“Hahaha!” The moment Charles finished speaking, Bob and several customers around the tavern burst into laughter.
“An ancient magical loom?
What, did the pharaohs build it?” Bob shook his head while topping off Orion’s ice water.
“Charles, you were a teacher.
You know perfectly well how ridiculous some of those old stories sound.” “Come on, Charles,” another broad-shouldered old man said as he rose from his table.
“We all know your grandfather collected religious history, but you can’t treat every legend written in an old journal like proven fact.” He patted Charles on the shoulder before leaving the tavern, while several other locals continued chuckling.
Charles had clearly endured this kind of ridicule for decades and remained completely unmoved, simply waiting for the room to quiet again.
“Bob, give Charles a beer.
Put it on me,” Orion said.
Whatever the truth behind the story, he respected the old man’s willingness to defend something everyone else considered nonsense.
Charles smiled appreciatively when Bob reluctantly placed a bottle in front of him and took a small drink.
“Thanks, Deputy.” Orion leaned one arm against the bar.
“They said your grandfather was a historian?” “That’s right.” Charles nodded with obvious pride.
“Most of his research involved old religious movements, secret societies, and European folklore, but he took historical accuracy seriously.
He might record legends, but he never knowingly fabricated them.” Bob snorted from behind the counter.
“And because of a few lines in those journals, you tried to stop the original mill from being built.
Kept telling everyone we were disturbing a grave and bringing trouble down on the whole town.” He gave Charles an irritated look.
“There were thousands of people who needed those jobs, remember?” That explained why Charles wasn’t particularly popular among the older residents.
To him, the grave had represented something that shouldn’t be disturbed, while to the workers of that era, the textile mill had meant steady paychecks and food on their tables.
Orion had no interest in deciding who had been right decades ago, so he simply asked, “Tell me exactly what your grandfather wrote about the grave.” Charles’s expression brightened immediately.
“The man buried on that hill arrived in America more than a century ago.
According to my grandfather’s notes, he belonged to an ancient order of weavers—the same organization later remembered in scattered stories as the Fraternity.
He was carrying something important when enemies caught up with him, and after he died, another traveler gave him a proper stone burial on the hill.” “Your grandfather?” Orion asked.
Charles nodded.
“He was the one who found the body and recorded the story.” The old man lowered his voice before continuing.
“According to him, the dead messenger wasn’t an ordinary man.
He possessed abilities that seemed impossible, and my grandfather became convinced that death hadn’t completely severed whatever connection remained between him and the object he had protected.
His journals warned that disturbing the burial could bring consequences nobody understood.” Charles reached beneath his shirt and removed a small metal pendant, pressing it briefly against his forehead.
A symbol resembling a stylized 4 had been engraved across its face.
Orion recognized it because James, his dead teammate, had worn something similar during their years together.
Charles belonged to the Olympian Church, an old polytheistic faith centered on Zeus and the other Olympian gods.
It had once claimed a much larger following, according to its own traditions, but centuries of monotheistic dominance had reduced it to a tiny and unusual religious community.
Orion had never cared much about theology, but after discovering actual ghosts, anomalous artifacts, and mutant creatures, he was no longer willing to dismiss a belief simply because it sounded strange.
“The missing cleaners disturbed the grave,” Charles said with absolute certainty.
“That’s why people started disappearing.” Instead of frightening Orion, the possibility actually relieved him slightly.
He no longer doubted that spirits could exist because the Mask of the Faceless had already ripped one directly out of his body.
If whatever occupied the mill was primarily a spiritual entity, the artifact’s Shielding ability might give him a considerable advantage.
Charles finished his beer and stood.
“My grandfather always told me one thing before he died: never lose respect for something simply because you don’t understand it.” He gave Orion a small nod.
“And thank you for listening, Deputy.” Once Charles left, Bob shook his head.
“Don’t let him fill your head with ghost stories.
He’s always been eccentric, and he’s getting worse with age.” Orion finished his water and rose from the stool.
“Maybe.” He returned to the Suburban, started the engine, and headed toward the abandoned textile mill with Hannibal still sitting quietly in the rear.
The road climbed steadily into the hills and clearly hadn’t received proper maintenance in decades, forcing Orion to steer around deep potholes, broken pavement, and washed-out sections.
After several miles, the old factory finally came into view above the trees.
The sprawling complex was long and narrow, with an enormous production building stretching across the hilltop.
Its central facade had tall windows and stonework that gave it an almost churchlike appearance, while rusting iron fencing surrounded the property beneath thick layers of vines.
Combined with the isolated hillside and decades of neglect, the place looked far more like the setting of a horror movie than a factory Warwick expected to reopen.
Three vehicles were already parked on the broad concrete area outside the gates.
Orion stopped the Suburban nearby, and movement immediately appeared inside the decaying guardhouse.
Two muscular young men wearing visible sidearms stepped outside, studying Orion carefully despite the sheriff’s badge on his chest.
“Morning, Deputy,” one called.
“Can we help you?” “I’m here on behalf of Mr.
Peters.” Orion retrieved a document envelope from the Suburban and handed it through the gate.
“I was asked to help Warwick deal with the problem inside the mill.” The mention of Peters immediately changed their attitude.
Several more people emerged from the gatehouse, led by a thickset middle-aged man wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He checked the authorization documents signed through Backman’s office, and visible relief appeared across his face.
“I’m Warwick.” Orion shook his hand but couldn’t hide a small amount of surprise.
Warwick was extremely wealthy in his own right, yet instead of sending managers or security personnel, he was personally standing outside a filthy abandoned mill in rural Louisiana.
Even if reopening this property failed completely, Orion doubted the loss should have been large enough to threaten a man like him.
What Orion didn’t know was that Warwick had very good reasons to be desperate.
Despite being born into wealth, Warwick had spent most of his adult life drinking, gambling, chasing women, and wasting money.
If his father hadn’t left him valuable shares in the family textile business—and if Peters hadn’t quietly prevented several disasters over the years—Warwick probably would have ruined himself long ago.
His lifestyle existed entirely because those shares continued producing money.
One week earlier, Warwick had traveled to Las Vegas for what was supposed to be another extravagant gambling trip.
Whether through terrible luck or deliberate manipulation, he managed to lose nearly $300 million during a single disastrous night.
He didn’t possess anything close to that amount in liquid cash, and in a drunken panic, he allowed his companion to convince him to pledge a massive portion of his textile-company shares as collateral.
The agreement gave him only one month to repay the debt with interest.
By the following morning, Warwick had sobered up enough to understand exactly what he had done.
Without those shares, the dividends supporting his lifestyle would disappear, and much of the wealth people associated with his name would vanish with them.
Unfortunately, he had already spent most of the income he received each year and couldn’t simply produce hundreds of millions of dollars on short notice.
Borrowing the money directly through the company would raise questions from shareholders and auditors because the textile business was supposedly healthy and had no obvious reason to assume such enormous debt.
Warwick therefore devised a more complicated plan: dramatically expand production, use that expansion to justify large new operating loans, and quietly divert enough borrowed money to settle his gambling debt before anyone discovered the truth.
The abandoned mill on the hill had seemed perfect.
Warwick purchased it for almost nothing because the government had been desperate to get rid of the decaying property.
The structures were large, the location had existing industrial infrastructure, and with a relatively quick cleanup and renovation, he could present the site as a major expansion project.
He had already spoken with cooperative banking contacts who were prepared to approve the financing once the mill appeared ready to operate.
Everything had been progressing perfectly.
Then the workers started disappearing.
Now the one part of Warwick’s plan that absolutely could not fail had become the center of rumors about monsters, graves, and missing cleaning crews.
When Backman called the previous night and said Peters was sending an unusually capable man to investigate, Warwick had finally felt as though someone had thrown him a lifeline.
That was why a billionaire textile heir was personally waiting at the gates of an abandoned factory.
And why he looked so relieved to see Orion Locke.
(End of Chapter) 500 = +1 Chapter] [Review Goal: 10 = +1 Chapter]