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... Sol smiled away to himself as he walked around the side of the house, listening to the sound of gray Jays, or Whiskey Jacks as they were sometimes called, cawing and screeching their way up high among the tree tops. They were a noisy lot, but with a far more welcoming sound to him than the blare of car horns on any busy highway. He went into the tool shed. It was a small stone structure that had a roof in bad need of repair. As he entered, he made a face. The door creaked on rusted hinges. The inside smelled of mildew but there were plenty of tools: a variety of rakes and hoes, shears, and an old manual lawnmower. The solitary window hung there in a rich man's share of cobwebs. Its glass had a diagonal crack across it, one running from one end to the other. Sol made a mental note to tidy things up, replace the window and the door hinges, eventually. He immediately thought of Bobby and Tommy Miller, twins so alike but yet so different. No doubt, they would jump at the chance to earn a few extra dollars again. From a general look around the place, a lot of work still had to be done.
When he left the tool shed, Sol wandered over to the old chicken slaughterhouse way off to the right of the house. The outside walls of the building were still in reasonably good shape. Most of the stones were still in place, only a few having toppled out from their positions in the wall onto the ground. With a bit of mortar and an armload of patience, Sol could easily make the building look right again. The roof was another matter. There were only a few shingles left, many of them scattered about the ground in bits and pieces. The tar paper had all but disappeared and the sheets of plywood covering the roof had rotted almost clean away. Sol had a hell of a time opening the heavy rusted iron door. It reminded him of one of those narrow doors used on ships, rivets aplenty across its entire perimeter. When he did finally manage to open it, the screeching cries of rusted metal fighting rusted metal made him wince and curse the air for not wearing some form of ear protection.
Standing there panting from the exertion of his struggles, he first viewed the inside of the slaughterhouse from his position outside the door. It smelled of rot and decay. Sol made a face as he looked at the floor inside. It looked to be covered with a thick padding of green and gray slime. Chicken dung, he figured, and rotting feathers, mostly. What little light came from the open door and the variety of holes in the roof, gave the place an eerie look. Peering inside, Sol noticed a pair of old rubber boots covered in dust just inside the door. Struggling out of his, he cleaned the cobwebs away and dumped the grit and from them onto the ground. He put them on and found them to be several sizes too big. Whoever had worn them before had to be a giant of a man. Checking the bottom of one boot, he saw that they were a size fourteen.
Stepping inside the slaughterhouse, Sol was glad he had changed his boots. The slime and guck inside the place was a good six inches deep. Staring down at it all, he wondered if the floor beneath the filth was concrete. It felt solid, level. As he slopped his way about the room, his eyes roamed across the walls. They were splattered with slime, the same colored stuff he now walked through. There were several places that were spotted a dull brown. It made Sol think of dried blood. On closer inspection and while rubbing bits of it between his fingers, he swore by his theory. Chicken blood, animal blood, and lots of it.
In a far corner at about waist level up from the floor, he discovered the manacles. They were held together by thick rusted chains that were connected to a thick plate bolted to the wall. He found several sets of them and saw what looked like more dull brown stains located right in the bracelets. He dropped the set he was studying, listening to them clang noisily against the side of the wall. What had the manacles been used for? He wondered. To make prisoners of men? There was no other reason for them. Sol thought of what Bobby Miller had told him about the murdering doctor who had once lived on this old place. A cold shiver ran through him. He also thought of his dream, the same type of shackles clamped onto his wrists and in a room similar to this one. Sol began to back away, his throat dry, his tongue thick and heavy.
That's when he heard the high-pitched screeching sound of the door closing shut behind him.
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