by Greig Beck
“Hi there, sorry, can I help you?”
“I think so.” Mitch smiled back, even though he didn’t like the idea of his potential new receptionist ignoring patients; he guessed if the practice was quiet, then he could cut her some slack.
“I’m Doctor Michael Taylor; is Doctor Wainright about?”
She rose to her feet. “Michael, Doctor Wainright, yes, yes, he is.” She stuck out a hand and leaned forward over the desk counter, making the front of her uniform strain. “I’m your receptionist, Shelly Horton.”
“Nice to meet you, Shelly.” He shook her hand and she held on. “Pretty quiet, huh?”
She nodded vigorously, still holding onto his hand and coming around the desk. “Some days, yes. The Eldon folk here are generally a pretty healthy bunch. Unless it’s flu season.”
“Well, that’s no good.” He grinned and eased his fingers free. “How am I supposed to make a living if no one ever needs a doctor?”
She giggled, and her eyes flashed at him. She pointed one slim finger toward a side door. “Would you like me to get him? Doctor Wainright?”
“Sure. I just arrived so I’m only popping in to say hello for now.”
“Then hello.” She waved with both hands and smiled broadly. “I’ll wake him up.” She headed to the consulting room door and leaned closer as she rapped twice. “Doctor Wainright?”
“Come.”
The voice was deep but weary, and Shelly waved him on as she pushed open the door. She poked her head around to check and whisper to Wainright, and then held the door wide.
As Mitch stepped inside, Wainright rose to his feet. He was slim, stooped, and slightly grey-faced, with a thin, aristocratic nose. But his smile was warm, and though slightly rounded at the shoulders now, Mitch bet that once the 79 year old would have been a tall and striking man.
Mitch crossed to him quickly. “Ben, so nice to meet you face to face at last.”
“Likewise,” Wainright said, shaking his hand. The hand and fingers were soft, and the bones felt like sticks under the papery skin. He stood there examining Mitch for a few seconds more before releasing his hand.
“I’m glad you came.” He stared into Mitch’s face as his smile fell away to become a deadpan expression. “Mitch, everything I did here, I did for the benefit of the Eldon community.” He straightened his narrow shoulders. “But I guess history will be my judge.”
Mitch frowned a little. “I, ah, think it’ll be the judge of all of us.”
Wainright grunted and turned to his room. “Just tidying up some redundant files for you.”
Mitch saw that there were neat piles of folders and filing cabinets hanging open. All except one; tucked away in a corner was an older wooden cabinet, solid, and the only one with a padlock on it.
Ben saw where he was looking. “Don’t worry about that one, as I plan on cleaning it up later. It’s just historical information about something that happened here nearly half a century ago.”
“The Angel Mine?” Mitch guessed.
Wainright’s head whipped around for him to stare again. After another moment, he simply nodded once.
“Yeah, the mine disaster.” Mitch shrugged. “I read about it. A dark day. The mine flooded; quite a few deaths, wasn’t there?”
“There were indeed. But that was in 1908.” Ben turned watery eyes on him. “But this was a localized event from the seventies; just some details of residual cases of skin irritations and other things from the mining chemicals of the day still hanging around. Nothing important.”
“I understand there was some resulting affliction called Angel Syndrome,” Mitch pressed, recollecting a few references when he was doing his research on Eldon. But there was no real description of what that even meant. “I’d be happy to look it over, just to…”
“No.” Wainright’s voice cut across him. “It’s done with now.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “No big deal.” He turned back to look at the old cabinet again.
“We should have blown that damn mine up,” Wainright muttered.
“Huh?” Mitch turned back, not sure he heard right, but Wainright waved it away, signaling the conversation was closed.
“This way, Doctor.”
“You never told me, Ben,” Mitch asked, deciding to change the subject, “what you plan on doing after you’ve retired. Have you got family around these parts? Going traveling, or just going to spend more time fishing?”
Ben Wainright shook his head wearily. “No, I’m tired. I think I’ll just go back to where I came from.” He looked Mitch in the eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Thank you for coming in, Mitch.”
“Oh okay.” Mitch shrugged. “My pleasure.”
That didn’t make much sense, he thought. He only just got the job. He guessed Wainright was waiting on someone, anyone, to take over.
The old doctor steered him toward the door. “I’ll finish up now.”
“Guess I’ll see you at the mayor’s this weekend,” Mitch said brightly.
“Enjoy the practice.” Wainright ushered him out and headed back into his office, leaving Mitch and Shelly alone.
“Where he came from?” He turned to Shelly. “He’s been here all his life, and he’s going home? To where?”
She shrugged. “I’ve worked with him for two years, and he keeps a lot to himself. Most do around these parts. We mind our own business. It’s what we Eldoners do.”
Mitch nodded, and then turned. “Hey, did you ever hear of the Angel Mine, or Angel Syndrome?”
Her lips pursed for a moment. “Nope.”
“Okay, forget it.” He gave her a little salute. “Nice to meet you, Shelly, and see you soon.”
CHAPTER 04
Mitch headed out and down the front path, still thinking about the Angel Mine. He’d read a few historical reports and also some old newspaper clippings that stated many people died in the turn-of-the-last-century underground collapse, with some ensuing site contamination.
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 dr
ove 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 small dragging noise from down deep in the caverns.
He spun back.
He waited, concentrating so hard he felt his unblinking eyes begin to burn. His hand went to his hip, reaching for his gun that wasn’t there anymore, but old habits never died.
What big predators lived in these parts? he wondered. Were there cougars, bears? He continued to stare, frozen to the spot; there was something moving in there, he was sure of it.
He’d done night-time incursions before, but then they had night vision goggles, and he’d been armed and armored up to the teeth. Now he had nothing but his wits.
“Hel…”
Mitch was about to call again but suddenly realized he didn’t feel like making any noise, and certainly not venturing any deeper into the mineshaft. He didn’t like the odds.
I’ll come back with a light, he thought as he backed up a few steps, keeping his eyes on the impenetrable darkness of the mine mouth.
As he made his way back to the car, he saw a knocked down sign: “WARNING – No swimming, no bathing, no drinking. Ground water contaminated. By order of the Eldon city council, Oct. 1978.”
Mitch exhaled; it was a year after the outbreak. He turned back one last time to let his eyes run over the mining grounds. He changed his mind—he didn’t think he would come back with a light. In fact, he didn’t think he’d want to come back at all.
CHAPTER 05
Ben Wainright had watched the young doctor depart from his window. He was so young, so full of confidence and energy. He had been like that once.
He sat down slowly in his chair and felt the weight of the aged flesh settle on his bones and the heavy burden of guilt on his conscience.
He sat there staring down at his desk, seeing nothing as his mind took him back again to Eldon in 1977. Back to the very first case.
*****
“I’m sure it’s just the flu, Mary. It’s the start of the season after all.” A young Doctor Benjamin ‘Ben’ Wainright smiled reassuringly at the woman who hung on his every word as if he had just climbed down from the mountain with a stone tablet under each arm.
He knew that in a small town the local doctor’s opinion mattered and was only one step below that of the Lord. Therefore, his job was to soothe nerves as well as heal wounds.
Mary Hepworth was widowed and struggled to look after her ten-year-old son, who now sat silently, staring straight ahead. The boy had presented with symptoms that he’d been seeing quite a lot lately—listlessness, sleepless nights, loss of appetite, and unlike a fever-heat, the kids had the opposite in that their core temperature was on the low side.
The only worrying symptom he couldn’t account for was a roughening of the skin on the back, thighs, and hands. Right now, those tiny hands grasped the armrests of the chair and to the naked eye only looked a little darker than his normal skin tone.
“Aspirin, orange juice, and early to bed.” Wainright smiled as the woman nodded and helped her son to his feet.
Wainright turned to a large jar that held plastic-wrapped lollypops and lifted out a red one and green one.
“Billy, which one?” He held them out.
The boy didn’t even turn.
“Billy?” He moved them in front of the boy’s face.
The boy’s hand lifted slightly but then hung in mid-air for a moment before he wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He dropped his hand and turned away.
“Hmm.” Wainright kept the reassuring smile on his face, even though a kid refusing candy was a huge red flag. “When was the last time he had a good meal?”
Mary seemed to search her mind for a moment. “Yesterday. No, the day before when he had a cookie, but that’s all.”
“Okay, you’ve got to try and get some food into him. He needs his energy to fight this bug, and a cookie is not going to do it.” He looked down at the kid. “Will you help your mom out there, Billy?”
Billy nodded dreamily.
“Good boy.” He tussled the boy’s hair and felt a few tiny, hard lumps on his scalp, but put it down to the kid also needing a good bath. Wainright then shook Mary’s hand. “And call me in a day or so to let me know how he’s getting on.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Mary guided the boy to the door, and he opened it to let them out.
Wainright caught sight of his waiting room and was surprised to see it full of anxious-looking parents with their children, and a few adults by themselves. Whatever it is, it is going around, he thought. He closed the door and quickly jotted down some notes.
The days roll
ed on, and then the weeks. The first flurry of parents bringing in their children dwindled and then stopped. He wanted to believe that the bug or whatever it was had burned itself out. But the thing was, he hadn’t seen a single one of the people who presented with the original symptoms.
Zero follow-up was too good to be true, and then his receptionist, Margie, told him that the local schools were only half full—those kids were probably still at home.
Still.
Curiosity and a local doctor’s desire to care for his community overwhelmed him.
“If the mountain will not come to Doctor Wainright…” he got to his feet and packed his leather doctor’s satchel, “…then Doctor Wainright must go to the mountain.”
Ben climbed into his sky-blue Plymouth Duster and groaned, immediately wishing he had parked in the shade. He quickly wound down the window to release some of the furnace-like air from the interior. He would have done the same on the opposite window but couldn’t be bothered reaching across.
One day, they’ll have machines to do that for us, he mused. He pulled out and enjoyed the breeze chilling the perspiration on the back of his neck.
It was a short drive to the Hepworth place. Though the tarred road ended a while back, the dry weather of late meant the dirt road was solid—rutted, but solid.
On his way, he passed a single figure, a Native American, with long, dark hair shining like a raven’s wing in the sunshine and held back by a cloth headband. He slowed and the man turned toward him. Wainright didn’t recognize him from town and guessed he must have been just passing through.
Wainright slowed; the young man must have been no more than mid-twenties, with a blanket roll over one shoulder and a cloth satchel bag under his arm. The pair of men stared at each other for a while until Wainright felt he couldn’t meet the youth’s gaze anymore as it seemed to burn right into his soul and pluck the thoughts straight from his head.
Wainright accelerated away and in the rear-view mirror saw the man still staring after his car. Strange, he thought and made a mental note to mention it to the sheriff.