The Whispering Windmill, page 12
The first page was filled with tightly packed writing, slanted and spidery. Tanya squinted. “I can’t read a word of this. Is it even in English?”
Sue leaned over for a look. “Looks like a chicken got drunk and ran across the page.”
Ellen chuckled. “After three decades of grading papers, I’ve gotten pretty good at decoding bad handwriting.” She reached for the book. “Let me have a try.”
Tanya handed it over gladly. Ellen adjusted her readers and bent low over the page. The ink had faded, and the writing, cramped and uneven, sometimes trailed off into barely visible scratches. But after a minute or two, her brain began to click into gear, untangling the slashes and curls.
“It’s definitely Edison’s,” she said. “There are references to Menlo Park, his lab assistants, even notes on experiments. But the focus here,” she turned a few pages, “is the necrophone.”
“Is it a blueprint?” Tanya asked. “Like, for how it works?”
“It’s more like a stream-of-consciousness diary,” Ellen said. “Rambling, obsessive. He keeps going back to the same themes—sound vibration, ethereal conduction, electromagnetic barriers.” She flipped through several pages, skimming quickly. “His writing really is awful. I wonder if it got worse with age.”
“Everything else seems to,” Sue said. “I just bought a new bra for these puppies,” she cupped her breasts, “because all my others couldn’t keep up.”
Tanya laughed. “I know what you mean. I don’t have nearly as much as you in that department, but what I do have is falling.”
“I thought you said you were giving up on bras,” Ellen reminded her.
“That didn’t last,” Tanya admitted. “They’re turning into pendulums.”
Ellen and Sue laughed before Ellen returned her attention to the notebook. “His writing deteriorates the further I go. These pages . . . they’re odious. Fixated on bridging realms. Almost frantic.” She hesitated, then added, “I honestly don’t know how George Flint could have used this to control Edison’s ghost. The man sounds unhinged near the end.”
Sue crossed her arms. “Keep looking. There has to be more in there than schematics and ramblings.”
Ellen flipped ahead, letting the pages blur beneath her fingertips, until something caught her eye.
“Hold on,” she said.
“What?” Tanya asked.
“The tone shifts here. It’s neater, clearer, like he’s writing directly to someone.” Ellen squinted. “‘Dear Charles, Please rip out these pages and burn them after reading them.’”
The room went still.
“Do you think he’s referring to his son Charles?” Tanya asked, voice hushed.
“I think so,” Ellen said. “I remember learning that he worked closely with him.”
“Either Charles never found these pages,” Sue murmured, “or he didn’t do what his father asked.”
Ellen turned the page and began to read aloud.
Dear Charles,
I can feel my life winding down, like a phonograph needle skating toward the last groove. The world is quieter now, and I find myself with too much time to think. Too much time to remember. I have done things—terrible things—in the name of progress and pride. And now I must unburden myself, if only to you.
I waged a war against alternating current not because I feared it, but because I feared being surpassed. I allowed my name to be tied to horrors—the electric chair among them—in the hope that people would associate AC power with death. I misled the public. I tarnished the names of Westinghouse and Tesla, men who only sought to better the world in ways I could not control.
You were just a boy when I brought that poor dog into the lab. I made you and the others watch. I told myself it was science. But it was fear. I needed them to be afraid. I needed to win.
I gave false information to reporters and colleagues, made a horrible spectacle of the electrocution of Topsy the elephant, and made the film available in coin-operated kinetoscopes everywhere. I told people that Tesla’s coils would destroy their homes and minds. I sent letters to government men warning them of Westinghouse’s recklessness.
Guglielmo Marconi once called me the greatest benefactor of the modern world. If he had known what I had done behind closed doors, I think he would’ve taken those words back.
I allowed competition to consume me. The desire to be first, to be best—it blinded me. I became something I no longer recognized. Something I now fear.
Please, Charles. Burn these pages. Let my sins end with me. But do not abandon the work I described before this letter. The necrophone can answer the question in every man’s heart about life after death. I hope this final invention can make up for my terrible failings.
Forgive me, if you can.
Your Loving Father,
Thomas A. Edison
For a few moments, none of them moved. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic outside the window.
Sue swallowed hard. “Well. That was . . . not what I expected.”
Tanya leaned back against the sofa, one hand resting against her chest. “We just read the private confession of Thomas Edison. The Edison. That letter was never meant to be found by anyone other than his son, Charles.”
“And it certainly wasn’t meant to be used against him,” Ellen said. “George Flint is blackmailing a ghost with a secret that was supposed to be destroyed.”
“We have to let him know,” Sue said, sitting up. “We have the journal now. Flint doesn’t. Edison’s ghost is free.”
“And maybe he can finally help us shut the dang portal,” Tanya added.
Just then, a sharp knock rattled the front door.
“That should be John,” Tanya said as she went to the front window. She parted the curtain with two fingers and peered outside. She went pale. “It’s not John. It’s George Flint.”
Ellen stood. “Are you sure?”
“I see his car. And his face.” Tanya looked back at them, eyes wide with panic. “What do we do?”
“Stall him,” Ellen said, already reaching for her phone. “Don’t open the door. Just tell him we’ll be right there.”
“I’ll call John,” Sue said, pulling out her own phone.
Tanya tiptoed to the door and called out, “Just a minute!”
“Ladies,” George’s voice came from outside, muffled but unmistakably tense, “I know you have it. I just want to talk.”
Ellen dialed 9-1-1 and whispered to the dispatcher, “We’re at the Patrick Henry House at Dearborn Inn. A man is trying to break in. He’s dangerous.”
“I’ll send someone now,” the dispatcher assured her. “Please remain on the line.”
Just then, Tanya yelped. George had managed to crack the door open slightly. Before Tanya could stop him, he shoved it wide, forcing her backward.
“Give me the journal!” he shouted, storming into the front room.
Tanya stumbled and fell to the floor. “Hey!”
“Leave her alone!” Ellen cried, combing the room for a weapon.
George’s face was red, furious. “You don’t know what you’re doing. That book doesn’t belong to you.”
Sue lunged forward and threw a lamp at him. It hit his shoulder with a thud, but he barely flinched.
“Split up!” Ellen yelled.
The three women scattered. George lunged after Ellen, but she darted through the hallway and slammed the door to the kitchen behind her. She heard the sound of running footsteps—maybe Tanya upstairs, Sue to the master bath?
“What’s happening?” the voice over her 9-1-1 call asked. “Are you okay?”
Before Ellen could answer, George kicked the kitchen door with a loud crash. “You don’t understand! Edison’s work on the portal is nearly complete!”
Ellen scrambled through the kitchen and ducked into the pantry. She pulled the door shut and held her breath.
She heard him enter the kitchen, footsteps clapping on tile.
“Where are you?” he called out.
Ellen’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled to silence it. A text from Sue: I’m in the laundry room. You okay?
Ellen started typing a reply when the pantry door jerked open.
George loomed in the doorway, eyes wild. “Give it to me!”
“I don’t have it!” she insisted.
His hands reached for her—but just then, a loud thwack echoed through the house, followed by a yell.
“Stop, you maniac!” Sue shouted from behind him, her gun pointed at him.
Then: sirens.
George’s expression changed. He backed away, chest heaving. “You called the cops.”
“Darn right we did,” Tanya said, appearing beside Sue with a fireplace poker.
George spun around, startled, and bolted toward the front of the house. But it was too late. Blue and red lights danced through the windows. A voice called out from the porch, “This is the Dearborn Police! Come out with your hands up!”
George hesitated only a moment before raising his hands and walking out.
Ellen collapsed against the pantry wall, her legs trembling.
Tanya rushed over and helped her up. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” Ellen said. “Where’s the journal?”
Sue appeared in the doorway, the leather-bound notebook clutched against her chest like a life raft. “Safe.”
Outside, they heard officers shouting and handcuffing George. A minute later, John Coleman burst through the front door, breathless and wild-eyed.
He looked around the room, taking in the disarray. “Are you all okay?”
“We will be,” Ellen said. She reached for the journal, took it from Sue, and held it out to him. “But you need to read this.”
John took it, though he didn’t open it yet. “Did George hurt any of you?”
“He shoved Tanya and chased us around like a lunatic,” Sue said. “But we’re okay. It’s a good thing I had my gun.”
John exhaled. “He won’t be bothering anyone again. The police said he’ll be held for breaking and entering and assault. And if you’re willing to testify, he won’t be back at Greenfield Village either.”
“Oh, we’re willing,” Tanya said.
“More than willing,” Sue added.
Ellen looked at the journal, now resting in John’s hands. “The things he used to blackmail Edison . . . they were never meant to be seen. Edison’s last wishes were to burn those pages.”
John nodded solemnly. “Then it’s a good thing they’re in the right hands now.”
Ellen looked at her friends. “Now that Flint is out of the picture, it’s time to go back to the Farris Windmill.”
“And talk to Edison,” Sue said.
“Maybe now,” Tanya added, “he’ll be willing to help us close the portal.”
At that moment, a man carrying a large plastic sack walked up the sidewalk. “Did someone here order DoorDash?”
“Our lunch!” Ellen cried with a laugh. “I totally forgot!”
“I don’t think I can eat,” Tanya muttered as she sat down on the sofa.
“Well, I can,” Sue said, reaching for the sack. “Stress eating is my superpower.”
Chapter Nineteen
Motown and Momentum
L
ater that afternoon, Ellen removed her reading glasses in the back seat next to Sue as C.W. pulled up in front of the unassuming white-and-blue house that once changed the world.
“Is that it?” Tanya asked, peering through the front passenger’s window. “It looks like someone’s grandma still lives there.”
“That’s because someone’s grandma probably did live there,” C.W. replied. “Between recording hits.”
The sign above the porch read Hitsville U.S.A., the original home of Motown Records.
“We are standing at the birthplace of soul, ladies,” C.W. added as Ellen and her friends climbed out of the car.
“That’s right,” Ellen chastised. “Let’s show some reverence.”
“Reverence?” Sue grinned. “I came to sing.”
“I’m not surprised,” Tanya muttered, tugging her cardigan tighter against the chill in the air.
“I’ll be right here when you’re ready,” C.W. said with a wave as the three friends walked off.
The front door opened, and a young man with a slick ponytail and infectious smile greeted them. “Welcome to Hitsville! You’re just in time for the last tour of the day.”
Inside, the air felt heavy with nostalgia. Posters of Smokey Robinson, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, and Stevie Wonder lined the hallway. Original vinyl records gleamed from glass cases. The guide led them past Berry Gordy’s apartment-turned-office, explaining how he’d mortgaged his house to start Motown with an $800 loan.
“Now that’s what I call hustle,” Sue whispered to Ellen.
They entered a narrow studio lined with acoustic tiles. A baby grand piano stood in one corner, flanked by a drum set and a mic on a stand.
“This,” the guide said with reverence, “is Studio A, the Hit Factory. Almost every Motown hit from 1959 to 1972 was recorded right here.”
Ellen’s chest tightened with something like awe. She could feel the layers of sound still vibrating in the floorboards—baselines, tambourines, harmonies. Echoes of brilliance.
“Who wants to step up to the mic and test it out?” the guide asked, half-teasing.
Without missing a beat, Sue raised her hand. “Oh, I do.”
Tanya groaned. “Oh no.”
“Let her,” Ellen said, nudging Tanya with a grin. “She’s been itching to unleash her inner Supreme all week.”
Sue strutted up to the mic like she’d done it a hundred times before. “This one goes out to all the ghosts still grooving in the walls,” she said.
Then she belted: “Stop! In the name of love . . .”
Her voice rang out—rich, bold, and slightly flat.
A few tourists clapped. Ellen jumped in with, “Before you break my heart!”
Tanya crossed her arms. “I swear, if you make me sing backup—”
Sue gave her the eye. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t know the choreography.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Tanya stepped forward, reluctantly mimicking the classic arm movement—Stop!—in perfect time.
By the time they sang the chorus, even the guide was swaying.
Ellen laughed until her stomach hurt. Here they were, three women in their sixties, mid-paranormal investigation, singing their hearts out in one of the most sacred studios in music history.
Somehow, it made perfect sense.
After the applause and a few photo ops, they moved back toward the museum’s final exhibits. As the crowd dispersed, Ellen lingered near a timeline showing the evolution of Motown’s influence through the Civil Rights era. Something about it—the momentum of that era, the courage, the creativity—struck a chord deep inside her.
“Hey,” Sue said, stepping beside her. “You okay?”
“I’m just thinking,” Ellen replied. “All this started from one man’s dream and a whole lot of faith.”
Sue lifted a brow. “Kind of like us.”
Tanya joined them, holding her phone. “All right, rock stars. We’ve got a dinner reservation in thirty minutes. Grand Trunk Pub. Let’s go before Sue tries to start a flash mob.”
Sue fluffed her bangs. “You’re just jealous of my pipes.”
They exited into the cool twilight air and started down the steps, their laughter carrying into the breeze. But as they climbed back into the Uber with C.W., Ellen sobered.
Once they were buckled in and headed toward downtown, she leaned forward slightly. “Okay. Let’s talk about what’s next.”
“You mean the part where we somehow convince a dead Thomas Edison to close a ghost portal he opened last fall?” Tanya asked.
“Yes. That part.” Ellen lowered her voice, “We know George Flint no longer has control over him. That’s the good news.”
“But Edison’s already halfway gone,” Sue said. “He admitted that he’s evil, he’s the darkness.”
“Which is why we need a new strategy,” Ellen replied. “We have to reach what’s left of his humanity.”
“Appeal to his better conscience,” Tanya added. “Assuming he has one.”
Ellen nodded. “That letter to Charles—his confession—that showed regret. Guilt. That’s what we have to tap into.”
Sue crossed her arms. “We can’t exactly convince him with a puppy and a TED Talk.”
Ellen sighed. “No, but we can let him know we’re not his enemies. We have his journal. We know his secret. And we want to help him make it right.”
C.W. shook his head. “I don’t know how you ladies do it. This sounds scary as hell to me.”
“It’s for a good cause,” Sue piped up.
Ellen grinned. “We’re not sure, but we may just be saving the world.”
C.W. chuckled. “Oh, is that all?”
Tanya frowned. “You really think we can reason with a ghost who ripped a hole between realms, even though it threatens life as we know it?”
“I think we have to try,” Ellen said. “Before he finishes what he started. Who knows what that looks like, what that even means. He said, ‘Destroys life.’”
“Yeah,” Sue said with a sigh. “I don’t want to find out what that means.”
The car turned onto Woodward Avenue.
Sue gave Ellen a mischievous look. “You know what we need?”
“A miracle?” Tanya guessed from the front passenger’s seat.
“Wine,” Sue declared. “And fries. And something with gravy. We can save the world after dessert.”
Ellen chuckled. “Fair enough.”
“But first,” Sue added, raising an eyebrow, “can we talk about how that museum guide was definitely flirting with me?”
“He was twenty-five,” Tanya said flatly.
“Exactly,” Sue beamed. “I’ve still got it.”
Ellen rolled her eyes. “You ‘had it’ because you sang in his sacred studio like it was karaoke night.”
