The main reason for my visit (aside from satisfying my curious nature) is to prove a theory. I believe that the miners had hit upon a rich vein of gold or some other valuable resource, and that by concocting an outlandish story of the miners butchering their families, the village of Annan hoped to keep people from discovering their secret. Granted, this theory has holes in it. Annan for one is not known for any degree of wealth, yet few ever visit the area and none are known to return to report upon its comings and goings. I believe that those who do venture there and learn the truth about what is being dragged out of the ground decide to stay and prosper. I shall see for myself soon enough.
My journey took longer than expected for I couldn’t find anybody willing to provide passage into the area which meant that it was almost nightfall when I reached the outcrop that Kinnon had hidden upon. In the name of authenticity, I elected to use the same vantage point in the hope of seeing for myself the emergence of the mysterious miners.
I had little time to prepare myself for almost at once an unearthly mist had escaped the entrance before the miners appeared, complete with glowing white eyes. I observed the silence of their movement, each breaking rank to enter his home. After a short time, the village was deserted, and the mist began to disperse. It startles me to admit, the scene was exactly as Kinnon had described.
After a careful descent to the village outskirts, I crept through the haphazard warren of cottages towards the mine entrance. Not a single light burned from inside any of the homes that I knew to be occupied. An unnatural stillness had settled upon the place, one that only I defied.
Prepared as I was, once deep enough into the mine and far from sight I lit the lantern that I had procured earlier that day. Where I had expected to see numerous passages and shafts disappearing in all directions, I saw only one. Ahead I could see that it curved to the right and that the angle of descent grew sharply. Though it was quiet in here, I could hear the noise of cold air moving over stone, that was if I shut out the thumping sound of my blood pulsing through my ears. I followed this solitary path down. I am no expert on mining techniques, but the spiralling tunnel that I found myself within did not seem to be of any design fit for the location and extraction of coal. If a passageway could feel purposeful, this was it.
After several minutes, I began to make out a regular beat. Faint and distant, yet frequent and insistent. One-two. One-two. On went the beat, louder with each passing step.
I had descended so deep that the air had grown thick with moisture and I felt nauseous. I reasoned I had come too far to turn back now and that having come so close to finding out the secret behind the mines of Annan, only to retreat to the safety of the world above would be a failure that I could not carry. Intoxicated by the dense atmosphere and at the mercy of the hypnotic beat which by now was almost deafening, I descended further.
With my skull reverberating, I finally entered the core of the mine. My eyes could scarcely believe the sight! Before me, hundreds of feet in length beat a glistening black heart. Its size was beyond comprehension; each hellish beat shook the cavern walls and worse still was that the organ was plumbed into the earth above. Far below in the depths of gloom I could make huge piles of skeletal remains that I assumed were those of the miner’s families. What manner of a creature had I uncovered that drew its very lifeblood from the soil and the rock, yet required the sacrifice of countless innocents?
The horrendous pulsing began to quicken almost as though this thing was aware of my intrusion. I saw yellow fluid bubble and froth from small tears that appeared in the tissue of the massive organ, that when spilt upon the ground began to sizzle and corrode the very rock beneath.
Having no sense of how much time had passed since I’d begun my descent and now gripped with an incomprehensible terror I withdrew from that chamber and fled to the surface. All the while the quickening heartbeat followed after me until it became nothing but a constant drone (and at this point I swear that I heard an almighty groan of anguish emanate from somewhere far behind me).
As I burst forth from the mine, I saw lights burning in several of the miner’s cottages. Fearful that they may take me back down into that terrible place I ran until I at last passed out unconscious many, many miles from Annan.
***
I know that many of you will doubt my story as I indeed doubted Kinnon. You do not have to believe my words; I am not recording this to corrupt your perception of the world. I am however offering this as a warning that above all else should be heeded—steer clear of Annan, for God fears to tread in that place, and mercy shall find you wanting.
A Butcher’s Wife, Indisposed
A single momentary lapse in concentration had undone all of her recent plans and consigned Agnes to the indignity of an NHS hospital bed. For three weeks, she had been subjected to food fit only for the pigs. For three weeks had she lain, weak and helpless, beneath heavily starched sheets that made her skin itch. For three weeks, she was made to suffer the banal chatter of the patients who surrounded her. She had suffered long enough.
Her ordeal had begun earlier that month while standing in line at the post office. It was an unseasonably warm morning, and Agnes, ever eager to get her chores over and done with, had skipped breakfast. The queue was unusually long. The argument between Mrs Aitkens and the Post Office clerk had entered its tenth minute when a peculiar feeling overcame Agnes. Her head grew heavy, and the raised voices in the post office seemed to slow and distort. She remembered looking at the floor. Then there was nothing but blackness.
Agnes awoke to find herself surrounded by the great and the good of the village. She looked up at the circle of faces, and the circle of faces looked back. None offered a hand to help her up.
After a short ambulance ride and a brief examination by a Doctor, who did not provide his name, Agnes was admitted to hospital suffering from severe dehydration. She was the last of the four to enter the ward.
Her fellow patients soon acquainted themselves with Agnes. Elaine was a lady of standing who refused to pay to go private when she could be treated for free. She took great pride in reminding everyone who entered the ward of her immense wealth and talked endlessly about her lavish lifestyle. Tired of her constant boasts, Agnes told her that her status stood for nought as they were all pissing into cardboard bedpans. Elaine said little after that.
Marjorie was the quiet sort who only spoke to agree with what she was hearing. It didn’t matter what she was hearing, if you were talking to Marjorie, she agreed with you. After an extraordinarily long discussion about immigration with one of the porters in which both parties had contradicted themselves countless times, Agnes suggested that they ought to both shut up before she took upon them with her crutches. Unsurprisingly, Marjorie agreed.
It was Coral who grated upon Agnes the most. Coral had severe health complications, the list of which would run the length of your arm. Unfortunately, a broken jaw was not among them. By the end of the second day of her stay, Agnes knew Coral’s entire life history. She knew that when she was six she had cut her hand on a tin of Spam and required four stitches. She knew that on her first date with a boy called Clive, he had remarked how her hair smelt of strawberries and then went on to rub her knee. She also knew the exact time and date that the menopause hit her. With Marjorie as the ever-attentive audience and Elaine now all but mute, Coral was free to run roughshod over any topic of conversation, and she grasped every opportunity to do so.
Agnes’ days became a monotonous routine of bad food, intolerable company and disturbed rest. By the third week she decided that something needed to be done about her situation and whilst the doctors were not going to allow her home anytime soon and the nurses had repeatedly ignored her requests for a single room, it would be up to Agnes to sort matters herself.
A stroke settled the Elaine matter before she could return to her boastful ways. She was wheeled out of the ward, draped in one of those irksome sheets, feet poking out of the bottom. All the whi
le Coral regaled Marjorie with the story of her last trip to Turkey. She didn’t even pause to draw breath. Agnes quipped that it was “a stroke of luck” that God had elected to take Elaine and liberate her from this hell. Coral scowled while Marjorie agreed.
One would assume that death on the ward may warrant a more solemn and considered mood, if only for a short time, but Coral, with a smaller audience now, seemed only to increase the frequency and length of her verbal bunkum, much to Agnes’ annoyance.
Her time spent alone with her thoughts had afforded Agnes ample opportunity to formulate a means of disposing of Coral and ending her tirade of nonsense once and for all. The staff that served the ward were not the most attentive and often took long breaks, leaving the nurses’ station unmanned. Agnes had considered overdosing Coral on medication, but that was one area of their job where the staff paid attention. The medicine cabinet was locked, and all tablets were checked, double checked and accounted for at the end of every shift. Plying her with drugs was out of the question, so a better idea was required.
During one of Coral’s rare bouts of silence, Agnes overheard a conversation which suggested that the lift that serviced the wing was out of order. Agnes did not know how many floors up she was situated, but a quick look out of the window at the end of the ward afforded the view of hundreds of sloped roofs. As luck would have it, the fault was located on this floor, and a maintenance team were working in the shaft.
Agnes waited until the crew took a break. With unsteady legs, she got out of her bed and padded out into the corridor. The nurses’ station was empty, and the other wards were deathly quiet. At the far end of the corridor, she spied the open lift-shaft. A small plastic ‘caution’ sign stood before it, a bright yellow warning to the peril that lay beyond.
“What are you doing out of bed?” croaked Coral. “You shouldn’t be doing that, doctor’s orders. I heard him say; you are going to get in trouble when I tell him you’ve been out of bed!”
Agnes looked first at Marjorie, who nodded in agreement, and then at Coral. “I feel like going for a walk. You fancy joining me?”
Coral’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and her mouth fell open. “What do you mean do I fancy a walk? I’ve got shot knees the doctor says. Can’t understand how I managed for so long, no cartilage, it's just bone grinding on bone!”
Agnes made her way towards the foot of Coral’s bed. “No matter,” she said with a smile. “How about a ride then?” Using the point of her crutch she released the brake, tossed her walking aid aside and began to ease Coral’s bed out of her cubicle.
“You can’t do that!” screeched Coral. “Put me back, I’ve got meds due soon, I like my bed just where it is thank you very much!”
Agnes continued to manipulate the bed into the centre of the room while Marjorie watched in silence. Once centred, she positioned herself at the head of Coral’s bed and pushed it out of the ward.
“Where do you think we’re going to go? It’s not like you can wheel me into the café, the lift’s broken don’t you know, I heard them talking about it earlier.”
Agnes pushed the bed into the empty corridor and pointed the foot of it towards the open lift shaft.
“See,” began Coral, a hint of smugness in her voice. “I told you the lift was broken. Typical NHS, always something—”
The wheels of the bed squeaked into life as Agnes began to push Coral towards the lift shaft.
“Wh-what are you doing, woman?” cried Coral, the smug tone replaced by one of panic. “Stop, stop this at once!”
The bed began to pick up speed and Coral began to stammer incoherently. Agnes pushed harder and faster; her legs seemed to gain strength with every step forwards.
“Wait, please—stop this now!”
Agnes released her grip on the bed, the momentum of which carried it forwards. The yellow plastic sign caught under the front wheels of the bed and disappeared into the lift shaft with a hysterical Coral. Seconds later there came the satisfying sound of metal crashing into metal, followed by a prolonged and blissful silence. Agnes returned to her bed, gave Marjorie a stern look, pulled her sheets to her chin and settled off to sleep.
***
She awoke to find a police officer standing beside her. She was young looking; Agnes could scarcely believe she was out of school. Upon seeing Agnes stir, she produced her notebook. “So sorry to disturb you ma'am, but did you happen to see what happened to Mrs Oakley? The lady in the cubicle opposite?”
“No dear, I’m afraid once I fall asleep I’m dead to the world,” said Agnes with a smile. “Isn’t that right Marjorie?”
Though Agnes could not see Marjorie’s response, she knew that she would agree.
The Tragedy of the Tailor
The Dead will always know more about life than those of us still living. This is the way that it is, and this is the way it shall always be. It is ironic that the very passions that dictate our character in life remain with us in death. If you were an evil, ne’er-do-well when alive, the chances are you will still be an evil ne’er-do-well once deceased. A soul is painted during conception, and that colour is not so easily changed. It is so that we must stumble blindly through life unaware of who we are or of who we are meant to be. Some turn to the dark arts to find their answers; foolish are they for few understand the real intentions of the dead.
***
Morgan Firthwell was a craftsman of quality. It was true that Chester had more than an adequate supply of tailors, but Morgan believed that his workmanship was a cut above, and whilst business continued to remain slow, he reassured himself that there was no finer even than he, plying his trade within the city walls.
The decline in the trade had greatly disturbed him though he was not easily able to pinpoint the exact moment that his business had started to struggle. He saw the likes of Gothers and Sons as busy as ever. Nathan Plousson seemed to have more work than he could handle, at least according to the talk of the taverns in which the tailor community frequented. This irked Morgan a great deal as both of these merchants were known to sell an inferior product and use every trick of the trade in which to save a penny. Not so with Morgan. He believed that a man’s clothes should be of the finest quality, thus portraying a confident and successful persona upon those of which he chose to associate himself with. Even with standards as high as his, he found himself cleaning his shop and kicking his heels more than partaking in the art of which he so loved to work. Desperate times had called for drastic measures to be taken, and it was with a great degree of cynicism and regret that Morgan first sought out Madam Shalkware.
***
Chester is a warren of narrow cobbled streets and winding lanes that twist and turn, leading into areas of the city that are visited by the few and the knowing. Madam Shalkware’s cottage was located at the bottom of one such passage. Small and lopsided, her domain leaned lazily against the kind of tavern where outsiders are not welcomed. The sky is perpetually dark here as the huddled buildings fight amongst themselves for space, looming high above the footway and blocking out the rays of the sun.
A lean, gap-toothed man in a filthy shirt pushed past Morgan as he stood before Madam Shalkware’s front door. Instinctively he moved to check that his coin purse was still nestled in his pocket, before flushing with embarrassment at his negative assumptions. The door opened, and Madam Shalkware’s withered face appeared from the gloom, startling Morgan. She smiled and revealed a set of crooked and yellowed teeth “Yes?”
Morgan shifted his weight unsure as to how to voice the reason for his visit. “Hello, Madame Shalkware?”
“Trina,” croaked the old woman.
“Ah—Trina, my name is—”
“Mr. Firthwell,” interrupted Trina. “You are that hoity-toit tailor from town, I know who you are mister.”
Morgan’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “I-um, well, you are good!”
Trina Shalkware regarded Morgan and for a brief moment he sensed pity in those tir
ed eyes. “I’ve seen you in your shop, up in town, twiddling your thumbs and kicking your heels. Just because I live in the rat run doesn’t mean I don’t leave its squalor from time to time y’know.”
Morgan suddenly felt foolish. She had seen him in his premises, whatever gift she claimed to have she had not directed its use upon him, at least not yet. “Of course, my apologies, how silly of me. I hope that you do not mind my visiting unannounced, I was advised to seek out your help?”
Trina’s attention was drawn to somewhere beyond Morgan’s shoulder. Her eyes were distant and her expression blank. After a moment, she stepped aside and ushered him indoors. “You’d better come in Mr. Firthwell, we have much to remedy.”
***
Trina’s cramped rear quarters doubled as a store room and her workspace. Candles were scattered around the room, placed on shelves and table-tops of various heights. The air hung heavy with a fragrance that pulled at the inside of Morgan’s lungs, and he began to cough.
“It’ll settle in a moment. Need to keep the air pure,” remarked Trina as she busied herself clearing space for Morgan. “Sit, please.”
Morgan did as instructed. “It’s about my business…” he began. “Or lack of.”
Trina locked eyes with Morgan. “I know why you’re here, and your failing business is but a part of your problems.”
“How do you mean?”
“I will be honest with you. Most of my customers want to see what I do, the full theatrical experience and all of that. I use the tarot, the crystal ball, give them a vague reading, they pay, and everyone is happy.”
“You mean you’re a fraud?” Morgan stood, “I beg your pardon, it seems that I have had a wasted journey, good day to you.”
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