Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

A Sneezing Sack.

 

Amanderella lifted her lantern a little higher, letting its warm circle of light settle on the first stair. Behind her, Alimans hovered anxiously at the edge of the soot, butterfly net trembling.

“If the entity attempts communication,” he whispered, “I shall be ready.”

Amanderella paused, considering him for a moment. “I believe,” she said gently, “that the committee will be reassured by your presence outside. They are… rather unsettled.”

Alimans straightened at once, as though she had handed him a medal. “Yes. Yes, of course. They will need guidance. And interpretation. And possibly diagrams.”

“Quite,” Amanderella said.

He nodded vigorously, already imagining himself explaining chalk circles to Lady Honoria. “I shall go to them at once,” he declared, gathering up his velvet-lined butterfly net with great importance. “If anything occurs, signal me. I shall be listening.”

Amanderella inclined her head. Alimans tiptoed across the soot, trying not to disturb his own experiment, failed immediately, and left a trail of panicked footprints all the way to the stairs. He paused only long enough to whisper, “Be careful,” before going down and out through the mill door to enlighten the Preservation Society with theories they had not asked for.

The door thudded shut behind him.

Amanderella stood alone now, lantern steady, spanner tucked neatly under her arm. The familiar sounds of the building returned: the flutter of canvas above, the thin whistle of the bent chimney, the rhythmic tap-scuff of the waterwheel below. She turned her attention to the great flour chute, the wooden drop that disappeared through the floorboards. It was choked with a century of residue, the wood silvered by age and fine white dust.

A sudden, sharp gust of wind rattled the skeletal sails outside. The building groaned, a deep, structural sound that vibrated through the soles of her boots. High above, a heavy timber shifted, and the vibration travelled down the chute with a dull thrum.

Then, it happened.

A pocket of trapped air, forced downward by the shift in pressure, erupted from the mouth of the chute. It wasn’t a blast, but a soft, billowing sigh. A cloud of fine, white flour puffed out, suspended in the pale beam of her lantern. For three heart-pounding seconds, the dust didn’t scatter. It swirled into a distinct, upright shape—a small, translucent figure with sloping shoulders and a rounded head, standing perfectly still in the centre of the room. It looked for all the world like a small, white-shrouded child, or perhaps the ghost of old Benrat Grister himself, rising from the floor.

Amanderella froze. Her hand tightened on the handle of her spanner, the cold iron a sudden, necessary anchor to the physical world. Her breath hitched, just once. Then, the draft shifted. The “figure” collapsed, its head drifting toward the rafters and its shoulders dissolving into a mundane layer of silt on the floorboards.

Amanderella let out a slow, controlled breath. She stepped forward and nudged the settling pile of flour with the toe of her boot. “Air pressure,” she murmured, her voice steadying the quiet room. “And a lack of proper ventilation.”

But she didn’t look back at the chute as she turned toward the stairs. Even for a woman with a toolkit, the mill was proving to have a very vivid imagination.

Quickly and quietly, she climbed down the stairs, noting which ones wobbled, creaked, or generally felt unsafe. A muffled commotion drifted through the mill door. A shuffle, a thump, and the unmistakable sound of Lady Honoria saying, “Control yourself, Mr Pottipans, it is only a dog.”

Amanderella opened the door a crack. Majesty burst through it like a furry cannonball. He skidded across the soot, leaving a long, sweeping arc of paw-prints that obliterated half of Alimans’s Apparitional Field. His tail wagged with such enthusiasm that he dusted the remaining soot into a vague impression of a startled chicken.

Behind him, the Preservation Society crowded at the threshold, wide-eyed and anxious. “Madam!” cried Mr Paltry. “Majesty insisted on coming in. We tried to hold him back, but he wriggled like a greased eel.”

Majesty trotted straight to Amanderella’s side and sat, chest out, ears forward, every inch the loyal guardian. He gave a single, decisive woof, as if announcing that he was now in charge of all supernatural investigations.

Amanderella rested a hand briefly on his head. “Thank you,” she said. “Your assistance is appreciated.”

The Society gasped as one, as though she had just knighted him. Lady Honoria dabbed her eyes. “Such bravery,” she murmured. “Far more reliable than a Vicar.”

Majesty thumped his tail in agreement. Amanderella turned back toward the stairs, lantern steady, spanner tucked neatly under her arm. Majesty rose at once and fell into step beside her, silent and alert.

The mill creaked overhead. The canvas fluttered. Something small sneezed behind the flour sacks. She moved slowly, examining each corner. A loose shutter rattled in the breeze. A rope swung gently from a ceiling hook. A pile of flour sacks slumped against the far wall, one of them leaning at a suspicious angle.

Amanderella approached. The sack twitched. She stopped. The sack twitched again, a small, definite shuffle. Amanderella narrowed her eyes.

“Come out,” she said calmly. “I know you’re in there.”

There was a pause. Then, from behind the sack, came a tiny sneeze. Amanderella allowed herself the faintest smile. “Not spectral,” she murmured. “But certainly larger than a mouse.”

She stepped forward, lantern raised. Majesty ignored her entirely and padded across the floorboards, nose low, tail swishing like a metronome set to ‘mildly offended’. Amanderella sighed. “Very well. But do not chew anything structural.”

She returned to the flour sacks. The one that had twitched was leaning against a wooden beam, its top slightly loosened. She reached out.

Majesty froze. Every muscle in his body went stiff. His ears shot forward. His tail lifted straight out behind him, rigid as a broom handle. His nose pointed like an arrow toward the far corner of the mill.

Amanderella stopped at once. A pointer in full point was not to be ignored. “Ah,” she said softly. “You’ve scented something.”

Majesty did not blink. He did not breathe. He did not move a single whisker. He simply pointed, as though the entire history of dogkind had led to this moment.

Amanderella raised her lantern and followed the line of his nose. The far corner lay in deep shadow. Old tools hung from hooks. A stack of empty grain barrels leaned precariously. A coil of rope lay in a heap like a sleeping snake.

Something rustled. Majesty’s tail quivered.

Amanderella stepped forward, boots silent on the dusty boards. She lowered the lantern, letting the light spill gently into the corner. Another rustle. A faint, breathy whistle. Not a ghostly whistle, more the sound of something small and alive trying very hard not to sneeze.

Amanderella crouched. “Whatever you are,” she said calmly, “you may come out. I assure you I am not here to harm you.”

Majesty’s tail gave a single, decisive twitch. Amanderella reached out and gently nudged the nearest barrel aside. The rustling stopped. The whistling stopped. The entire mill seemed to hold its breath.

Amanderella leaned in, lantern steady. The light slid across the dusty floorboards, catching the curve of a barrel hoop, the frayed end of a rope, the faint shimmer of flour drifting in the air.

Majesty did not move. His whole body remained locked in that perfect, statuesque point, one paw raised, tail rigid, nose aimed like a compass needle toward the shadowed corner. Amanderella shifted the lantern a little further. Something shifted with it.

A small, dark shape pressed itself tighter into the angle between the barrels and the wall. A pair of bright eyes blinked once, twice, reflecting the lantern light like polished beads. Amanderella lowered herself a fraction more, careful not to disturb the dust.

“There you are,” she said softly.

Majesty’s tail quivered, but he held his point with heroic restraint. The creature, whatever it was, gave a tiny, breathy whistle, followed by the smallest, most apologetic sneeze yet. Amanderella set the lantern on the floorboards, its glow widening into a gentle pool of light.

“It’s all right,” she murmured. “No one here intends you any harm.”

The shape trembled. Majesty’s whiskers twitched. Amanderella reached out, slow and steady, and eased the nearest barrel aside just enough to widen the gap. The creature flinched but did not flee.

Amanderella leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s have a proper look at you.”

The mill held its breath. Majesty held his point. And in the soft lantern glow, the small, whiskered face finally emerged from the shadows. Amanderella leaned closer, the lantern’s glow trembling on the edge of discovery. The whiskered face blinked once more, as if deciding whether to trust the light.