The Whispering Windmill, page 2
John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We normally reopen Greenfield Village in April, just after Easter. We close every winter for maintenance, safety reasons, weather. But this year . . .” He hesitated, pressing his lips together. “There’s serious talk about delaying the opening. Possibly canceling the entire spring season.”
Ellen sat straighter. “Because of the windmill?”
“Yes.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “Like I said on the phone, we’ve had an increase in visitor complaints. Whispering voices near the Farris Windmill—disembodied, eerie. Some people thought it was a prank, others thought it was a speaker malfunction. But we checked. There’s no audio equipment out there.”
“What kind of voices?” Tanya asked.
“Faint at first,” John said. “But they’ve gotten stronger. One woman swore someone whispered her name. A group of schoolkids heard what sounded like a man reciting numbers—over and over. A retired couple got so spooked they demanded a refund and left halfway through the tour. And they weren’t the only visitors wanting their money back.”
“And this only happens at the windmill?” Ellen asked, eyes sharp.
“Mostly, yes. Though a few docents say they’ve heard things near the Menlo Lab, too. But nothing consistent. The windmill is the epicenter.”
Sue leaned forward. “Any crimes or murders associated with the place?”
John frowned. “The Farris Windmill is the oldest windmill in the country. Built around 1633, moved here from Cape Cod in the late 1930s. But I’m afraid I don’t know much beyond that.”
“We’ll start there,” Ellen said. “We’ve got some research to do.”
“I knew I called the right people,” John said with a grateful smile.
Sue rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry—but I’ve been up since five, and my brain’s not quite firing on all cylinders.”
“Like it ever does,” Ellen teased.
“That’s true, Ellen,” Sue said with a grin. “It’s a good thing I don’t need as many cylinders as most people.”
Chuckling, John stood, brushing invisible lint from his coat. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve made special arrangements.”
“Oh?” Tanya asked.
“I’ve booked the Patrick Henry House for you. It’s the largest of six colonial homes next to the inn. Completely restored, beautifully furnished, and all yours for as long as you need.”
Sue’s eyes lit up. “Now that’s more like it.”
John chuckled again. “Follow me, and I’ll help you get settled in.”
As the women gathered their bags and followed him back into the cold, Ellen felt a surge of excitement shoot through her bones. There was nothing like the start of a new mystery.
“Lead the way,” Ellen said to John with a grin.
Chapter Three
The Patrick Henry House
B
y the time John Coleman guided them through a white iron gate and down a winding brick path toward the Patrick Henry House, the last blush of sunset had faded into a moody lavender sky. The colonial mansion stood regal in the growing dusk, its symmetrical façade bathed in the warm glow of outdoor lanterns. Snow clung to the shrubs that lined the walk, and frost crept like lace along the bottom panes of the tall windows.
“Oh, my stars,” Sue whispered as they stepped onto the wide front porch. “We are not in Texas anymore.”
Ellen smiled, already admiring the architecture—white clapboard siding, black shutters, a steep-pitched roof. The stately house had the soul of a museum and the warmth of a home. It was easy to imagine it lit by candlelight, with powdered wigs and Revolutionary talk echoing through the halls.
John unlocked the door with a skeleton key and pushed it open with a dramatic flourish as he removed his gray fedora from his head. “Welcome to your home away from home.”
The scent of old wood, lemon polish, and just a hint of firewood greeted them. Ellen stepped inside first, struck immediately by the elegance of the wide center hall, with gleaming hardwood floors and a grand staircase curving gently up to the second level. Crown molding framed every doorway, and antique sconces cast a golden glow on the cream walls.
“Oh, I’m going to love this,” Tanya breathed as she walked into the front sitting room. “It’s like staying in a living piece of history.”
“You could film a period drama in here,” Ellen agreed, running her fingers along the polished surface of a Queen Anne sideboard.
They toured the main floor first, oohing and ahhing through the richly furnished sitting room with its fireplace and velvet drapes, then on to a formal dining room with a ten-foot-long table and gleaming silver tea service. Every detail felt curated, from the oil portraits lining the walls to the brass candlesticks and spindle-back chairs.
When they reached the large, white kitchen in the back of the main wing—updated but still charmingly colonial—Tanya said, “I call dibs on not cooking.”
“Same,” Sue replied. “This is a vacation-slash-investigation. I vote we order in and keep the oven purely decorative.”
“Too bad Angelina couldn’t come with us,” Ellen teased.
“It really is,” Sue agreed. “I asked her if she’d come live with me in San Antonio and continue what she was doing in Montana. I even said she could have my husband, but I guess it wasn’t enough to tempt her.”
John shook his head and showed them the layout of the house, explaining that the east and west wings couldn’t be accessed from the central hall. “They’re beautiful but a bit isolated,” he said. “You’d have to go outside to reach them—no interior doors connect them to the main structure.”
“Well, that’s a no from me,” Sue said immediately. “No way am I walking through the snow in my pajamas to make a circle of protection with my friends.”
That brought them to the main floor’s master bedroom—a spacious room with an intricately carved four-poster bed, a private bath, and tall windows draped in brocade.
“Now this,” Sue said, spinning slowly in the center of the rug, “is where I shall rest my weary bones.”
Tanya raised an eyebrow. “Already staked your claim?”
Sue glanced toward the grand staircase just outside the bedroom. “You know me and stairs. This ankle’s been clicking since the plane landed.”
Ellen and Tanya exchanged a look. They always gave Sue the downstairs room, and Ellen couldn’t exactly argue with the logic. But her knees had been giving her a hard time lately, and the idea of climbing stairs after a long day of ghost hunting didn’t thrill her either.
“The other downstairs bedroom is also nice,” John said, leading them to a smaller room near the back of the house off the kitchen. It was charming enough, with a spindle bed, floral wallpaper, and a hand-stitched quilt. “But it doesn’t have an attached bath. You’d have to walk through the sitting room to use the powder room.”
Tanya grimaced. “So, basically I’d have to sneak past Sue like a burglar if I had to pee at two in the morning.”
Sue grinned. “I do sleep with one eye open.”
Ellen chuckled but stepped toward the staircase. “Let’s see what’s upstairs before we declare war over bathroom proximity.”
The staircase creaked beneath their boots as she followed Tanya up, and Ellen tried not to picture it creaking for entirely different reasons in the dead of night. At the top, a wide landing opened into a corridor flanked by doors on either side. The ceilings sloped gently with the roofline, and the scent up here was more attic than polish—cozy and nostalgic.
Each new bedroom was more charming than the last. One had deep blue wallpaper with a canopy bed and a writing desk by the window. Another was done in sage green and white, with a chaise lounge and delicate floral curtains. Every single one had its own en suite bathroom, complete with clawfoot tubs and vintage fixtures.
“Well,” Tanya said, hands on her hips. “Looks like I found my room.”
Ellen nodded toward the blue room. “That one’s calling to me.”
“I knew you’d find something you liked up there,” Sue said from the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re lucky we’re easy to please,” Tanya called down.
They gathered back downstairs, where John handed them each an old-fashioned brass key.
“Again, thank you for coming,” he said. “Take the evening to settle in. I’ve left some brochures and maps in the kitchen, along with some sample reports from our security team and maintenance staff. We’ve documented some of the more unusual incidents around the windmill.”
“We’ll dive into it first thing tomorrow,” Ellen said.
John nodded. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. Ten o’clock okay? I thought we’d start with a tour of Greenfield Village.”
“Can we make it ten fifteen?” Sue asked.
“Ten-fifteen it is,” he replied as he returned his hat to his head. “Goodnight, ladies. If you need anything, my cell is written on the kitchen bulletin board.”
Once the front door clicked shut behind him, Sue let out a long sigh. “He seems nice. Nervous, but nice.”
“They’re probably all a little spooked,” Ellen said. “I would be, too, if I ran a hundred-year-old history park and it suddenly started whispering to tourists.”
“Yeah.” Tanya grabbed her luggage from beside the front door. “This isn’t your run-of-the-mill haunting.”
Ellen turned to Sue. “Why did you ask for an additional fifteen minutes?”
Sue blushed. “I know you won’t understand this, but I need at least that much time on YouTube with the Mo Mummy machine when I first wake up, especially now, when I can’t play on it in person.”
Tanya groaned. “You’ve got a serious problem, Sue.”
“Everyone has problems, Tanya, and mine’s not hurting anyone—not yet, at least.”
Tanya arched a brow but said nothing as she turned and headed up the stairs with her luggage.
Ellen lingered in the sitting room, gazing out the window at the snowy path. A breeze stirred the trees beyond the fence, bare limbs rattling like bones. In the distance, a soft whir of wind danced through the branches—almost like a whisper.
Ellen tugged the covers up around her lap, propped a pillow behind her back, and adjusted the reading glasses perched on her nose. The bedroom’s antique furnishings glowed softly in the amber light of the brass bedside lamp, gently illuminating the floral wallpaper. Outside the tall windows, a March wind rattled the panes, but inside, the Patrick Henry House was warm, still, and peaceful—at least for the moment.
She’d just spoken to Brian on the phone for a quick check-in and was missing him and Moseby when she reached for the manila folder John Coleman had left for them on the kitchen counter. Ellen had slipped the folder under her arm along with her favorite tea and retreated upstairs after Sue declared it was “officially pajama o’clock.”
Now, she began flipping through the contents. Typed notes, photocopied emails, and handwritten witness statements—some recent, others dating back a few months. She skimmed the headers: Windmill Whispers Intensify, Unexplained Machinery Noise, Child Claims to See “Man in the Blades.”
She paused at a witness report from last September.
Date: September 1
Visitor Name: Cynthia Mallory
Incident: “Around 3:00 p.m., while standing near the windmill with my two grandsons, we heard what sounded like a woman humming. It was faint but close, as if it came from the blades themselves. When I looked up, one of the boys asked, ‘Who’s the lady standing in the top window?’ There was no one there. But we all saw movement. I don’t scare easily, but we left after that.”
Ellen’s skin prickled. She imagined the silhouette of a woman behind the small window of the mill tower, peering down at tourists. It reminded her of the lady of the lighthouse in Biloxi. She turned the page.
Date September 25
Visitor Name: James Rodriguez
Incident: “My wife and son and I were visiting the Farris Windmill when I saw a shadow of a man wearing a black hat in the tower window. When I pointed him out to my wife and son, he vanished. I know I didn’t imagine it.”
More reports, from October.
Date: October 8
Visitor Name: Fred Amari
Incident: “My ten-year-old daughter and I were admiring the Farris Windmill this morning when we heard what sounded like a child’s voice cry, ‘Help me!’ We looked all around the windmill and in the nearby buildings but never found the source of the cry. We returned to the windmill and heard it again, but this time, with a threat: ‘Help me, or you’ll be sorry!’ I told my daughter that enough is enough, and we left the park and asked for our money back.”
Date: October 12
Staff Member Name: Betty Nelson
Incident: “While dusting the shelves in Menlo Lab on the second floor, I saw a shadow man wearing a black hat standing at the top of the stairs. He tipped his hat at me and disappeared down the stairs. I should have followed him, but I couldn’t move for many minutes. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
That was two sightings of a hat man, Ellen thought. Turning the page over, she read a report from early November.
Date: November 2
Visitor Name: Deanna Humphreys
Incident: “It was just before noon when my husband and I walked over to the windmill. The blades were barely moving. At first, I thought the murmuring was caused by the movement of the blades. But the closer we got to the windmill the clearer the whispering became. Someone was reciting numbers. My husband opened the door to the tower, and we both peered in. There was no one inside. But we both felt a strange chill inside—even colder than the air on the outside. We didn’t want a refund but thought someone should know.”
Ellen yawned, determined to read one more report.
Date: February 21
Staff Member Name: Darrell Hines
Incident: “During scheduled maintenance, I was inspecting the mill’s upper gears when the air turned icy. It was a clear, mild day. No reason for the temp to drop like that. I heard a whisper behind me, like a woman’s voice, right in my ear: ‘Help me.’ I looked around, no one. Got out of there fast.”
Ellen swallowed. She could practically feel the breath at her own ear, the soft words hanging in the air like smoke. She set the folder aside and glanced around her room—still safe, still silent. But the unease lingered.
She flipped to a final report—a hand-scrawled note, no date.
“The voices only come when the blades spin. And sometimes they spin even when the wind doesn’t blow.”
Ellen stared at the words. The windmill was old, mechanical. It shouldn’t move without wind.
As she was about to close the folder, a sticky Post-it note dropped into her lap. On it was a note from John: “Not everyone at Henry Ford is on board with your investigation, so please only report your activities and findings to me.”
She reread the note, wondering if there would be anyone causing her and her team any problems.
She closed the folder and laid it on the other side of the bed, where Brian would be lying if he were there with her.
Then, from somewhere downstairs, a faint creak. Just the house settling, she told herself.
Still, she decided to leave her lamp on for the night.
Just in case.
Chapter Four
Greenfield Village
E
llen tugged her crocheted beanie down over her ears as the unmistakable chuff-chuff-chuff of an approaching engine turned her gaze to the road outside the Patrick Henry House. A black Model T Ford rolled into view, its paint glistening despite the overcast March sky. With its brass accents and high carriage wheels, it looked like something straight out of an old newsreel.
“Well, would you look at that,” Tanya said, setting down her mug of coffee and hurrying to the door with Sue and Ellen behind her.
John Coleman grinned from behind the large steering wheel, gloved hands steady. He tipped his gray fedora as he said, “Your chariot awaits, ladies.”
“Dibs on the front seat!” Tanya called, already making her way down the front steps.
Sue blinked at the vehicle and arched a skeptical brow. “That thing has brakes, right? And I don’t mean Flintstones brakes.”
John chuckled. “It’s got brakes, shock absorbers, and exactly twenty horsepower of sheer adrenaline. You’ll be perfectly safe. And possibly cold.”
“Great,” Sue muttered, pulling her coat tighter. “Just what I’ve always wanted: a bumpy ride in a glorified tractor.”
Ellen laughed, sliding into the back beside her. The seat was firm but surprisingly comfortable. “C’mon, Sue. This is history on wheels. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it in my suitcase with the thermal socks I should’ve worn,” she grumbled as the Model T jolted to life again.
As they rumbled down the quiet street toward Greenfield Village, the wind carried the sharp bite of early Michigan spring. The sky above was a pewter dome, the trees along the sidewalk skeletal against the gray.
“So,” John called over his shoulder, “how did you all sleep?”
“No ghostly visitors,” Ellen said. “At least, not yet.”
Sue rolled her eyes. “Speak for yourself. I swear I heard something thumping upstairs around midnight.”
“That was probably Tanya doing yoga in her room,” Ellen teased.
Tanya glanced back with a grin. “It’s called stretching, thank you very much. My joints don’t like stairs either.”
Ellen noticed large birds that seemed to be grazing in the grass on the roadside. They were beautiful and elegant, like swans, but had the color of geese.
“Are those geese?” she asked John.
“Canadian geese. They’re a nuisance, really.”
She saw more along the roadside. “So lovely.”
