It was the one mystery about the place that intrigued him. Especially as there was further information about some weird affliction in the seventies—Angel Syndrome—that Wainright undoubtedly experienced first-hand as he was working here at the time it broke out.
Odd that Wainright blew it off as being just a few minor skin irritations. Maybe when he got hold of the practice, he could do some more digging; he was sure some of the other old-timers around town might remember something.
Mitch’s boarding house was on the outskirts of town and from what he could remember, it wasn’t all that far from the actual mine site—maybe just 20 minutes driving on an empty road. This time of day? A piece of cake.
It was still only just gone 3:00 in the afternoon; he could probably take a quick run out there and then still be home in time for dinner.
“Just do it.”
Mitch jumped in his car, checked his maps, and then pulled out and kept going straight until he came to the main road. Then he turned right, heading back along the highway. Mitch sailed down the wide road, passing only a few trucks and SUVs, but as he expected, it was as quiet as a holiday weekend.
He didn’t really know why he had an interest in the mine; curiosity maybe. Angel Syndrome. He thought about the term. As a medical man, his interest was piqued. And the filing cabinet in Wainright’s office was one of the few repositories of information he knew of, yet the old doc wanted to destroy it.
Something was a little off there, he thought.
Mitch slowed at a rusted gate. He checked his maps once again and guessed this might have been the turnoff. There were no signs, and nothing to indicate this once had been one of the largest and most prosperous limestone mines in America.
That was then, he thought. After all, it was more than half a century ago, and not exactly a tourist hotspot. He got out and went to open the metal gate. It wasn’t locked and even the hinges had rusted through so it was just propped upright. He simply lifted and laid it out of the way.
He drove up the track and after another five minutes or so came to a stand of stunted trees around an open patch of ground. There were a few abandoned railway carts, or jerry carts he believed they were called, plus a stack of spare rails rusting away in the afternoon sunshine.
He got out of his car and the first thing that assailed him was the acrid, dry smell of chalk and limestone. But there was nothing else; no birdcalls or the background zumm of crickets and cicadas. It seemed that it wasn’t just the people that had abandoned the mine.
Mitch was about to head off when he stopped and returned to the car to rummage in the map compartment, then the middle box, and finally the door slots.
“Damnit.”
The flashlight wasn’t there, and for the life of him he couldn’t even remember removing it.
“Just when you need it.” He sighed as he straightened. “Lucky I have the night vision of a cat.” He chuckled, hitched his pants, and walked toward the mine mouth.
Old, rusted cyclone fencing was strewn around, and he carefully stepped over it. As Mitch headed closer to the large opening, he noticed there were a few scabby and gnarled trees that had long surrendered to the lifeless, dry dirt. There were also strange and twisted columns of stone about, and just like the trees, these were also contorted into weird shapes.
He stopped closer to one and stared. Mitch narrowed his eyes, not able to tear his eyes away from the odd thing. Perhaps it wasn’t stone after all, but petrified wood, he wondered, as it looked like ancient tree bark. And if you looked at it from just the right angle, it could have once had facial features carved into it.
He crossed to another of the petrified pillars and peered in even closer. The features and detail were beginning to weather away, but whoever had done the work had been quite skilled. The sculptor also had an eye for the macabre, as the face looked to have a mouth hanging open as if wailing, and in torment.
“Creepy as fuck,” he whispered and finally turned away to head to the mine mouth.
Mitch saw that the cavernous mine mouth opened into a three-foot-deep shallow basin in the earth with one end a dark hole sunk into the ground, leading down at a gentle slope. He eased down into the recess and walked toward the opening.
“Damn.” It was blacker than the darkest night inside that hole. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust, but it made no difference, as only a few dozen feet in, there was simply not enough light even for a shadow. No human eye would ever adjust to that.
“Not even enough light for a cat,” he said softly.
He sniffed deeply. Even though it had been dry for weeks in these parts, he detected an odor of dampness from the yawning pit. Mitch decided to breathe slowly in and out through his nose—though he bet any water had long receded down to the depths of the mine, he was still wary of the contamination Wainright had mentioned. And he certainly didn’t like the idea of starting work covered in some sort of weird rash either.
He didn’t know how long he stood there staring into the stygian darkness, but he knew it would be useless to go in without a light. Useless and dangerous.
People died down there, and he couldn’t remember reading whether their bodies were ever recovered. If not, then in effect it was a mass grave.
“Hello-ooo!” he shouted.
The echo bounced away into the dark tunnel and repeated several times until silence finally returned.
He grunted and was about to turn away, when he thought he heard what sounded like a
