a creature who had supervised a crisis and found it satisfactory.

Amanderella accepted a modest supper from the landlord, who placed the plate before her with the reverence usually reserved for visiting royalty.

“Glad you’re back, Miss,” he said quietly. “They were working themselves into a right state.”

“I noticed,” Amanderella replied, buttering her bread.

She ate in peace, listening to the soft clatter of tankards and the murmur of conversations drifting back to normal topics: weather, sheep, and the scandalous price of nails. Every so often someone glanced her way, as though checking she was still healthy. When she retired to her room, she wrote a brief, tidy report for Lady Honoria, folded it, and placed it atop her satchel. Majesty curled up at the foot of the bed, tail thumping once before sleep claimed him.

It was, all things considered, a very pleasant evening.

Next morning, after the kind of breakfast that left little to the imagination and not much room for lunch, Amanderella strapped her overnight case to her motorcycle, paid her bill, and left Lower Widdersham.

The ride back was brisk and uneventful. The morning air was sharp, the hedgerows still heavy with dew, and the motorcycle’s engine settled into its familiar, reassuring hum. By the time she reached the outskirts of the city, the traffic had begun to thicken, but Amanderella slipped through it with calm precision.

She turned into her street, parked neatly beside the gate, and had just removed her goggles when the front door opened. Mrs Gaffletter emerged, arms folded, expression set to stern but fair with undertones of disappointment in the universe.

“You’re back,” she said, in the tone of someone discovering a smudge on a polished banister.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Good morning.”

Mrs Gaffletter came down the path, inspecting her with the brisk efficiency of a customs officer checking for undeclared fruit. “No mud,” she observed. “That’s something. I’ve only just finished the hallway.”

“I came straight from Lower Widdersham.”

“Hmph. That place. No doubt full of draughts and superstitions. And people who don’t know how to shut a door properly.”

Amanderella decided not to comment. Mrs Gaffletter’s gaze flicked to the motorcycle. “And that machine hasn’t shaken anything loose, I hope. Last time you came back from one of your… outings… the umbrella stand wobbled for a week.”

“It’s running perfectly.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed, unconvinced. “Well, bring your things in. I’ve put fresh sheets on your bed. And I’ve aired your room. Twice. There was a smell of damp books.”

Amanderella picked up her overnight case. Mrs Gaffletter held the door open, then paused, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t brought back anything… odd, have you?”

“No.”

“No strange noises? No peculiar draughts? No objects that rattle when no one’s touching them?”

“None at all.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a short, decisive nod. “Good. I won’t have the neighbours thinking we’re harbouring anything unusual. They talk, you know.”

Amanderella stepped inside. Mrs Gaffletter closed the door firmly behind her. “Well,” she said, “you’d better tell me everything. I refuse to rely on gossip. It’s never accurate, and it always leaves out the important bits.”

Amanderella set down her case. “Very well.”

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms. “Start with why the newspaper claims there was a ‘spectral uproar’ in a mill. Honestly. Spectral uproar. The man who wrote that wants a talking-to.”

Amanderella sighed, quietly, and began.