To expand production, Warwick had recently purchased an abandoned textile mill that had been sitting unused for decades, acquiring the property from the local government for an unusually low price before beginning renovation work.
That abandoned mill was also the source of the disappearances Peters had asked Orion Locke to investigate.
The property stood northeast of Monroe in a sparsely populated area, with wooded hills rising in the distance and a fast-moving river passing below the old industrial grounds.
Despite the decaying factory itself, the surrounding landscape was surprisingly peaceful.
Roughly three or four miles west of the mill sat a fading little town populated mostly by elderly residents, many of whom had once worked at the factory before it closed.
Under the blazing Louisiana sun, Orion’s new Chevrolet Suburban rolled slowly down the main street before stopping outside the town’s only tavern.
Warwick had been frustratingly vague about what was happening inside the factory, perhaps because he genuinely didn’t understand it himself, so Orion had decided to speak with locals before walking blindly into another possible supernatural incident.
“Hannibal, stay in the truck,” Orion said before opening the driver’s door.
The enormous ogre sat quietly in the rear, dressed in a black tactical suit reinforced with metal plates across the chest and back, while an oversized black helmet concealed most of his deformed features.
A heavy kukri hung at his waist because Hannibal’s fingers had become so thick after the Black Book’s enhancement that using the triggers on normal firearms was difficult.
Even sitting motionless, the eight-foot mutant looked intimidating enough to make most people cross the street.
Most unusual of all, both Orion and Hannibal now carried legitimate Ouachita Parish Sheriff’s Office credentials.
After accepting Peters’s request, Orion had refused the additional check and instead asked him to solve Hannibal’s complete lack of legal identity, something far more useful than another payment.
Backman had demonstrated just how extensive Peters’s local influence was by arranging government records for Hannibal and securing limited reserve-deputy credentials for both men through the sheriff’s office.
In less than a day, Hannibal had gone from an undocumented cannibal raised in the wilderness to a man who officially existed in county databases and carried law-enforcement identification.
Orion hadn’t refused the favor because having legitimate credentials could make investigations considerably easier, particularly when questioning locals, accessing restricted areas, or convincing civilians to leave dangerous locations.
He had also chosen not to bring John and the rest of the Bison team, since if the mill contained something comparable to the Collector or the mutant cannibals, ordinary soldiers might become liabilities rather than useful backup.
Orion pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside.
Several locals were scattered around tables eating lunch and talking quietly, while a heavyset older man with a thick beard polished glasses behind the bar.
The bartender’s eyes immediately settled on Orion’s badge before moving upward to his enormous frame.
“Afternoon, Deputy.
What can I get you?” “Ice water.” Orion took a seat at the bar.
The bartender filled a glass and placed it in front of him, then leaned closer before Orion could even begin asking questions.
“You’re here about the old textile mill up on the hill, aren’t you?
Heard people have gone missing up there.” His eagerness made it obvious that the entire town already knew something was wrong.
The residents had initially been delighted when Warwick’s company purchased the abandoned property and announced plans to reopen it.
The town itself had originally grown around the mill, and decades of closure had slowly drained away jobs, businesses, and younger families.
A functioning factory employing hundreds of workers could breathe life back into a community that had been fading for years.
Instead, several cleaning crews sent into the abandoned mill had vanished.
Rumors quickly followed, with workers whispering about strange noises, enormous rats, and something moving beneath the building.
By now, the town seemed less interested in when the mill would reopen than in whether someone could finally explain what was happening inside it.
“If you mean the mill Warwick bought, that’s exactly why I’m here.” Orion took a drink before asking, “But I’ve heard people around here call it the Graveyard Mill.
Where did that name come from?” The bartender shrugged.
“Because there’s an old grave inside the factory grounds.
You can see the entrance from near the main gate.” Orion frowned slightly.
“Someone built a textile mill directly over a grave?” “Pretty much.” “Anything valuable buried there?” The question came naturally because Orion remembered enough scams and criminal schemes from his previous life to know that businesses were sometimes used as fronts for excavations or illegal digging.
The bartender immediately shook his head.
“Nothing like that.
That grave’s centuries old, and as far as anyone knows, there’s nothing down there except bones.” He continued polishing the glass while explaining, “The company built there because the land was practically free back then, and having the river nearby made industrial water use and waste disposal convenient.
People cared a lot less about disturbing an old grave when there was money to be made.” Orion studied him for a moment and asked, “You seem to know the mill pretty well.” “I should.” The man grinned.
“Name’s Bob.
I used to handle accounts up there before the place closed.” Bob explained that the old owner had died unexpectedly in a car accident more than thirty years earlier, and the factory collapsed financially soon afterward when the economy turned against it.
Once production stopped, most workers eventually moved away, while the few who remained grew old with the town around them.
Before Orion could ask anything further, an elderly voice came from one of the nearby tables.
“Bob’s wrong about one thing.” Orion turned.
A thin man somewhere in his seventies or eighties slowly rose from his chair.
He wore an old-fashioned gray suit that looked several decades out of date, and despite his frail appearance, his eyes remained remarkably sharp.
“That grave on the hill wasn’t made for an ordinary local.” Bob groaned from behind the counter.
“Oh, here we go.
Charles is telling his stories again.” Orion ignored the bartender’s irritation.
After everything he had encountered during the last few days, local legends deserved more attention than they once would have.
“What have you heard?” The old man approached and offered his hand.
“Charles.
I’m something of a local historian.” “Former elementary-school teacher,” Bob called from the kitchen.
Charles showed no embarrassment.
“That too.” He lowered himself onto the stool beside Orion and spoke more quietly.
“The person buried beneath that hill was supposedly a messenger belonging to an ancient order of weavers.
Not a church exactly, despite what some local stories call it.
An organization.” Orion’s interest sharpened.
“What organization?” “The Fraternity.” According to the legend, centuries ago a group of weavers discovered that imperfections appearing in woven fabric could be interpreted as a hidden binary code.
Those messages formed names, and the weavers came to believe that Fate itself was identifying people whose deaths would prevent greater suffering.
From that belief grew a secret brotherhood of assassins known as the Fraternity, while the mysterious machine producing those messages became known as the Loom of Fate.
Orion remained silent as Charles continued.
The story sounded absurd, but no more absurd than a supernatural mask capable of altering its wearer’s mind or an eight-foot mutant currently sitting inside his Suburban.
In the world Orion remembered from his previous life, the Fraternity and its textile-mill headquarters belonged to Wanted, where an ancient Loom supposedly dictated assassination targets through flaws in woven fabric.
Charles leaned closer, lowering his voice as though someone might overhear them.
“The old stories say the order was persecuted in Europe, and one of its messengers eventually crossed the Atlantic carrying something connected to the Fraternity.
He died here, and whatever he brought was supposedly buried with him.” Orion slowly set down his water.
“What did he bring?” Charles’s expression became completely serious.
“A loom.” He paused before adding, “A very old one.” Orion’s eyes narrowed.
“The Loom of Fate?” (End of Chapter) Enjoyed the chapter?
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