“Yeah, I had a whole crew, the HVAC contractors, quit on me last week. These weren’t wimpy guys, and they weren’t stoned teenagers—not the sort to get spooked easily, if you know what I’m saying.”

“What happened?” Helen asked.

“They were down in the basement, the lower level, working where the turbines used to be. They came tearing up the stairs, screaming. Three big dudes—they’d dropped their tools; they were pale and shaking and totally flipped out. They said they’d seen someone down there—a woman. Her face and arms were all burned up, skin just hanging off like loose wallpaper. That’s what they said.”

Helen said nothing, just waited. He went on.

“We went down to look, me and some other guys. There was no one down there, of course. But you could smell something. Kind of like burnt hair…or burnt flesh. No reason for a smell like that down there.”

“Wow,” Helen said. “Incredible.”

“Yeah, that HVAC crew never came back. And lots of other freaky stuff has happened. Guys seeing and hearing things. Tools going missing. Lights turning on and off. The place is haunted. No doubt.” He looked at the building long and hard. “I mean, when you think about it, how could it not be?”

Helen looked, too, then her eyes moved from the newly rebuilt section to the junked materials from the original mill.

Helen took a few steps forward, picked up one of the discarded bricks that hadn’t made it to the large pile. It was old and worn, most likely made from red clay and kiln fired, and one side was stained black. She could almost smell the smoke. Feel the heat. Hear the screams of the women as they beat on the latched door.

“What are you going to do with all this?” Helen asked, gesturing at the rubble, still clutching the brick, not wanting to let it go. It felt almost alive to her: alive with history, alive with the things it had seen and heard, the tragedy it had been a part of.

He frowned, surprised by the change of subject, or maybe by the stupidity of the question.

“Have it carted off to the landfill.”

It seemed terrible to her, to have materials with such history just thrown away. They should be in a museum. Or used to build a memorial for the people who died in the factory fire. Not just thrown in the dump.

“Even the bricks?”

“All of it.”

“Mind if I take some? My husband and I, we’re building a house, trying to incorporate local materials—things with history. These bricks would be perfect.”

He gave her a puzzled, slightly amused grin. “Sure, Madame Historian. Knock yourself out,” he said. “Take ’em all if you want. I guess they are a one-of-a-kind item.”

“I appreciate it.”

. . .