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The Dark Old Windmill

(c) 2013 Daniel Black

Hark! Accursed be the name of he who has taken from me my love! May forever this tale live on as a warning to all who would venture near The Dark Old Windmill.

It was four years and nine months before this day that she was killed. The fog was thick and one could scarcely see an outstreched arm. We had been visiting that hellish land because of a suggestion by my aunt(Foul old thing that she is) that we take a second honeymoon, and that a place full of unknown family secrets would be great for a historian and a cartographer.
Her idea, Her fault, and for this my hateful gaze shall ever be upon her. When first we set out, there was a strange scent in the air, something like bleach mixed with death and decay. I will forever remember that bedeviled day.

We boarded the airplane, though neither of us fully trusted the science of flight, especially as air travel over such large distances was relatively new, but once again had the suggestion of my demon-riddled aunt gotten the better of me. "Quit being so paranoid. Always overthinking things since you were just a little baby." She would say. Oh! Were it I never listened to those words. Those sylables of betrayal only a jealous, hateful, spiteful woman as my aunt count bear the utterance of.

We had been arguing profusely that day, about seemingly everything. "That is NOT how a civilized man of culture used a towel" She said, as I exited the shower that morning. "Do you HAVE to use THAT fork?" She said, over breakfast. The trip was off to a wretched start and would only continue to worsen as the days and weeks wore on.

Nevertheless, our flight was uneventful, despite the pilot's rumoured lack of experience. We landed at an airport fifteen miles miles from the cabin where we were staying. We walked through the rain to our cabin, and nearly fainted from exhaustion, stress, and anger.

The only thing on our minds was going to bed. I mulled over the reasons for our trip.We were here, of course, to see THE GREAT WINDMILLS OF THE NETHERLANDS, a subject of great relevance to my wife's grandfather, though of little interest to us, especially after a trip to a university library revealed he was one of Holland's shoddier carpenters. That trip to the library, like our ill-fated trip, was prompted by my aunt, who I shall not speak of again, though the anger overwhelms me.

The next day, we awoke, and began our journey to the place they call The Old Dark Windmill. The grass was soggy, and I thought of my boss, and our home repairs, and my nephew, and a thousand other things which we had left behind because... Nevermind. We were already here, and we were going to explore this windmill. My job as a historian made me feel that I was somehow required to take an interest in the unknown details of this place, but in my heart I knew that some things were better left to lie.

The windmill itself was old and rotting(A chemist at the University led me to believe it was due to a poor choice of wood for the region, which was a little embarrasing for my wife), and generally had an aura of dispair. As we approached it I felt a pain in my hand and saw that it was bleeding, but to this day I do not remember ever being hurt by anything.

We entered the windmill. A strong stench of ammonia pervaded the atmosphere. There were various malignant writings upon the walls, and the overall impression one one of a madman's lair, and nothing of a windmill. There were books piled high written in arcane languages, and the walls seemed to hum a deathly note. I shuddered as I took a step forward, in front of her, as if to shield her from this madness.

Then we heard it.
"We know why you're here We know who you are We know where you were born We know where you will die"
We made no sound
"We Know why You came We know When you will Leave We know who brought you We know what she will do"
"Who are you!" I demanded
"We are nothing. We are echos of our master who has since moved on. And without his blood, we cannot live"
A different voice chimed in thusly: "So we have brought you as our feast. Our master is gone but he takes care of us, and we of him."

And there it was that my wife made the most terrible mistake of her life. She ran forth into the middle of the death-grounds, begging me to save myself. I watched as a great spire impaled her and lifted her to the ceiling, to fast for me to act. I watched as her bloodied corpse withered and rotted, and finally dried and decayed as the mummies of egypt with incredible speed. I saw the doors shutting and ran, acting purely on instinct.

The police had ruled "Death by asphyxiation from the monoxide of carbon, likely caused by self-combustion of the rotting wood", though they did note the curious manner in which her body had dessicated.

A week later when I had regained some fraction of my composure, I returned to that damned place and attempted to ignite it, but the rotting wood would not burn. I quickly made home, boarding that same untrustworthy aeroplane that had brought us to this foul land, this time alone.

When I returned to work, A chance encounter with a certain book of land records showed that my late wife's grandfather had sold the windmill to "a moslem man of exeedingly good charm though of questionable oral hygiene".

At the funeral(perfused by that same stench of bleach and death, as recently a grave had been exhumed at the same cemetary), my aunt had told me that she always was jealous of my happiness with my wife, and that she and an old moslem man with rotting teeth she met at the park had quite the laugh sharing their miseries and wishing all kinds of terrible fates upon those they hated.