Ashes
The Adirondack wind, born in the icy grip of distant peaks, howled across Chateaugay Lake, whipping the water into a frenzy. Its icy fingers clawed at the ramshackle wooden docks, the only evidence of civilization clinging to the lake’s rugged shoreline. Here, in 1850, amidst the whispering pines and the stark, skeletal beauty of winter, stood the ashery – a behemoth of blackened timbers and acrid smoke.
Alonson Roberts, a man carved from the wilderness itself, his eyes reflecting the cold glint of the lake, surveyed his domain. The acrid scent of burning wood hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of both his livelihood and the volatile nature of his enterprise. Five years ago, when he’d first hired Cromp – a man as enigmatic as the smoke itself – to manage the ashery, the settlement itself had been dubbed “Crompsville.” But Cromp, like the winter shadows, had vanished two years back, leaving Roberts with a simmering unease and a gnawing sense of mystery.
Tonight, the unease was a physical presence, a tightening knot in Roberts’ gut. The lake, usually a source of calm, seemed to churn with unspoken secrets. The wind carried whispers, not of icy gales, but of something darker, something sinister. The ashery, usually a beacon of warmth against the encroaching night, cast long, menacing shadows that danced with the flames.
A sudden thump from within shattered the unsettling quiet. Roberts’ hand instinctively tightened on the axe resting against his belt. He wasn’t afraid, not in the usual sense. The Adirondacks had forged him in its crucible, fear was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But tonight, something primal stirred within him, a disquiet he couldn’t shake.
Cautiously, he approached the ashery, the rhythmic crunch of his boots on the frozen ground the only sound. The shadows seemed to press in closer, the flames within casting grotesque figures on the rough-hewn walls. The thump came again, louder this time, followed by a muffled curse. Relief, sharp and unexpected, washed over Roberts. It was just Silas, the young apprentice Cromp had left behind – a skittish boy easily spooked by the creaks and groans of the old building.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of heat and smoke washing over him. Inside, the ashery was a furnace, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning wood. Silas, a gangly teenager with eyes wide with fear, stood by the towering brick kiln, a half-formed shovel of ash dangling from his hand.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Roberts’ voice, though gruff, held a hint of amusement.
Silas stammered, pointing towards the kiln. “I heard… somethin’ movin’ inside, Mr. Roberts. Like somethin’ was trapped.”
Roberts scoffed. “Probably just the draft, boy. These old kilns play tricks on ya.” But even as he spoke, a flicker of unease danced in his own eyes. The sound Silas described held a chilling familiarity, an echo of a memory he’d tried to bury.
He approached the kiln, its heat radiating like a malevolent presence. Hesitantly, he peered inside. The darkness within seemed to writhe, the shadows playing tricks on his eyes. Then, a glint of metal caught the firelight. He reached in, his hand brushing against something cold and hard. He pulled it out – a long, slender blade, its surface dulled but the edge still keen.
A jolt of recognition jolted him. This was no ordinary knife. It was Cromp’s blade, the one he always kept strapped to his thigh. The same blade that had vanished with Cromp himself. Its reappearance now, in the bowels of the kiln, sent a shiver down Roberts’ spine.
Silas whimpered, his fear mirroring Roberts’ own. “Mr. Roberts… do you think he’s back?”
The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered. The wind outside howled its mournful song, carrying with it the weight of secrets and the chill of fear. In the flickering light of the ashery, Alonson Roberts knew this was just the beginning. The mystery of Cromp’s disappearance, the disquiet that had gnawed at him for years, was about to erupt, consuming the ashery and the lives within it in a blaze hotter and more terrifying than any fire.
continued…
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?