The Old Mine Shaft

We stand in the overgrown lot, staring at the cluttered remains of the large wooden building in the deep reaches of the West Virginia Mountains. Nature had taken most of the area back, with just a few remaining structures of the old town left. If you didn’t know it, you would not be able to tell this used to be a coal mining town. I felt the reassuring grip of my father’s calloused hand on my shoulder. His fingers pressed down on my shoulder and his reassuring voice in my ear.

“The miners and their families who used to live here would buy everything they needed from this place. They called it the Company Store.” He paused to emphasize the moment. “This place sold everything from food and clothes, tools and household items. Everything you required could be obtained or ordered at the Company Store. It was the commercial and cultural center of the small town. People always gathered in or around here to talk, trade or to just pass the time.”

We gazed around at the gutted and weather-beaten log houses in our vicinity. It astonished me that people could live so far away from any real civilization. The area my dad had taken me to was easily fifteen miles away from our house, and our rural home was another ten miles away from our little town. The closest real town was more than thirty miles away, with around twelve of those miles being on an old unpaved, rutted dirt road. Back when the mines were operational, the railroad was the fastest way to get to most places. But the railroad had been shut down before the town was. It really was an island in a sea of forest tucked away in the rugged mountains of Appalachia.

“Why did they decide to mine this far away from everybody else?”

“This is where the coal was. You mined it where you discovered it, and most times it was in the most remote places.” replied dad as he picked up a black rock from the road and looked at it.

“What if someone got sick or hurt, daddy?”

“The company hired a doctor or someone equal to it for when people got bad off. Anything really bad, they would drive them to the hospital. Being so far away, sometimes they didn’t make it in time.”

We walked along and stared at the destroyed company houses and sprawling trees and foliage that grew amidst them. It looked like the people had left without taking their belongings. My father was a wise and decent man. But he was also stern and strict as well. But something about being near these old buildings from another time brought vibrancy to him that seemed to radiate outward from him. At these moments, you could catch glimpses of a younger version of him. People forget that our parents were kids too, once upon a time. However, it was still hard to imagine my father as a young boy, perhaps out here walking this same road with his father. As we continued to walk between the rows of overgrown houses, my father’s history lesson continued.

“The mining companies’ way back then was even more crooked than they are now. They’d tell the workers about big money, providing for their families, and being’ a part of some big scheme without ever needing a real dollar ever again. They’d be paid for the coal they mined with a specific kind of script money that only was good at the company store. This script money turned out to be a big problem.”

“Why?”

“Because the script money would only be spent at the company store. If you needed something, the store wouldn’t have or could get it; you were out of luck. Because the miners didn’t have any real money, you couldn’t just leave if you were sick of mining. Once the workers started here, it was all but impossible for them to leave.” My father paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “The workers and their families were stuck here, and the company could do whatever they wanted with them. And if you quit your job, they took your company house. So either you worked for the mine or became homeless with no money to go anywhere else. They were stuck.”

“Is that why nobody is living here anymore?” I asked as we approached and stood in the mouth of an old mining shaft. “Did the mines run out of workers to mine the coal?”

The black and endless tunnel framed with rotting wooden pallets seemed almost misplaced in comparison to the endless vegetation around it. The pitch-black void beyond it seemed to spark my most intense sense of curiosity, while somehow alarming every bone in my body. I had an ominous feeling and foreboding sense of danger just standing near it. What could possibly be down there? I asked myself as I stared, almost transfixed, at the manmade abyss before me. The darkness seemed to suck the warmth out of the air, and deep chills followed by goosebumps raced up my arms. It was as if the mouth of the mine attempted to suck the life out of anything that wandered near it. I was almost afraid to breathe. My father seemed to notice my unease.

“That was a big part of it.” My father responded; his nostalgia was gone now. “Folks in this town dug too deep. They bled the mountain dry. Once they ran out of coal, they started running out of money too. The real killer was then a bad winter came unexpectedly.”

“So, they left?” I questioned.

My father stood still for a while, staring into the darkness of the old mine. Turning and looking at me with intensity, as if he was deciding on something. Then his shoulders relaxed as if a weight was lifted, and he spoke once more.

“No, son. They tried with what little they had, but winter got to them first. The snow came early and fell too deep. The temperature dropped which made the ice freeze thick and hard. It made travel impossible. Even the train couldn’t get through till spring thaw. They had no choice but to try and tough it out, but”

“But? So what happened?”

I almost pleaded with him to finish the story. Even though I suspected the ending wouldn’t be a very pleasant one. Especially for a young boy like myself to hear. But I had heard sad stories before. Another long and deliberate silence from my father before he finally responded to the question.

“They all got sick. Really bad sick.”

“You mean like tuberculosis or something like that?”

I tried to pry for more details as I recalled bits and pieces of the stories my papaw told me about working the mines in the old days. He talked about a lung disease called tuberculosis. It made a lot of people sick and die. Tuberculosis was a real killer back in those days, especially for miners who also suffered from black lung.

“No, not like tuberculosis.” My father responded coldly as he continued staring into the lightless depths of the mine shaft. “You’re still too young. I’ll tell you more when you’re old enough to understand. If I told you now, your mom would whip me. All you need to know is they got sick.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

My dad picked me up and placed me on his shoulders. Knowing better than to question the matter any further. I resigned to the knowledge I was given. We walked away from the ruins of the mining town stuck in another time, and towards the comforts of home. I was too young to understand the depths of the old town. Through my eleven-year-old eyes, I could only see the beauty of the old being engulfed by the promise of new growth in nature.

Several years had passed, and once again, I found myself standing next to my dad before the old mining shaft. Just as mystically treacherous as it had been throughout my childhood when we undertook the yearly trip here. Every spring, we would return to this place and take a walk around the old town.

“Dad?” I asked the graying old man beside me.

“Yea?” He replied in his usual somber manner.

He always used this tone when standing at the threshold of this seemingly godless cavern. It seemed like he was looking too deeply into it, trying to find something in the void that only he knew to look for. Whenever we found ourselves here, I saw him as less of a man, and more of a statue. He was like a motionless and reserved sentry placed here to keep the darkness back where it belonged.

“What happened to the people here?”

“They got sick, you know that.”

“I know that they got sick, but there are more you’re not telling me. Every time we come here, you always say I’m still too young. But I ain’t little anymore. I’m mature enough to hear what really happened here.”

My dad stood unmoving for what felt like an eternity. We have been making this trip every year for my entire eighteen years of life. Slowly, his arm reached his hand into his pocket and handed me something. In his outstretched hand was an old journal, probably the oldest book I’d ever seen. Its leather binding cracked and frayed as yellow pages leered out between the dark brown cover they rested in. It was the size of a pocket bible they used to give to children at church. I took it in my hand, not really sure what to do to say. It felt warm and heavy in my hand.

“You’re right. You are old enough. I was your age when my dad gave me this book. It will explain everything you need to know about this place and what happened to its people. Just remember, when you read it, forgive the man who wrote this will ya? He was sick and wasn’t right in the head. It’s not all his fault. He had a delirium, an ancient madness some say. Your great grandad found this old journal. Right over there, to be exact.” His arm pointed behind him to the remnants of the company store.

“His brother, my great uncle, was the one who ran the store. When he didn’t hear from him for months, he came out here to find out what happened. It was then that he found the small journal. If it wasn’t for your great uncle writing everything down, we would never have known what happened here.”

With this new revelation about our family and this place, we began to walk back to the truck. We didn’t say more than a dozen words during the whole trip back home. I wondered what secrets the book held. I had been waiting for years to find out what happened to those people. Now I have the answers. That night, as I lay in my bed, I opened the journal and read the faded title. The account of A. Lvin and the horrendous winter in the mining town of Deer Creek, 1917.

“November 2nd, 1917
Winter has come to us early this year. Weeks earlier than we could ever have anticipated. It was as if God himself had brought this sudden snowfall upon us. It is hard to believe we have three feet of snow on the ground. What began as flurries in the early hours of the night had transformed into ice-laden drifts over the doorways of our houses before the morning sun had risen.
It has snowed for two straight days now. All the roads, including the railroad, are snowed over. The heavy snow and winds have knocked out telephone and power lines. We are now cut off from everyone.
I am always surprised how pretty and clean everything looks after the first snow of the season. We made an enormous tub of snow cream today. I don’t care if you are 6 or 60, everyone loves eating fresh snow cream.

November 9th, 1917
We thought the worst was over. We woke up to blue skies, and the sun had warmed to 8 degrees. However, by noon, the wind had picked up and the sky turned a dark gray. By four in the afternoon, the temperature was down to 0 and the wind was howling.
Two of the men had decided to try and make it to Cub, the closest town for supplies. They left around noon, staying on the south side of the valley and hoping the sun we got would keep the snow as shallow as possible. It is 9 miles as the crow flies. May God watch over them.
The women of the church have come together and inventoried all the food and supplies we have just in case things don’t improve.

November 13th, 1917
I fear our small town is now isolated from the rest of civilization by snow-filled passes and ice-laden roads. Until the temperature rises enough, I doubt anyone can last for more than a few hours outside.
I suspect supplies could not make the journey in such a storm. I fear that if it does not cease, we shall be forced to endure the hardships of little food and not enough supplies to sustain everyone through the snowy months.
Several of the men have taken off to hunt for food. Though I suspect they’ll not find much game in such awful conditions. Let us pray that spring is as early as winter has been this year.

November 18th, 1917
Reserves are running low, and despite our best efforts to ration our provisions, I fear we will not have enough to last till the new year.
We have not heard anything from the two men who left for Cub. Everyone fears the worst.
Hunting has not yielded much aside from a snow-stranded deer that was almost dead, a few rabbits, and squirrels. Aside from a few handfuls of elderberries, all edible vegetation has frozen over. The extreme cold and deep snow have decimated the game populations.
Doctor Toole’s house is overrun with the sick and undernourished. Everyone’s temperament and morale have fallen to a drastic low. I fear we all will have to encounter dire times before circumstances get better.

November 24th, 1917
There are dozens of heartbreaking children now. We have decided to harvest what few pets we have. The kids are not the only ones with tears in their eyes. Everyone feels bad about doing it, but it is the only way to have food. Tears of sadness shed today will take away tears of hunger tomorrow.
The weeks of frigid temperatures and sickness have not been easy. We are almost at the end of our rope.

November 29th, 1917.
Our food is practically gone. The fridge weather keeps us cooped up in our homes. People have started digging into the snow to gather the grass and roots in the fields. There is not a rat or mouse to be found anywhere in town.
The old and sick are beginning to die off at a fast rate. We are so desperate that a piece of leather and shredded boiled paper is a feast. People have started chewing wood to ward off hunger pains. Some people have started staying together in groups to conserve firewood.
Not much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving Day. Has God turned his back on us for some transgression?

December 7th, 1917.
There is no meat in town. People are on the verge of insanity from hunger. All the animals around town have been slaughtered. We are at our most desperate time. The scraps from our tables mere months ago would look like a king’s banquet to us now. Someone is dying every other day. I wonder if there will be anyone left by spring.
The hunters said the farthest anyone can get is to the Mossy Pass. The snow is over 6 feet high, and the mountains are just too high and steep to climb. Our valley is cut off from the rest of the world until the ice and snow melt.
We have no idea what is happening on the outside of this valley. Are they trying to reach us? Is the weather as bad in other places as it is here? Does anyone even know how deplorable it is?

December 14th, 1917.
We caught Tom Richards attempting to cut bits of flesh from the dead we have piled inside the old barn beside the church. The ground is too frozen to bury them in our weakened condition. When we questioned him, he admitted that he intended to cook and eat the flesh he had torn from them. The madman was beyond help. He was taken to the barn and shot. The crowd was almost divided on what to do with him, but we are trying to survive. One less mouth to feed makes our chances of survival better. The point that swung the vote was where to put him. We did not have any place to keep him safe. We could not allow anyone in his state to be free.
I’d be a liar if I said the thought hadn’t entered my mind. When the hunger pains are at their peaks, my morals begin to slip. The corpses are dead, gone from this world. Their souls have already entered the kingdom of heaven. They do not need their bodies now. We however are starving; food is all that we can think about lately.
I have cut up one of my shirts and have been chewing it like a cow. Anything to keep the hunger pains at bay.

December 21st, 1917
I just heard word that Doc Toole is really bad. He was found lying on the floor in his house hallucinating. He is ranting and talking about the dead and how they want him to walk to the next town to rescue them. If Doc Toole dies, I fear the town will soon follow him.
It has been 49 days since I started writing here, and this hellish storm came upon us. There is close to 5 feet of hard-packed snow on the ground, and the temperature rarely gets above 0. If only we could find something to eat, then we could hold out to spring. I am so tired of being hungry. I would give my life savings for a simple ham or chicken.

December 22nd, 1917
My heart is aching. Doc Toole is dead. Our town is about to follow him. I just heard the news, and I am afraid. He has been a shining light to the whole town in this time of darkness. I wish I could go to sleep like a bear and wake up in the spring. Unfortunately, I am living in a nightmare. Wasting away in the cold, while we see death reaching closer every second.

December 25th, 1917.
It is Christmas. I would say merry, but there is no joy in the world. How can there be? It is as if we are dead but don’t have the smarts to realize it. Christmas is a time to be grateful, but what do we have to be grateful for?
Reverend Miller passed away sometime in the night. He was so sickly and thin that I hardly recognized him. Now his frail body was thrown into the barn with the rest. It seems appropriate he waited till Christmas to die. The irony would be amusing if it weren’t so sad.
The remaining few who were capable assembled for a meeting. Dark, evil matters were discussed there, things that I would never imagine talking about under any other pretense or scenario. After hours of arguments and deliberations, it has been decided that the dead will be harvested and eaten if we are to survive the winter. I have heard stories in history about people who have done this and survived. Why can’t we do the same? I will ration out the pieces to the town through the company store.
God forgive us all.

January 8th, 1918.
Something is happening to us. A sickness perhaps, a curse from God more likely. The meat harvested from the deceased lasted us a few weeks, and we have regained some sort of contorted morale. But even these rations are running low. The people here have become hostile and isolated toward one another. They look at each other as if their friends and neighbors were a wolf, and also a potential meal.
A man broke into the company store two nights ago and tried to steal meat off of the drying rack. When I confronted him, he faced me and began to growl and wail loudly like some unholy abomination. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. The profane savagery he carried about him suggested no humanity left in him. I was forced to pull my gun and shoot him. Wounded, he recoiled from my shot and stumbled out into the snow. No sooner had he fallen to his knees were the other townsfolk upon him. They tore him apart before he had even succumbed to his injuries. Drawn to the blood like predators on a hunt. The sight was horrific, but it didn’t stop me from securing a few pieces for myself.
Dear God, what have we become?

January 12th
It’s getting harder to write. I can’t get my thoughts to form together like they used to. I’m so hungry. So hungry. There is no relief from the pain. All the time. It is all that I can think about. I have barricaded the front door and windows of the store. What’s left is mine. MINE! There is not enough for everyone.
Curse the fiendish monsters that pound at its boarded threshold. They aren’t even people anymore. Their gaunt faces. The filthy, claw-like fingernails. The way they walk on all fours is like animals. Those horrible eyes. Filled only with rage and insatiable hunger. They will not get me! They will not get me!

They’re all gone. Just me now. Just me. Me. I should be dead. How am I alive? I should’ve wasted away days ago, but this curse will not let me go. Always hungry. The hunger will not go away. There’s no meat left. No people left to nourish me. Sunlight is excruciating. The thought of someone finding me is too much to bear. I would kill and eat them. I know I would. I’ve changed into a monster. I can see it in the mirror. I can feel it in my cold and lifeless heart. I am so ravenous that it ate my soul. No one is left here in the village. I can’t bear the hunger; I can’t bear the misery and silence of the empty houses. I will go deep into the mine, and there I will barricade myself inside. Hopefully, the weight of the mountain can contain this monstrous curse. I do not deserve the company of nature or the warmth of the sun’s light. Only darkness will suit me now. So hungry. So hungry.”

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. All the years my father had gone to the abandoned town, he seemed to go straight past the houses and towards the mouth of the mine. It was now that I understood what he was doing there, why he would get so solemn, so fast. The reason I would get the horrible feelings I felt when I gazed into the pitch blackness of it. I could feel it trying to latch onto my own heart.

I knew that he was down there. He believed that it devoured his soul. Does a man without a soul truly die? Is a man without a soul even a man anymore? Is nothing left but the monster? Deep in the blackness of the mine was what was left of the company store. Always hungry, always alone. Waiting patiently for his next meal to get a little too close. Every year, my grandpa, papaw, my dad, and now me will venture out here to make sure the monster had stayed deep in the darkness where it belonged.

Credit: Rodney Hatfield Jr

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