The Whispering Windmill, page 15
She let her eyes unfocus, her mind empty. Let her thoughts fall away.
And then her hand moved.
At first, it was just a back-and-forth line, like idle doodling. She didn’t look down. That was part of the process. No expectations. Just let it flow. Her pencil scratched softly over the page. She wasn’t aware of her breathing. Wasn’t aware of the room. Only the strange rhythm of charcoal against paper, like a slow dance guided by invisible fingers.
She wasn’t sure how long she had drifted—minutes, maybe more.
Then something shifted. Her spine gave a little jolt, her eyes blinked fully open, and she looked down.
The page was no longer blank.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Drawn in meticulous, almost mechanical precision, was something that resembled a handheld electric drill—but not quite. It had an oblong handle with strange wire spiraling along the shaft, and a chamber that looked like it held some kind of crystal. What she assumed was the “bit” of the device wasn’t a drill at all, but a coil-shaped extension that flared into something resembling the mouth of a gramophone. The whole apparatus looked like it was meant to channel or emit something rather than puncture.
Ellen touched the edges of the page. Her fingers trembled.
It was beautiful and bizarre—part steampunk, part science fiction. She hadn’t designed this. Not consciously. She knew her own drawing style: loose, expressive, intuitive. But this was almost architectural. Rendered in tight, deliberate lines with shaded cross-sections, it looked like a patent diagram. The device floated on the page, annotated with little arrows and circles, though no words. No labels.
“Good grief,” she whispered. “What are we supposed to do with this?”
A strange ache settled between her shoulder blades. She wanted to feel accomplished—grateful, even. After all, Edison had answered her plea. He’d shown her what they needed.
But instead, she felt stumped. Frustrated. A little afraid.
How were they supposed to build this? What materials did it need? How did it work? It looked like something out of a fever dream—ingenious but alien. She and her friends weren’t electrical engineers, after all. Tanya had a solid mind for assembling things like IKEA furniture, but even she would need a manual, or at least a list of parts. Sue would try to research it, Ellen knew, but there was nothing like this in any book.
She stared at the page a moment longer, searching for meaning. But none came.
With a sigh, she closed the sketchbook and set it gently on the nightstand beside the lamp. The room felt colder now. More hollow. The trance had drained her, left her empty in that way that always followed spirit contact—like waking from a vivid dream and realizing the world had moved on without you.
Ellen slid back under the quilt, pulling it up to her chin.
She closed her eyes.
“Please,” she said aloud, “if you’re still listening, Thomas Alva Edison, I need more than a sketch. We need instructions. We need you to show us how. Not just the what. The how.”
The shadows in the corners of the room didn’t answer.
She lay there listening to the old house breathe, to the wind curling past the glass, wondering what waited for them at the windmill. What would happen if they couldn’t figure it out in time?
Eventually, her thoughts slowed. The warmth of the bed crept into her bones.
And just before sleep took her, a final thought echoed through her mind—not her own, not entirely:
The answer is already written. You just haven’t seen it yet.
Ellen stood in the middle of Menlo Lab, but it wasn’t how she remembered it. Everything shimmered, faintly translucent, as though she was walking through the memory of a place rather than the place itself. A low hum vibrated in the air, deep and electric, like standing too close to a substation. The overhead lights flickered with a sickly, amber glow.
She turned slowly in place. Shadows danced behind frosted windows, and old machines seemed to pulse with life.
“Hello?” she called out.
No answer came.
Then—footsteps. Slow, even. From the far end of the lab, past a display of glass vacuum tubes and dusty workbenches, a figure emerged.
It was the Hat Man.
But this time, he appeared to her as more than a shadowy silhouette. He wore a dark waistcoat and a gray felt hat. His expression was calm and studious.
“Thomas Alva Edison?” Ellen asked, her voice catching.
He nodded once.
Without speaking, he raised his hand and gestured toward a nearby table. On it lay a strange collection of mismatched objects: a bright red plastic water gun, its nozzle cracked; a length of coiled copper wire; a flickering, half-shattered light bulb; two bulky batteries; a handful of metal screws; a silver fishing reel; a curved sewing needle; a quartz crystal; and what looked like a rubber gasket from a garden hose.
“These are the parts,” he said finally, his voice clear but echoing strangely. “Each is important.”
Ellen stared at them, puzzled—until, slowly, her mind began piecing them together like components of a puzzle. It wasn’t just junk. These could form the body of the device. Housing, wiring, a power source, and some kind of rudimentary motor. It was crude. Makeshift. But possible.
Ellen took a step forward, staring at the collection.
Edison moved aside, revealing another table, empty except for a sheet of aged paper. As she watched, ink began to materialize across its surface. Schematics. The same image she’d sketched earlier, but now overlaid with numbers, symbols, and a series of small notations in an elegant, slanted hand.
His hand.
Then the vision began to blur. The lab darkened.
Ellen’s heart raced. “Wait! I don’t understand—what are we supposed to—”
Edison looked at her again. “The instructions are on the pages I told Charles to burn. The end of the journal. After the goodbye.”
He raised a finger and pointed to the ceiling. Ellen followed his gaze.
Above them, a windmill spun slowly—upside down—its blades turning against a moonless sky.
And then she awoke.
For a moment, Ellen didn’t move. Her heart was still galloping from the dream, her body too warm under the blankets. It had been so vivid. The copper wire, the water gun, batteries, the voice of Edison in her head.
She sat up slowly and rubbed her face. Then she reached for the sketchbook on the nightstand and opened to the page she’d drawn the night before.
The device was still there—detailed, mechanical, impossible.
A knock sounded softly on her door.
“Ellen?” Tanya’s voice, slightly groggy. “Bagels and caffeine in the kitchen.”
“Be right there.”
She dressed quickly and padded barefoot downstairs, the creaky steps making her feel like a teenager sneaking in after curfew. The scent of dark roast coffee and toasted sesame bagels greeted her as she stepped into the cozy, colonial-style kitchen. Sunlight pooled across the wide pine floors, and Sue was already at the long table, cream cheese in one hand, her reading glasses perched at the end of her nose.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Sue said with a smirk.
Ellen gave a tired smile. “I didn’t see him.” She set the sketchbook down on the table, opened to her most recent drawing. “But he did this.”
Tanya turned from the coffeepot, interest sparking in her eyes. “Did you draw that?”
“I was in a trance. I didn’t know what I was drawing until it was finished.”
Tanya leaned over the image, her brows lifting. “That’s incredible. It’s like a handheld generator crossed with a Tesla coil.”
“That’s not all.” Ellen looked between them. “I dreamed I was back in Menlo Lab. Edison was there. He showed me this table full of strange items—things we’re supposed to collect. I think they’re materials for the device.”
Sue lowered her bagel. “I had the same dream. Almost exactly. A water gun and fishing reel—I thought it was just some bizarre subconscious metaphor.”
“Same here,” Tanya said. “Except mine ended with something else—He said the instructions are written there now. At the end. Past the letter to Charles.”
Ellen’s mouth fell open slightly. “He told me the same thing.”
“Me, too,” Sue said, standing up to grab her phone. “Where’s the journal?”
Ellen hastened to the sitting room and retrieved Edison’s secret journal from one of her bags. She carried it to a wide side table beneath the kitchen window and opened to the last entry—the one Edison had written to his son, Charles, confessing his smear campaign against Westinghouse and Tesla.
Sue and Tanya gathered around her, holding their breath.
Beyond the closing signature—Your father, Thomas Alva Edison—the pages appeared untouched. Off-white. Pristine.
And then . . . a spark.
The ink shimmered, faint at first, like an incandescent bulb turning on. A single line appeared, like the stroke of a fountain pen moving across paper.
You must build it exactly as described. No substitutions. No deviations.
The words were followed by an intricate diagram—far more detailed than Ellen’s trance sketch. It was the same device, but broken into labeled sections, each with notes in Edison’s unmistakable hand. Descriptions of the parts: the copper coil wound around the core; the adapted water gun housing; the battery chamber; the configuration of the fishing reel motor; how the sewing needle must be aligned with the quartz crystal.
As they watched, more lines appeared—step-by-step instructions, calculations, material ratios.
Tanya paled. “That wasn’t there before.”
“I know,” Ellen said softly. Her voice trembled, though she tried to steady it. “He’s still working. Even now.”
Tanya ran a hand over her mouth, staring as if the pages might burst into flames. “I guess this will help us to stop the windmill from whispering, to close the portal.”
“Yes,” Sue said. “If we survive.”
“We’ll survive,” Ellen assured her friends, though she wasn’t so sure herself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
If You Build It
T
he automatic doors whooshed open, releasing a burst of chilled air that smelled faintly of plastic and disinfectant. Ellen stepped into Walmart with her two closest friends on either side, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like discontented bees.
Behind them, C.W. pushed an empty cart with the solemnity of a chauffeur navigating unfamiliar terrain.
“Well,” Sue said, glancing down at the hastily scribbled list, “let’s go gather the arcane ingredients of our ghost-busting spell, shall we?”
“I’ll take the batteries and light bulbs,” Tanya offered, already veering toward electronics.
“I’ll get the toy section,” Ellen said. “You know, where all the magical portal-closing water guns are kept.”
C.W. gave her a mock salute. “I’ll go find snacks. No way you’re saving the world without gummy worms.”
“I like the way you think,” Sue said to C.W. “I guess I’ll look for the rest of the materials, starting with the curved sewing needle.”
They split up, navigating the aisles like seasoned treasure hunters. Ellen found the water guns quickly—a neon-green Super Soaker with a cracked cap caught her eye. It looked ridiculous, but in her mind, she could already see it housing the copper coil and batteries. She picked it up with the solemnity of someone choosing a weapon from a sacred armory.
By the time they regrouped near checkout, they had everything but the copper wire and the quartz crystal.
“Hardware store next?” Sue asked.
“On Ford Road,” C.W. said, pulling out his phone. “Eight minutes, give or take traffic delays.”
The hardware store was nearly empty when they arrived, the bell on the door chiming softly. Ellen trailed a finger along rows of screws and wire spools, befuddled by gauges and tensile strength. They found the perfect roll—bright copper, flexible but strong.
After they paid and left the store, C.W. loaded the bag with the rest in the back of his car. “Y’all building a bomb or a time machine?”
Ellen smiled. “Neither. Just a way to close the gates of the underworld.”
He blinked. “Well, I hope it comes with instructions.”
Sue muttered, “Sort of.”
“Next stop,” Tanya turned to C.W., “crystal shop.”
The sun was already sinking as they returned to the Patrick Henry House. Shadows stretched long across the garden, and cicadas buzzed in the background like nature’s static. Ellen carried the bag with the journal like it might detonate if jostled.
C.W. helped them unload the gear onto the long dining table, then hesitated at the door.
“You sure you don’t want help? I do know how to use a screwdriver.”
“Thanks,” Sue said, giving his hand a squeeze. “But we’ve got this.”
“At least, we hope we do,” Tanya murmured.
C.W. held Sue’s gaze a moment longer, and Ellen wondered if maybe he really was into Sue. Then, he nodded. “Okay. But call if the thing starts smoking or growling.”
As the door closed behind him, Ellen exhaled and set the water gun down in the center of the table. Tanya flicked on the chandelier light overhead, and Sue passed out bottles of water like they were gearing up for a marathon.
“So, we gut it first?” Tanya asked, rolling up her sleeves.
Ellen nodded. “I’ll do the dissection. Someone read the schematics again.”
Sue opened the journal to the final pages. The writing had stopped manifesting, but the diagrams and instructions were clear. They laid out the order in which parts should be placed, how the coil should be wrapped, and how the batteries needed to be seated to conduct a low, continuous current—strong enough to interact with spiritual energy, but not strong enough to electrocute anyone living.
As Ellen carefully dismantled the water gun, she marveled at how perfectly the shape fit the device in her sketch. Tanya had already wound the copper wire into the correct configuration, checking the coil against Edison’s diagram with almost obsessive precision.
They worked for an hour in relative silence, save for the occasional burst of colorful language from Tanya when the screws didn’t line up.
They didn’t eat so much as inhale their DoorDash pasta, alternating bites of penne and swigs of water while assembling and soldering.
“Who knew building a ghost drill would be the weirdest thing we did this week?” Sue muttered, pointing her headband light toward the device while Ellen soldered the wire ends to the terminals of the batteries.
“Speak for yourself,” Ellen said. “I got goosed by Henry Ford’s ghost.”
“Really?” Tanya asked with lifted brows.
Ellen shook her head. “You’re too easy, Tanya.”
They all laughed—until Sue’s phone buzzed loudly on the table.
Sue glanced at the screen. “It’s John.”
Ellen and Tanya looked up at once.
“Put him on speaker,” Ellen said.
Sue tapped a button. “John? We’re—”
“Things have gotten worse,” John’s voice interrupted, tense and low. “My staff’s reporting incidents.”
“What kind of incidents?” Tanya asked sharply.
“I thought it was a prank at first. One of the night guards said he saw someone on the Greenfield Village grounds. He gave chase. Said it looked like a teenager.”
Ellen felt her stomach tighten. “And?”
“He ran through him,” John said. “Said the air went cold. Then the kid just disappeared. And he’s not the only one. Someone saw a figure near the Menlo Lab window. Another near the covered bridge. They’re all seeing different people—some dressed like it’s 1920, others in rags.”
Sue glanced at Ellen, then Tanya. “They’re coming through.”
“Yes,” John confirmed. “I think the portal’s widening. And there’s something else.”
Ellen held her breath.
“What is it, John?” Sue prompted.
“It could be a coincidence, but Leroy . . . you met him, he was one of my docents at Menlo Park . . . was found dead in Menlo Lab early this morning.”
Ellen felt the blood leave her face. She glanced at her friends, who had turned as pale as she had.
“No known cause of death?” Ellen managed to ask.
“They’re saying heart attack, but I don’t know, ladies. I’m worried that it may have had something to do with the windmill.”
“We’re on it,” Ellen assured him once her wits had returned. She told him about the device they were building and their plan to return to the windmill to use it. That very night.
“Sounds terrifying,” John admitted. “Call me when you’re ready to head up there.”
The line went dead.
No one moved for a long moment.
Then Sue clapped her hands. “All right, let’s build this thing.”
They got back to work, this time with urgency. The rubber gasket was fitted around the wire chamber, the fishing reel affixed to the internal motor unit, the batteries nestled snugly into their slots. Lastly, the crystal went into its cavity before Ellen attached the sewing needle, threading it through a channel Tanya had melted into the plastic body with a hot butter knife. It looked almost surgical.
When the last screw clicked into place, they all stood back and stared.
The device was ugly—a Frankenstein of salvaged parts and historical desperation—but it pulsed faintly with a heat that seemed both electric and otherworldly.
“It’s humming,” Sue whispered.
“Like it’s alive,” Tanya added.
Ellen picked it up. It vibrated faintly in her hand, like it was aware. A low, steady thrum passed through her palm, up her arm, into her shoulder. It wasn’t painful—just present.
