Every mine has its ghost, or so my father used to say. Ours turned out to be no different.
The old shaft at the mine’s bottom – we never went there. We knew better, though we couldn’t give a proper reason anymore. It was just a thing one mustn’t do. This knowledge was passed from father to son to his son. Knowledge once paid for in blood and fear.
But warnings, however wise, don’t last forever. Once the blood of our forefathers spilled down in the shaft had dried, the young, lured in by mystery, rebellion, or dreams of treasure, decided to pay the price once again.
My son was the one who stayed behind, too much of a coward to join his peers. He spoke of voices that echoed through the corridor as his friends delved deeper. Hungry, mocking, excited. He waited for hours for anyone to return but none did.
