As the padre studied the files, I read everything I could find online about the Harwick mine and the disaster. The old photos were grim: coffins lined up row on row, bleak-eyed families clutching their coats around them against the snow, officials at podiums making empty promises. Newspaper articles talked about how the disaster had claimed two or three generations of men in some families, and how more than fifty of the unfortunate miners had been members of the same church.
Cheswick wasn’t a large town, so losing nearly two hundred men all at once would have been catastrophic. That kind of cataclysm leaves psychic scars and horrific energy resonance. I’m sure psychiatrists could talk for days about the sort of impact such widespread, traumatic loss had on the survivors and their children. But I was more interested in what kind of ripples that massive, sudden loss of life left behind in the spirit world. The miners had been wronged by negligent managers, and they’d had over a hundred years to stew about it. Some of the bodies had never been recovered, and all had died horribly.
“What are you finding?” Father Leo asked, closing a folder and scrubbing a hand down over his eyes as if to remove the horrific images.
“More about the disaster itself,” I replied. “We can go out tomorrow morning and have a look at what’s left of the site.” I’d already been through the satellite feeds, but nothing compared to seeing it first-hand.
“Any ideas on how to stop the killing?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.
“For all we know, the ghosts might be done if they killed the descendants of the men responsible for the disaster,” I replied.
“What if they aren’t?”
I grimaced. “That’s where you come in. Read the exorcism, say the blessing, rebuke the evil spirits. That kind of thing.”
“Exorcisms only work on demons,” Father Leo replied, popping open a can of cola. “Usually. Blessings never hurt, but rebuking isn’t going to dispel them for long.”
“If all else fails, a few rounds of salt and buckshot usually does the job.” I paused. “What if it’s not ghosts?” I asked. “There are other spirits that live underground. Maybe the fracking woke them, and they’re angry.”
“We’ll find out, one way or the other,” he replied. “But for now, let’s get some sleep.”
Not much remained of the Harwick mine. Abandoned coal mines were common in Pennsylvania, and it wasn’t unusual to see old, half-rotted tipples, rusted railroad spurs, and left-behind carts. But where the entrance to the Harwick mine had been, only forest remained.
“Someone must have been in a rush to erase what happened,” Father Leo remarked. I had to agree. While the explosion itself might have destroyed the main shaft elevator and the unfortunate mule took out the tipple, effort was required to tear up railroad tracks and obliterate any sign of the big operation.
“Even if the mine owners didn’t change their ways, I imagine the disaster was bad for public relations,” I mused. “They probably were happy to tear everything down and pretend it never happened.”
“Something the families didn’t have the option to do,” Father Leo said.
All that remained of the mine entrance was a ledge of rock and a slit of darkness beneath. All the rest had been filled with tons of gravel. As we walked around the site, we found rusted iron grates over what had been ventilation shafts hidden among the overgrowth. I stared into the darkness and felt a cold presence watching me.
“Doesn’t look like anyone comes up here,” I said, taking in the view. “Then again, maybe the families go to the disaster monument instead.”
“Ghosts often cling to where they died, not where they’re commemorated,” Father Leo replied. “Especially when the death is violent.”
“Thomas says there haven’t been any reports of hauntings at the graveyard or the monument,” I said. “At least, nothing new.”
We poked around, and as we did, the haste with which the site had been abandoned became clear. My boots kicked up the rusted remains of tools, bolts, and twisted bits of metal. A closer look at the underbrush that had begun to reclaim the area revealed more left-behind equipment.
From the hilltop, we could see where the fracking equipment had been set up and the bustle of workers and vehicles at the project site. I guessed that their location was a couple of miles away, but that could easily intersect with the web of underground tunnels for a mine like the Harwick. Even if the frackers had attempted due diligence, old mine maps were notoriously inaccurate. It wasn’t a stretch to think their efforts might have bothered something long asleep in the Harwick tunnels.
I didn’t run into any cold spots, and the EMF meter in my pocket didn’t go off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Father Leo didn’t say anything, but from the way he kept looking around and over his shoulder, I was certain he felt it, too. Some presence lurked near the old mine, but whether it was ghosts or not remained to be seen.
Once we’d gotten a good look at the remains of the mine mouth and mapped out the area in our heads, we went back to town to eat and gather equipment. Father Leo seemed quiet as we drove back to Cheswick.
“Cat got your tongue?” I teased. I felt a bit melancholy after visiting the mine, and I wondered if that was also affecting the padre, or whether he had something more on his mind.
“It’s a terrible business, mining,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “I’ve heard a lot of stories over the years about men getting killed, and mine owners or supervisors who skimped on safety precautions, and miners who were too afraid of losing their livelihood to say anything.”
As we drove through town, a storefront caught my eye. “Harwick Mine Disaster Museum and Memorial.” Father Leo looked curious when I suddenly parked, then saw the sign and nodded.
“Looks like a good place to check out—after lunch,” he said. My stomach growled in agreement.
Pauley’s Diner was a greasy spoon, the kind of place that serves fantastic, no-frills burgers and homemade pie, with great coffee to wash it all down. No one gave Father Leo and me a second glance as we walked in and found a table.
While I studied the menu, I tuned in to the conversations all around me. Most of them had to do with sports scores, fishing season, and politics, pretty typical fare. A glance around suggested we were probably the only non-locals in the diner, a guess supported by the fact that the servers knew the other patrons’ names and bantered with them like long-time friends.
The food came quickly, and we dove in like starving men. One of the conversations nearby caught my attention. A glance out of the corner of my eye found four middle-aged men, clad in canvas or camouflage coats with trucker hats. The din of conversation, dishes, and the TV made it hard to catch every word.
“…explain the dreams?” one of the men demanded.
“…one of those urban legends,” his companion replied with a dismissive gesture, as if the comment wasn’t worth their time.
“…why hasn’t it happened before?”
“…letting their imagination get away with them.”
“…fucking frackers.”
A younger man with a receding hairline clad in a rumpled jacket hustled past the table on his way to pay at the register. “Hey, Newt! Surprised you’re not gloating in the letters to the editor about how the miners finally got their justice.” From the tone of the laughter, I figured Newt wasn’t the most popular guy in town. He kept on walking, head down, although I could see the flush color his cheeks.
“What do you think that was about?” Father Leo asked. He glared at the mockers, and they silenced as if they felt the weight of his stare. No matter what Newt had done, neither of us could stomach bullies.
“No idea. Small towns and old grudges. But the comment about miners getting their justice—”
The priest nodded. “Yeah. The connection Thomas mentioned.”
“Maybe the museum will have some answers,” I replied. Just then, our server brought the pie. I knew we had work to do, but I wasn’t going to hurry
dessert. Hunting monsters was dangerous, and you never knew which meal might be your last, so I intended to savor each one.
The loud men were still lingering over their coffee by the time Father Leo and I paid our bill and left. We ducked into the mining museum, and the bell over the door jangled. No one was in sight. A glass counter held keychains, old postcards, and local history books, and a big wooden box sat on top marked “Donations.” I pulled out a five and crammed it into the slot.
“They’re not worried about thieves,” Father Leo remarked, glancing around the empty room.
“I don’t imagine they have a big staff,” I said. “Someone probably just needed to use the bathroom.” As if on cue, we heard the rush of water through old pipes.
“Hello,” I called out, not wanting to startle the desk clerk.
Newt from the diner bustled out. “Sorry,” he said, wiping wet hands on his jeans. “Just stepped away. Welcome to the museum.” He squinted at us as if trying to place faces. “You’re not from here.”
I smiled. “Nope. Just passing through. I always heard about the Harwick disaster from my granddad, and we thought we’d just take a little road trip.”
Newt looked from me to Father Leo. “With a priest?”
“It’s my day off.” Father Leo managed to look suitably pious.
Newt shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Anyhow, welcome. The museum is this room and the back room, plus we have some archives for journalists. Everything in the museum was collected from families of the miners who worked the Harwick, plus some materials from the mine’s owner, the Allegheny Coal Company.”
He gestured toward the walls, which were full of sepia-toned photographs, and to the crowded glass cases with their treasures. “We have photographs of the miners and their families, Bibles, newspaper clippings, anything we could find.”
“That’s comprehensive,” I said, thinking that’s a fucking ghost magnet.
“Do you get many tourists?” I asked, making my way around the room a few steps behind Father Leo. The yellowed papers and faded photographs documented a local tragedy, and I doubted people from Cheswick stopped in more than once.
“School kids, for history class,” Newt replied. “People who are into family history, and believe-it-or-not, coal mining junkies, who for whatever reason track down old mines.”
I wondered how many of those “junkies” were also urban explorers, thrill-seekers, and photographers who liked to go into forbidden and abandoned places. “You ever hear about ghosts from the disaster?” I tried to make my tone off-handed, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Newt flinch.
“Why d’ya ask?”
“Just curious. I mean, I watch TV. They always say ghosts from tragedies don’t rest easy.”
Newt crossed himself, a reaction that looked more reflexive than dramatic. “Some. If you believe in that sort of thing. It’s not something people like to talk about.”
“I do believe,” I replied. “And I’m curious.”
“Why?” Newt looked suspicious.
“I collect ghost stories.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. “Always looking for some I haven’t heard.”
“You can’t quote me,” he hedged.
I held a hand to my heart. “Of course not.”
Newt glanced toward the front window as if someone might see us talking, but none of the scant passers-by paid any attention. “There’ve been stories about miners appearing to their kin since the first night after the explosion,” he confided. “It’s all hearsay, but the stories get passed down. People who saw a dead husband, father, brother, son, standing in the parlor, waving good-bye. Widows who say their husbands’ ghosts came to tell them how to find missing keys or money. Children who say they saw the ghost of a dead relative that protected them from harm. There are some who swear they saw their ghost for years, as a warning before a tragedy.”
“What do you think?” I saw Father Leo slip into the back room and figured I’d keep Newt talking.
“People around these parts don’t lie much,” he said. “Except the mine bosses,” he added, curling his lip. “To this day, the priest up at the Hungarian church mentions ‘and all our lost sons and fathers’ in his prayer each week, meaning the mine dead. That explosion changed everything for this town. The mine never recovered. The jobs never came back. The men who didn’t die in the mine moved away to find work. Families lost every man they had.” Newt’s expression grew far away. “It might have been a hundred years ago, but wounds like that don’t heal with time.”
“How about the murders,” I prompted. “Do you think they have to do with the mine?”
“All you have to know are the last names of the victims, and you know it had something to do with the Harwick,” Newt replied. “But who did it, and why now? No idea.”
“After all this time, did people still hate the descendants of those mine managers?” I couldn’t quite fathom blaming grandchildren and great-grandchildren for their ancestors’ misdeeds, but I knew how small-town grudges went.
“At first,” Newt replied. “Not lately. It wasn’t forgotten, but most people did realize that the men responsible for the disaster died a long time ago. Over the years, the descendants tried to make it up with good deeds—penance, I guess. Folks had to allow how the younger ones might be related, but weren’t that kind of men.”
“So why kill them?”
Newt looked away, and I knew he was hiding something. “You’ve got a theory?” I probed.
Before he could answer, Father Leo called out from the back room. “Mark, you need to see this.”
I hurried back to join him and found myself facing a strange wax mannequin of a hunched old man in a fur robe. The figure had very pale skin, and a mouth with blood-red lips stretched open across sharp teeth. The sign read “Shubin.”
“You ever run across a shubin before?” I asked Father Leo.
He shook his head. “Nope. I’ve heard of kobolds, skarbniks, tommy-knockers—all things that live in mines and cause trouble. But this is a new one.”
“They’re Ukrainian mine monsters,” Newt said from the doorway where he’d followed me. “Folks in these parts came from all over Eastern Europe. Hungary, Romania, Ukraine. There’s been talk about shubin in the Harwick since the first shafts were opened. Some people think they’re what caused the explosion. Maybe the murders, too.”
“Where did the statue come from?” I asked, examining the figure. It looked handmade, not mass-produced.
“Illya Vann made that,” Newt replied. “Said he kept seeing it in his dreams and he thought maybe if he made the statue, it would go away.”
“Did it?” Father Leo asked.
“Don’t know. Illya shot himself a couple of days after he sold it to me.”
That didn’t bode well. “Anyone else see the shubin?”
Newt bit his lip, a nervous habit, and I wondered if he was worried about saying too much. Then again, I got the feeling not many people stopped by, and from his reception at the diner, he probably didn’t have a busy social calendar. “Yeah. At least, that’s what a bunch of old diaries say. The ghosts that showed up never hurt anybody. But the shubin, that’s a different story. The men in the mine, they believed. They used to take down food and whiskey as offerings, leave it for the shubin, so he didn’t cause cave-ins or send afterdamp—bad air. Had all kinds of superstitions about what not to do to keep on its good side.”
“Obviously, that went badly,” I replied.
“Real badly,” Newt agreed. “But after the disaster, nobody saw the shubin again. Until recently.”
“What changed?” Father Leo asked.
“People don’t want to say it out loud, because of the money that’s coming in, but me, I think it’s the frackers. They’re disturbing the ground down deep, where the tunnels are. I think they pissed the shubin off.”
I didn’t know if Newt had come to his theory independently, or if he and Thomas had talked, but I thought their guess was probably right. Creatures like the sh
ubin don’t like to be disturbed, which is why they played malicious pranks—sometimes deadly ones—on miners who troubled their slumber. Drilling of any kind into the depths wasn’t likely to go over well.
“We ate at the diner,” Father Leo said. “People mentioned bad dreams. And we couldn’t help hearing what that man said to you.”
Newt rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind Keith. He and his buddies are full of hot air. It’s a funny thing—people in coal mining towns hate the mine companies and the bosses, but at the same time, they’ve been whipped so many times they’re scared to say anything. The mining companies are always threatening that if miners complain about bad conditions, skimping on safety, even breaking the law, that the mines will get shut down and the town will die.”
His voice grew angry. “Even now, what have we got to lose by telling the truth? The mines have been gone for decades. They aren’t coming back. It’s been long enough; there aren’t even people alive who could lose their pensions.”
“So those editorials Keith was talking about, you decided to name names?” Father Leo asked, raising an eyebrow.
Newt nodded vigorously. “Yes. Why not? The miners deserved better. And so did the underlings who got left holding the bag. The managers and the fire boss screwed up—or didn’t care—and they blamed it all on Joe Bohdan, the junior mining engineer. He denied it, but no one would listen. People needed a scapegoat, and they took out their hate on Joe. He couldn’t move away; no one would hire him. Hanged himself out in his barn.”
I exchanged a glance with Father Leo. Two suicides connected to the disaster, ghost sightings, and a mine monster. What had looked like a simple salt and burn had gotten complicated.
“But I’m going to clear Joe,” Newt continued, oblivious to our silent conversation. “I found papers to prove the mine bosses knew the vents weren’t working right, and that the foreman was told to not wait the whole hour after running machines to let the dust settle. Cutting those corners, it was just a matter of time before the Harwick blew.”
Deep Trouble Page 10