Rust and Forgotten Currents

"See? Told you it wasn't just, like, a pile of planks," Benjamin muttered, his voice a low thrum against the vast, echoing silence of the mill's main floor. He adjusted the brim of his faded baseball cap, kicking at a loose piece of corrugated iron that screeched across the grimy floor. The sound made Andrea wince, a quick, sharp twist of her mouth that Benjamin almost missed in the dimness.

Andrea, arms crossed tight over her chest, shivered. Not from cold, Benjamin knew. More like a general disapproval of the whole endeavour. "It's still just a pile of planks, Ben. A very large, very derelict pile. And probably tetanus-ridden." Her eyes, usually quick and dismissive, swept over the towering, rusted gears and the flaking paint on the walls, lingering on a particularly aggressive patch of black mould.

Caroline, ever the methodical one, was already shining her phone's torch into a particularly dark corner, ignoring the playful, albeit nervous, bickering. "The plans Mum showed me… the blueprints for the original layout… there's a section here," she pointed, her finger tracing a line on the grimy concrete floor, "that doesn't match the exterior. Like, a whole extra wing that just… isn't visible from outside."

Thompson, who'd been trailing a few paces behind, quietly took out a small, folded map from his pocket – a careful sketch he'd made from a blurred photo of the mill's original design, pulled from the town's historical archives. He knelt, comparing Caroline's spot to his own hand-drawn lines. "She's right. The old intake valve, where the river water used to be drawn in… it’s blocked up. But the blueprint shows access points, a whole sub-level even."

Benjamin’s grin stretched, a flicker of genuine excitement breaking through his usual bravado. "Alright, Thompson! That's what I'm talking about! See, Andrea? Not just tetanus. Intrigue! Adventure!" He clapped Thompson hard on the shoulder, making the smaller boy stumble slightly.

Andrea rolled her eyes, but a sliver of curiosity had begun to uncurl in her own expression. She nudged a fallen beam with the toe of her worn trainer. "So, what? A secret room full of rusty tools?" Her voice still held its customary scepticism, but it was thinner, less absolute.

They moved deeper, their torches cutting tunnels through the heavy air. The scent of decaying leaves mixed with the damp earth rising from cracks in the foundation. A spider web, thick as cotton, caught on Benjamin’s hair, and he yelped, swatting at it furiously. Caroline giggled, a breathy sound that made the silence feel even bigger. Thompson just watched, his torch beam steady, exploring every fissure and crevice in the wall they were approaching.

"This wall," Caroline said, tapping it. Her voice was lower now, a little awed. "It sounds different. Not solid concrete. Hollow."

Benjamin ran his hand over the rough surface. Patches of old plaster, peeling like sunburnt skin, gave way to a smoother, colder section beneath. It was almost perfectly flush with the surrounding wall, but there, just barely visible in the combined light of their phones, was a faint seam. A perfectly cut rectangle, disguised by decades of accumulated grime. "Well, well, well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

They worked for what felt like an hour, scraping away at the plaster with anything they could find – Andrea’s house key, Benjamin’s pocketknife, a shard of broken glass Thompson carefully picked up. Slowly, painstakingly, the outlines of a hidden door emerged. No handle, no visible hinges. Just a perfectly fitted slab of dark, stained wood.

Thompson, his brow furrowed in concentration, finally noticed it. A tiny, almost invisible pinhole, no bigger than a match head, directly in the centre of the 'door'. "Push it, maybe?" he suggested, his voice barely audible.

Benjamin hesitated, a rare moment of caution. "What if it's rigged?" But the allure of the unknown was too strong. He pressed the tip of his knife into the pinhole. There was a soft, almost imperceptible click, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that vibrated through the floor. The slab of wood, heavier than it looked, slowly, agonizingly, began to swing inwards, revealing a passage of utter blackness. The air that rushed out was cold, dry, and smelled distinctly of old paper and something else… something faintly metallic, like blood, or iron filings.

The Unveiling of J. Weaver

The passage was short, leading into a small, windowless room, surprisingly tidy compared to the ruin outside. It wasn't large, maybe six by eight feet, but every surface was covered. Shelves lined one wall, crammed with heavy ledgers. A small, sturdy desk sat in the corner, a single, antiquated lamp with a green glass shade still perched on it. Dust lay thick everywhere, a blanket over everything, yet there was an order to the chaos, a sense of deliberate abandonment.

"Okay, this is… something," Andrea whispered, her sarcasm replaced by a genuine note of disbelief. She ran a gloved finger over the spine of a ledger. "Port Haven Mill: Daily Intake. Month of November, 1978." Her voice trailed off.

Caroline was already at the desk, careful not to disturb anything. She shone her light on a stack of neatly tied bundles. Old photographs. "These are… people. Families. From around here, I think." She picked one up, a black and white image of a stern-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard, standing in front of a building that looked suspiciously like the mill itself, albeit much newer. Below the photo, a small, faded brass plate read: 'J. Weaver, Proprietor'.

Benjamin, meanwhile, had gravitated towards a locked wooden box on a lower shelf, its brass clasp tarnished green with age. He tugged at it, but it held fast. "Got a key, anyone?" he asked, a bit too loudly for the hushed room.

Thompson was engrossed in one of the ledgers Andrea had been looking at. He flipped through pages filled with meticulous handwriting, numbers, and dates. "This isn't just intake," he mumbled, more to himself than to them. "There are other entries. Code names, almost. 'Project Heron' appears a lot. Followed by a series of numbers that don't look like inventory or payroll."

"Project Heron?" Caroline echoed, looking up from the photographs. Her brow was furrowed in thought. "There was a Heron family, years ago. They just… vanished. Whole family. Everyone said they skipped town, but their house was left exactly as it was, even dinner on the table. My grandma used to tell me about it, said it was the strangest thing."

Benjamin finally gave up on the locked box and rejoined the others, his usual impatience replaced by a growing unease. "Vanished? Like, disappeared disappeared? Or just… moved?"

Andrea pulled out a drawer from the desk. Inside, beneath a layer of old receipts, lay a single, yellowed newspaper clipping. She carefully unfolded it. The headline, printed in thick, bold letters, read: 'HERON FAMILY DISAPPEARANCE REMAINS UNSOLVED'. The date beneath it was from 1979.

"Oh, wow," Andrea breathed, the irony completely gone from her voice. Her finger traced the blurry photo of a smiling family – two adults, two children. The same year, the same family Caroline’s grandmother spoke of. The Heron family.

Thompson, still hunched over the ledger, suddenly let out a small, sharp gasp. "Look! This last entry under 'Project Heron' – it’s a list of… supplies. Chemicals. But then, this note, scrawled in red ink, different handwriting. It says, 'Containment compromised. Relocation imminent. November 10th.'"

Benjamin’s eyes darted to the date on the newspaper clipping: November 12th, 1979. Two days after the 'relocation'. A cold dread began to coil in his gut.

Caroline, her face pale, pointed a trembling finger at one of the photographs she held. It was another family portrait, but this time, in the background, faintly visible through a window, was the mill. And standing almost obscured by a tree, a figure in a dark hat. The man from the other photo. J. Weaver.

"He wasn't just the proprietor," Caroline whispered, her voice barely a thread. "He was… involved."

Suddenly, Benjamin felt a vibration. A low, persistent hum, coming from the wooden box he’d tried to open earlier. He looked down at it, then back up at the others, his eyes wide. The box, previously silent, now radiated a faint, almost imperceptible warmth against the cold shelf.

"Did you… do something to it?" Andrea asked, her voice tight with a fear Benjamin hadn't heard from her before.

"No! I just… tried to open it. It was locked!" Benjamin stammered, stepping back instinctively. The hum intensified, a faint, almost melodic whirring sound now audible in the sudden, heavy silence of the room. A tiny, pinprick of red light began to glow from beneath the brass clasp, pulsing rhythmically.

Thompson, his eyes fixed on the pulsing light, grabbed Benjamin's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "We need to go. Now. Someone knows we're here."

A dull, metallic clang echoed from somewhere deep within the main mill floor, far beyond their hidden room. It was too loud to be a falling piece of debris. It sounded like a door slamming shut.

The red light on the box pulsed faster, brighter, and the hum, now an insistent, high-pitched whine, seemed to resonate in Benjamin’s very bones. He snatched the newspaper clipping from Andrea, clutching it tight, his gaze fixed on the glowing box. The mill, once a mere relic, had become a living, breathing trap, and they were caught right in its rusted jaws.

Outside, the faint light of autumn was already beginning to fade, plunging the sprawling, skeletal structure into deeper, more unforgiving shadow.