Black Rabbit Mill
by Riley Meere

It was not but noon when Gregory Shaw and his seven men stopped their wagons in the middle of a spacious field. They had finally arrived at the plot of land granted to Greg by the Duke himself, and after a small feast of cornmeal and stale bread, the octet took up the strenuous task of construction. Three wagons carried massive gear wheels, bricks, four fan blades 40 feet in length, and one enormous central drive shaft measuring 18 inches in diameter. Persistently they worked, as strong winds offered cool relief from the heat of the day. With such a task at hand, not one of them noticed the dark painted men watching cautiously, concealed by the tall grass.
By and by, Greg would look up and see a figure dart off in one direction or another, and soon he abandoned his work to scope the area. Yet again, something dashed away out of the corner of his eye. He quickly turned around only to see a large black rabbit bounding away.
How peculiarly large that rabbit was, he pondered, but he did not have much time to think it over. Swiftly, an arrow shot from behind whizzed past his ear, and a loud cry followed the shot. Greg spun back, and saw three Indians advancing upon him. He shot his hands up and took a couple steps back, stumbling nervously.
“Please!” he yelled. “I mean you no harm!”
Just then the rest of his men hurried over, each carrying a large musket.
The Indians withdrew their bows. “Why you are here?” the largest one said in broken English.
Greg cleared his throat. “We’ve come to build this mill,” he motioned back at the structure in progress, “as authorized by the Duke of York.”
The large one spoke again. “Mill?” he asked, pointing again at their site.
Greg nodded. “The mill will provide cornmeal for the settlers who live just a quarter mile south. If you wish, we can give you some. In exchange for other goods, of course.” Greg moved his arms ridiculously as he spoke, hoping they would at least understand his act of charades.
“We need no goods from you,” the native said gruffly. “Leave us peace and we will not hurt your people.”
“Certainly!” Greg replied hastily. “I-”
Greg was cut off as the rabbit from before sprinted between the two parties. Greg’s men followed it with their eyes as it hurried away. The Indians gave a terrifying cry, and began to retreat. One, however, the meek one, lingered a second longer. Greg caught the boy’s eyes as they widened fearfully. As Greg searched his face for an explanation, four words uttered from the small Indian’s mouth:
“Beware the black rabbit.”

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After taking some time to recover from such a strange encounter, the men eventually resumed their work and finished the windmill in four days time. The mill stood 8 stories tall, surrounded by nothing but field and sky. Four heavy blades rotated deliberately, squealing like hogs during high winds. Brick formed the base, and the rust red scorched all eyes that gazed over the landscape. In a word, the atmosphere was ominous.
Greg and his men stood back and admired their handiwork. This windmill was an innovation in the mechanical industry, and it would soon be the wealth of the town. Greg eyed the extensive cornfields to the south, and grinned.
“Those are fields of gold, my men!” he said triumphantly. “Several farmers have already spoken with me and arranged deals. The wagons arrive tomorrow morn, and then we will be in business!”
The men cheered and hollered, envisioning themselves surrounded by piles of gold and feasting like lords. They ate apples and cans of beef as a celebratory meal. Soon, they hoped, they would have much more to dine on.
As the night drew on, a large group of Indians approached their fire. Greg recognized the three from before. This time a much larger, much more threatening man addressed the group.
“You must destroy the beast,” he growled.
“Ah, you must be the chief,” Greg replied, a little loud. The whiskey had taken effect, and Greg had little apprehension towards the situation.
The chief glared, and gestured at the windmill. “You must destroy the beast,” he said again, his tone growing more urgent.
Greg laughed. “Haha, have no fear! This is not a beast, chief. This here is a mighty fine windmill. It grinds corn a thousand times faster than any of your people could do alone.”
“The black rabbit is beckoned. This land is cursed as long as the beast still stands!”
Greg’s men howled with laughter.
“The black rabbit!” snorted one. “I ain’t afraid of some old fat bunny!”
“That’s some baloney voodoo right there,” said another.
The chief’s face grew redder, but one could not distinguish if it was from his anger or the swell of the growing fire. “SLAY THE BEAST,” he roared, “OR YOU ALL SHALL PAY.”
For a moment, there was total silence, with the exception of the ever present croaking of the mill. The millers looked at one another uncomfortably. Just then Greg stood up.
“Listen here,” he started. “This ain’t your land. This is my land, my mill, and I say the beast stays right here. Black rabbit be damned!”
The men roared in support, rising up to dance around the flames and paying no mind to the tribe of Indians as they fled off into the night, never to be seen again.

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It was just after dawn the next day when the farmers arrived with wagonfulls of corn ready to be ground to meal. Greg and four others met them behind the mill outside, as three of them were suffering the repercussions of heavy drinking the night before, and chose to remain in bed.
As the farmers and millers bargained and bartered, a sweet, burning scent filled the air.
“Aye,” said one farmer, looking up at the mill. “There be smoke a’risin’ from yer mill.”
Greg whipped around and saw the huge gray cloud beginning to engulf the tower. “What on Earth?!” he yelped, scrambling towards the fire. “Water! We need water!!”
The farmers looked helplessly at one another. Save for a few canteens, the nearest water source was a ways away, back at the settlement.
“Sorry partner,” the boldest one said. “Looks like we won’t be using your business for some time.”
Shortly following this, all the farmers packed up their wagons and rode away from the growing embers. The four men who were already awake rushed back to the mill in an attempt to save the remaining three, as Greg stared helplessly towards the south.
It was those damn Indians, he said to himself. They sabotaged me! Robbed me of my fortune! I don’t deserve this… I deserve justice!
Greg turned and ran in the opposite direction, towards the Indian village up north. He ran and ran until he arrived at the camp, remembering the way from one of the early expeditions he and his men led after they had first encountered the natives. When he happened upon the village, however, every tent was empty, every cabin cleaned out, every fire pit completely extinguished.
“Cowards!” he yelled out. “Savages and cowards!”
There was no response, of course, but Greg heard a faint rustling in a nearby bush. He struck at it, expecting a man to jump out, but instead a black rabbit emerged and lept away, back in the direction of the mill. Startled by the commotion, Greg didn’t notice the small boy from before traipsing in behind him. His tiny brown hand tapped gently on Greg’s leg.
Greg whirled around and took the boy out on his way. He collapsed on the ground in front of Greg, his big almond eyes staring up solemnly.
“Oh my!” Greg exclaimed. “My apologies! You poor thing.”
The boy said nothing, continuing to stare.
Greg shifted uncomfortably. “Do you know where your family is?”
He nodded his head slowly. “Gone.”
“Where did they go?” Greg asked.
“Far, far away.” He sat upright, picked up a stick, and began drawing in the dirt.
“They lit my mill on fire,” said Greg, becoming frustrated.
“My people left early last night. They lit no fires,” he asserted.
Greg kicked the ground, then looked back at him inquisitingly. “Why aren’t you with them?”
“I wanted to warn you,” he said. “You need to get out of here.”
“By lighting my mill on fire?!” Greg cried.
“The mill is upsetting the black rabbit. He will destroy it if you do not.”
“I could have you arrested!” snapped Greg.
The boy shrugged. “Arrest the black rabbit. It wasn’t me.”
“Oh, sure!” Greg huffed. “A bunny lit a fire. Why don’t you just catch up with the rest of your kooky tribe and stop disrupting my work!”
“I’ll go,” the boy said, laughing. “If you’re smart, so will you.” He dropped his stick, stood up, and sauntered off into the forest. Greg looked down at the drawing he had left behind. A sketch of a mutilated rabbit lay before him, with fangs dripping blood. He quickly stomped on the picture, erasing all evidence. He turned and bolted out of the forest at a deadsprint, tripping over rocks and roots all along the way, until finally arriving back at the mill, beaten and bewildered.
As he soon discovered, they were unable to save the others. A few farmers felt guilty for deserting good men in need, and so they had returned with many barrels and buckets of water. They managed to put out the fire before it spread to the fourth story, but they were unable to find any bodies within the building.
“Suppose they ran off in time,” suggested one man.
“They coulda been taken by them Indians!” cried another.
“I’m not sure,” Greg murmured.
All the other farmers had left again, but one remained. “I’d suggest you dig a well,” he stated. “Nothing can be said for the whereabouts of your men, but if a fire like that were to spark up again, we may not be around to help your cause.”
Greg nodded vacantly. “We’ll dig a well at once.” He bid goodbye to the last farmer and went inside to asses the damage. Once the sleeping quarters, the second floor was now a room of bricks and ash. He searched half-heartedly for his lost men, but there were no human remains to be found. All the wooden rods and shafts would have to be replaced, as well as the furniture. Well, this time they would only need five beds.
Greg returned to his men outside and proposed that they all get some rest and begin digging and repairing in the morning. It had been a long day and everyone was both physically and mentally exhausted. They slept on their burlap sacks outside and did not get up the next day until the sun rose to the middle of the sky.

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In a week’s time, the mill was fixed and a well had been dug. A few farmers had arrived the day before with huge loads of corn, and with the Autumn winds blowing strong, the mill was running at full power.
Gregory was working diligently inside the tower, keeping the gears and wheels turning smoothly, mending any minor flaw in the mechanism. The other four labored away packing all the cornmeal into large sacks and throwing them down to the storage room.
“Hey, Greg!” one of them hollered up from below. “That pesky rabbit’s in our quarters again!”
Greg dropped his wrench and sat upright. “Just kill the fiend,” he hollered back, paranoia escaping through the cracks in his voice.
“You know damn well we’ve tried,” the first man bellowed, but he needn’t have called so loud, for the mill had stopped running altogether.
“Wind must’ve changed,” muttered one of the other men. “I’ll go fix the blades.”
“Do it quick!” Greg snapped. “We’re supposed to have all of this finished by tomorrow!” He feared his business had already lost its accountability after the fire sabotaged his first attempt at negotiations, and he wanted to redeem himself before it was too late.
“Here, I’ll go with ya,” said the first man. “You can’t switch ‘em all by yourself anyways, ‘less ya got four hands.”
“I’ll come too,” another said, and the three of them climbed up and out of the tower to adjust the fan blades.
“You stay here,” Greg said to the last man remaining. “I’ll need some help once they get it running again.”
“Sure thing, boss,” the man complied.
“Will you grab me that wrench?” asked Greg.
“You got it,” said the last man, reaching down into the gears to retrieve it. As he was handing it to Greg, a voice called from outside.
“Hey! We need that wrench out here!” one of the men fixing the blades cried. “A wing’s comin’ loose and needs’a tightenin’.”
Greg handed the wrench back and nodded. “Bring it out there to them,” he said flatly.
Taking the tool, the man scurried up the stairs to join the others.
Greg got off from his perch, and spotted a small saw lying on the ground nearby. He picked it up and marched down the stairs, in search of the notorious black mammal. As he entered the quarters, another call came through the window from outside. This time, Greg was too far down to understand what they were saying. He scanned the room, determined to find the rabbit. Yet another cry erupted, still incomprehensible to Greg. Finally he surrendered his search and dropped the saw, exiting the tower through the main door on the bottom floor.
“What’s going on up there?” he shouted.
No answer. The blades were moving, a good sign most likely. “Hello?” Greg called again. Not a peep from anyone. In fact, the silence was extraordinarily unusual. Not even the faint howling of the wind filled the air.
Greg then realized just how hot he was. He looked up and saw a clear October sky, the sun sweltering down upon him. Not even the slightest breeze chilled his cracked, dry, hot skin. Not even the slightest breeze.
So how, then, how on Earth were the blades turning? Greg took a step back to gain full view of the windmill.
What is that? he wondered. Something large was dangling from one of the blades. Or wait, there was something hanging off of each of the four blades. Something or…….someone.
Greg put his foot back and tripped over something, falling backwards onto his rear. He gazed up at the mill in horror. His men had all been severed by the blades at the torso, and were rotating sickeningly fast around the axis, each man still stuck on his own blade. Their expressions were blank and their eyes remained wide open.
A blood curdling scream pierced the air, and Greg became aware that the scream came from his own mouth. The black rabbit sat in front of him, not four feet away, and seemed to grin.
“You are the devil!” Greg shrieked, and he sprinted off towards the town.

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When he returned with the marshal, the mill stood stagnant. There were no bodies on the blades, no trace of blood.
“I know exactly what’s going on here,” the marshal said darkly.
“Oh, you do?!” Greg cried out, somewhat relieved.
“This is the Ottowan tribe, for certain. They live just north of here, deep in the woods. The savages are trying to scare you off.”
“Last I checked, that tribe no longer lives in these parts,” Greg argued.
“How can you be sure?” asked the marshal.
“I saw them leave,” said Greg, matter-of-factly.
“And you don’t believe they could’ve come back?”
“I-” Greg began to insist, but the marshal wouldn’t hear it.
“This is not up for debate,” he said. “I’ll send my men out to look for the Indians and we will punish them as we see fit. For now, you should just lay low and not accept any business for a while. Keep your mill inactive. I don’t think they like it.”
Greg resigned, and allowed the marshal to look through the tower and gather all the evidence he needed. Once the officer had left, Greg wandered aimlessly back into the quarters and picked up the saw. He knew well enough that the Indians were gone. There was no sign of them anywhere. The elk they once hunted now roamed his field without fear. The sounds of tribal celebrations and incantations could not be heard at night anymore. No, those perplexing natives had not caused his wretched misfortunes.
Damn black rabbit, Greg thought. I’ll kill you as soon as I see you. He swung the saw around his hand recklessly, and looked around. All these doors, they’re just more ways for him to escape… more places for him to hide… I’ll board them up. Every one. No one gets in, no one gets out. That rabbit will be at my mercy. That rabbit will pay.
For weeks Greg went around barring every opening in the tower. Every room sported a saw or a blunt object that could be used to slaughter the pest. The marshal, the mayor, and even the Duke attempted to break into his fortress, but to no avail. Greg stalked every corner, every inch of the interior, to find his victim. Folks from town would visit to hear the clattering and banging of his desperate attempts, that grew more loud and frightening with each day.
Then one day no one heard a sound. No holler, no shatter, no smash. The marshal rounded up some men to break the door down with a large log. When they finally got through, they took in the state of the rooms. Fingernail scratch marks lined the walls with fresh blood oozing through the cracks. Tables and chairs had been thrown across the floor, mutilated and mangled within the piles of cornmeal. A hammer stuck fast into the floor, blood splattered around it. The party searched every haunting corner of the room and not a single body was to be found. As sunset approached, they abandoned the tower, for fear of being in such an unnerving setting during the witchy hours of the night.
“This mill has brought on a wrath like no other,” stated the mayor. “There can be no clear explanation for these recent events, but one thing is for sure: we must not return here.”
“I second that,” whimpered the pusillanimous duke.
“But where can we grind our corn?” a nearby farmer inquired.
“We can build another one, further south and closer to the town,” the marshall added. “This place brings ill-fortune. I feel as if the devil himself reaches up and grasps the land beneath our feet.”
“And so, I decree,” the Duke said, straightening up, “that this land be officially out of service. All persons are forbidden to return for personal or business matters. Now, in the interest of safety and wisdom, I highly advise we travel back before the last glimmer of daylight escapes us.”
With this, everyone agreed, and made the long trek back to their settlement. The traumatic story was brought back to family and friends, passed down among generations, until it was stretched and refabricated so much that it became nothing but a silly wive’s tale.
Ever so often, a group of brave children would sneak off to the mill in the dead of the night, expecting to hear the shrieks and hollers of the madman they heard tales of. They never did hear any of that, of course. But regardless of how long they stayed, or how much they explored, every single group would happen upon the same peculiar animal: a large black rabbit.

The End