There was a spirit of vengeance haunting the place, and I knew just what kind. A tommy-knocker. They were the leave-behinds of those wronged in mining deaths in Cornish folklore. Often, they were good like coblyns. But the more mining became a giant corporation and men died due to recklessness, the more the creatures started popping up as wrathful shades of black.
And somehow Wayland had crossed paths with it at the wrong time.No,I realized. He’d been beaten, bound, and left for it…
Oh hell, he was bait to get it to come out, and possibly satisfy it.The coblyn was right: I had been looking at this the wrong way. I’d never had a case like this before, but now I knew what to do, and I had one last good card to play.
I picked up Wayland’s phone and made a call. The same man from the voicemail I’d played earlier answered. “Wayland, that you?”
“It’s me,” I said. I’d kept the words flat and neutral, not wanting to betray anything. The man audibly swallowed on the other end of the line.
“You wanna talk about what went down?”
Damn right I do.But I didn’t voice that, not wanting to let anything slip. “Funny thing about that, boss, I can’t remember a thing. But I found something interesting you’re gonna want to see.” I told him where to meet me, at the very spot Wayland Keeney had been left as an offering.
“I’ll be there. My boy’ll tag along too in case we need some extra hands for something.”
Doesn’t take much to figure out what you’re gonna have him there for.I hung up, grabbed the scattered papers that Wayland had gathered, along with the photo of himself and that of the long-gone Jeremiah Gibson.
I checked my timeline tattoo, seeing what was left. Two hours. Shit. I’d lost a lot between my research and talking to the coblyn.
I was sure this time Wayland’s boss wouldn’t leave things up to chance, or to the discretion of monsters. He’d bring a gun to make sure this ended once and for all.
So naturally I made sure to grab something that’d even the score.
A pack of matches.
My arm tingled on the drive toward the mine. I rolled up my sleeve and shot it a glance. One hour left. Mercifully, I was almost there. The only problem remaining was how long this would take.
And I have a feeling not long, though that might not be a good thing.
The mine was as abandoned as it had been when I’d started the case, all save for a lifted Dodge pickup that looked decades newer than what Wayland owned. It had the kind of modifications done to it that let you know the owner had several layers of insecurity issues.
I parked the old Ford and scanned the grounds. The place was empty, though. They were probably already in the mine.
The perfect place for them to set a trap.Another part of me wondered,Is it a trap if you know they’ve set it?There’s nothing like a healthy dose of paranoia to keep you alive in the paranormal investigator game.
I made my way into the mouth of the mine, deciding that if I was going to be set up, I’d make the first move. So I laid out the photograph of ole Jeremiah as well as what I hoped passed for something connected to him: the corruption and mishaps associated with the mine he’d been investigating. “Here goes nothing.” I set to invoking another being then.
“Jeremiah Gibson, if that’s really you knocking about in these mines, I’m calling on you. I’ve got something you want.” I swallowed, then added, “Payback.” I struck a match and burned some of the materials, then did the same to his photo.
No answer. The mine remained as silent as before.
“Well, shit.” I flicked what remained of the match to the ground.
Something crunched ahead and a bright light washed over me, forcing me to blink.
“Shit’s right, Wayland.” The voice was almost a mimic for the one on the phone, though notably younger, and lacking some of the grit. I managed to squint through the light to catch a silhouette, then another beside it.
Then the voice from earlier spoke. “Not sure how you survived that…thing. But damn if that ain’t you right there in front of us. We beat you good, left you damn near for dead.” The older of the two men sighed. “Shame too. You were a good worker. People respected you. You just had to start digging into my business.” The light died, giving me a better look at the pair.
The mine owner was built along the same lines as Wayland, showing signs of once keeping to a good bit of muscle that in his case had been traded in for comforting fat. Watery blue eyes, some hard lines in the face, and thinning blond hair. His son was what the man might have looked like thirty years younger. They even dressed similarly, from their brown and orange flannels to the well-worn jeans.
“And does that business happen to be fucking your hardworking miners out of safety equipment? Killing someone looking into that? The name Jeremiah Gibson mean anything to you?” Each question left me hard, clipped, and with an edge.
The mine’s owner cracked a lopsided smile and gestured with a hand, something flashing of polished chrome in his grip. An old revolver. “MSHA inspector long time back. He came sticking his nose in things that didn’t concern him.”
“Like how you’ve been skimping on the mine safety and the gear your boys use? Risking deaths, illnesses, and more? Howmuch have you racked up doing that?” I didn’t move lest I prompt the man into firing at me. At this close of a range, he wouldn’t miss, and I might be able to recover from a lot of things, but bullets can put me down for good just fine.
The man’s smile widened as he trained the gun on me, but his son’s face tightened into a strained mask.
