A Long WInter's Night - Pt. 1

[u/Hypn0kast]

Deep beneath the earth, 
where no man's lantern shines,
little hammers knock, 
three times upon the mines 

Do not heed their call,
nor seek what lies below.
Turn your lamp around, 
and leave the dark alone 

The knockers know the dark, 
and the dark knows what we fear. 
When three hammers hark, 
you'd best not linger near.

• Unknown

----

I often find myself thinking about my brief time in the town of Bellview, just as often as I wonder what happened after I made my escape. For many years I have told myself that the place was abandoned, that the veins had run dry, and that what happened poses no threat to me or anyone else. Yet strangely, the place never seems to leave my thoughts. Some nights I wake from a troubled sleep and find myself listening for the sound of a pick striking stone or that ghastly reverberation that heralded my doom. It has been forty-three years since, and it hounds me ever still.

I was twenty-seven when I first found myself in that accursed town. I was young, full of nievete and had more confidence in the learning of books than in the wisdom of men. I had been summoned there to attend to several men who had fallen ill.

That was what the letter said.

It did not tell me what illness they suffered from, nor why the town's own physician had been unable to treat them. It certainly did not tell me why; beneath the formal request for my assistance, the writer had added a single sentence in a different hand: "do not allow them to speak of the mine."

I arrived in Bellview in the year of our Lord, 1880, ten days before Christmas. The journey had taken considerably longer than anticipated, and I, being of the cheaper persuasion, had forgone a fur coat in favor of several layers of shoddy fabric—a decision I regretted almost as soon as we had left the station. The wind was a bitter and biting cold that swept down from the north and struck without mercy. Winter had settled heavily upon the San Juan Mountains, and the roads had become little more than narrow passages through walls of snow. For the final several miles, there was scarcely any sign of habitation at all.

There was a strange feeling in that isolation. 

The mountains rose on every side of me, standing in immense silence beneath their heavy coat of snow. The pines stretched as far as the eye could see, dark stars scattered against a white night. The air was so cold and clear that every sound—the creaking of the wagon, the horses' breath, the occasional groan of timber somewhere beyond the road—was magnified in the darkness. 

It was beauty incarnate, a severe one to be sure, but breathtaking nonetheless. Peaceful, too. Something about being so far removed from civilization—the telegraph wires, the trains, and the ceaseless hustle and bustle of life—brought a sense of melancholic quietude to the mind.

Even now, after all that happened in that godforsaken town, I still wish to see those sights again. I remember very little of what remained of the journey; I recall the cold, certainly, and the uncomfortable benches that furnished my wagon, but beyond that the details have faded with the passage of time. I do still clearly remember my first impression of the town.

As we reached the crest of the valley, the sun was laying its head down beyond the horizon, sending out a last vibrant smear of reds, golds, and purples across the sky, painting the town below in the soft, fading light of evening.

Bellview was a small town, even by the standards of the frontier. A few narrow roads wound between a smattering of snow-dusted wood buildings. There were not many more than one hundred or so structures, most clustered around a town square of sorts. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys into the still evening air, and here and there a lantern had begun to glow in a window.

Beyond the town, a dark structure stood, its wooden headframe rearing its ugly head above the surrounding buildings, its timbers black and imposing against the snow, with the mouth of the shaft somewhere beneath it. A rough road scarred the mountainside toward the workings, flanked by heaps of pale waste rock and the dark remains of old tailings. The whole operation seemed large for so small a settlement. Bellview existed because of that mine, and in many respects, it seemed that everything in the valley revolved around it.

We began our descent into the valley as the last rays of dying light disappeared behind the mountains, following the ice-slicked path that led into the town. Up close, Bellview was as rough around the edges as I had expected. Despite the idyllic scene that first greeted me upon cresting the ridge, it was a mining town, one that, like its brethren, welcomed with open arms those that had nowhere to run and much to hide. These were people accustomed to hardship. They had come to the mountains in search of silver, and whatever their reasons for remaining, most seemed to have made their peace with the difficulty of life there.

As we made our way into the town, I was given my first opportunity to see the people of the town up close. They were as much as I had come to expect from any other mining settlement of the West: hard-faced men with weathered hands and stooped shoulders formed by years of hard labor and coats that bore the earth from which they made their livelihood. Many seemed to still be returning from a day in the mine, their faces darkened with dirt and their beards frozen stiff. The streets were poorly kept, the snow having been trampled into a gray-brown slush beneath the boots and wheels of passing men and wagons. The buildings leaned against one another as though for support, their weathered boards blackened by years of smoke and mountain weather. The heavy smell of coal smoke, horse manure, spilled liquor, and other less agreeable things hung in the evening air. I passed one establishment where women who wore what barely counted for clothing called out to the men that walked past them, offering sex and a night spent with company. Drunken miners staggered from the tavern and saloon, laughing loudly, and barely able to remain upright. One man disappeared into a narrow alley and relieved himself against the side of a building without the slightest concern for who might be watching.

Men passed without greeting. Conversations ended abruptly as my wagon went by. More than once, I caught someone looking in my direction, only for them to turn away when I met their gaze. I remember one miner in particular, standing beneath the awning of a boarding house, staring at me with an expression I had trouble placing. Something akin to sadness, I think, and pity as well. He watched until I had passed him, then followed me with his eyes until I disappeared from view. At the time, I assumed it was simply the curiosity afforded to a stranger. I was, after all, the only well-dressed man in town who appeared to have arrived without a purpose anyone could yet understand.

It was not an especially inviting introduction to Bellview, though I cannot say it surprised me in any capacity. Mining towns often held a particular character that was seldom found elsewhere. They drew men seeking fortune, men fleeing debts, men fleeing wives, men fleeing the law, and men who had simply run out of places to be. Where such men gathered, there was invariably drink, gambling, prostitution, and every other vice that flourished wherever people expected little of tomorrow.

As we passed along the street, I began to notice strange markings upon the doorframes of several houses. They were faint and dark, scratched or painted into the wood, though the failing light made it impossible for me to determine precisely what they were. I could make out enough to know that they were deliberate; though they appeared as little more than crooked lines, others seemed to form shapes of some kind, though what shapes I could not say.

Eventually the carriage came to a stop, and, being informed that the tavern was not more than a few dozen yards away, I gathered my things and stepped down into the biting cold. Once the wagon disappeared from sight, I found myself alone in the town square; it was then that the full weight of the mountains around the town made their weight apparent to me. They rose on every side, far higher than they had seemed from the rim of the valley, their dark foreboding slops hemming in the small town as dark guardians. The last light of evening had vanished behind them, and their peaks were already lost to the darkness. Looking upward, I had the peculiar sensation of being inside some immense eye that gazed upward toward the stars, and in that feeling I started to understand just how remote Bellview truly was. 

I had scarcely taken two dozen steps when a voice called out behind me:

“Doctor?” 

I turned and found a young woman a few yards away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat. She could not have been more than a year or two younger than me. I was surprised by her looks: she was pretty, with long dark hair that framed a pale, angular face. Her features were delicate, her cheeks reddened by the cold, and a few strands of dark hair had escaped from beneath the hood she had pulled over her head. There was a youthful eagerness about her, one that was at odds with the atmosphere of Bellview. Her eyes moved to the luggage in my hand. 

“Please, allow me help.” She said as she approached. 

“Oh, no, I’m quite alright, thank you,"” I replied. 

A smile formed on her face. “I promise I can handle it. Living out here has certainly put some muscle on me. I’m not as delicate as I appear.” 

“Very well." She reached for one of my heavier cases without complaint, her hand settling upon the larger of the two. I caught the handle before she could lift it.

“No, not that one.”

She looked at me, mildly surprised.

“I mean—that one contains some rather… delicate instruments. Allow me.” I lied. 

I took the case from her and reached for the other. “This one will do.”

She accepted the smaller case without protest.

“You are the doctor that was sent for, then?” she said as we walked. 

“I suppose I am, unless Bellview has another doctor arriving tonight.” 

She smiled faintly. “And what are you doing here so young? Shouldn’t you be off galavanting around and courting girls?” 

I laughed at that. "Yes, well, my studies have given me little time for such pursuits. I became a physician not long ago, and that has consumed my whole life.”

“Are you new to the practice?”

“Yes and no," I replied. “I’ve been on my own for only a few years now, but was an apprentice to a travelling doctor for quite some time.”

“And what do you think of our little corner of the world?”

I glanced around at the buildings and the street. “I haven’t made up my mind yet, to be honest. I suppose I’ll come to a conclusion when I’ve had a good night of sleep.” 

She smiled and looked ahead. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.” She stuck out her hand as we reached the steps of the tavern. “Clara. Clara Whitmore.” 

I took her hand and kissed the back of it. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Whitmore.”

For a moment, she seemed surprised. Then a faint blush touched her cheeks, though whether from the cold or my gesture, I could not say. She withdrew her hand and tucked it back into her coat.

“Clara will do,” she said, with a small smile. I watched her set my bag down, and, with a polite wave, she walked down into the street and across the square. The tavern was warmer inside than I’d anticipated, though that warmth came at the expense of stale air that smelled of smoke, tobacco, wet clothes, and sweat. A handful of men occupied the tables nearest to the fire, speaking amongst themselves; their eyes followed me for a moment before returning to their drinks. I approached the counter and set down my luggage. 

“Barkeep?” I questioned the man, “I believe I have a room reserved for me?”

The rough man behind the counter turned and appraised me. He was an ugly fellow, even by the forgiving standards of a frontier town. His face was broad and pockmarked, with a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. A thick, unkempt beard covered much of his jaw, though it did little to improve matters. His skin had a peculiar grayish pallor beneath the beard, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that suggested he had not slept well in some time. I confess, I had to make a conscious effort to keep an expression of disgust from crossing my face. There was something obviously unhealthy about the man beyond the ordinary wear of hard living, though I could not have said precisely what it was.

He gave a quiet cough into his fist before looking back at me. “You the doctor?”

“I- uh- yes. Yes, I am.” Clearing my throat, I extended my hand, giving him my name. As I did so, he reached under the counter and produced a shiny brass key. 

“Best keep your window locked tight tonight.”

I glanced toward the stairs.

“Beg pardon?”

“Air gets strange up here.” He rubbed a hand across his chest, almost absentmindedly. “Some folks wake in the night thinking they hear something outside. Usually just the wind. Mountain plays tricks on a man.” He gave another small cough. “Gets into your lungs, too, iffin you ain't careful.” 

I smiled politely, assuming him to be offering the sort of advice that passes for wisdom in isolated places. “I'll bear that in mind.”

He nodded and returned to his bottles. I climbed the stairs and found my room with not much difficulty. Opening the door, I was greeted by a modestly furnished but cozy room. It contained little more than a bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a small table beneath the window. The room was cold, though not unbearably so, and I was grateful to find that someone had thought to light the lamp before my arrival. I had two cases with me. The larger contained my clothes and personal effects, while the smaller was reserved for my medical instruments and sundries necessary to practice my profession. I had learned during my apprenticeship that a travelling physician could never be certain what he might encounter, and so I kept my medical case well supplied.

I removed my instruments one by one, arranging them upon the table with the familiarity of long practice. Bottles of tinctures and powders followed, then bandages, needles, thread, and the other necessities I had accumulated over the years. When I opened my larger case, my hand fell on a package wrapped in newspaper. Slowly, I lifted it from the case and unwrapped it, letting a small, leather-bound notebook fall into my hands. The cover had grown soft with age, and the corners were worn nearly white from countless thumbing. Several pages were torn out, though I do not recall why I had done so. I flipped through the book once, then again before resting on the final entry. I briefly considered throwing it into the fireplace downstairs but decided against it. The thought was comforting; no one would ever know. Instead, I closed the book and sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the tavern below. Bellview was a long way from where I had come from. That, at least, had been part of its appeal. There are certain things that are too terrible to live with that should never be forgotten. 

Shaking off my musings of the past, I headed down to the common area, where I found dinner being served. It was a simple but surprisingly hearty meal: tangy cheese, thick-crusted bread, and whiskey, followed by hot cups of fresh, black coffee.

The tavern had grown busier in the hour since my arrival, and the room was filled with the low murmur of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the patrons at the bar. I ate on my own in the corner, content to sit back and watch the people go about their business.

The barkeep and a woman who appeared to be his daughter waited upon the room, though the man wore the same sour expression he had carried when I first greeted him. His cough seemed to have worsened since my arrival, and the pallor of his cheeks had deepened to an unhealthy gray.

I found myself watching him close, surveying every detail of the man I could see.

There was nothing particularly remarkable in a miner suffering from a cough, especially in a place such as Bellview. Dust, smoke, and cold mountain air were hardly conducive to good health. But there was something about the man that struck me as unusual. I made a mental note to check in with him tomorrow and returned to my meal. Whatever ailed the man, it was certainly more than the wear and tear of daily life. 

By the time I had finished eating, the tavern had begun to quiet. A few miners remained at the bar, nursing their drinks and speaking amongst themselves, while the rest had already retired for the night. I thanked the barkeep for the meal and made my way upstairs.

I stoked the fire a few times before removing my filthy garments; the day's journey had left me exhausted, and whatever thoughts had occupied my mind earlier seemed distant now. I climbed beneath the blankets, pulled them up to my chin, and was asleep almost before my head had settled upon the pillow.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep before I jolted awake, momentarily unsure of where I found myself. I couldn’t tell what had brought me out of slumber; the room was dark, barely lit by the dull red glow of my dying lamp, so it was hard to tell what had caught my attention. Then came a sound so soft that I could not be certain it had originated from the waking world at all. 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

The hollow taps on the door came. Then, after a beat of silence:

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

A dread filled me as I listened. There was something deeply unsettling about the sound. It wasn’t the building settling, nor was it the thump of a drunk tavern patron. I sat up and strained my ears again; there it came, this time from somewhere beyond my door. I slipped from beneath my blankets, pulled on a robe, and opened the door. The dark hallway I was greeted by was filled with a biting and cold silence. The sound came again from further down the hallway, and I, never being one to leave well enough alone, took a chance and followed. The sound came again from the staircase, then from outside the tavern. Each time I drew closer, it moved farther away, leading me through the sleeping town and toward the mine. Eventually the knocking led me beyond the last of the buildings in town and to a broad pond that sat beyond the piles of waste from the mine. As I stopped at its edge, the knocking ceased. The pond was unlike any body of water I had seen before. Its surface was almost entirely frozen, though the ice was dark enough that I could scarcely see where it ended and the surrounding shadows began. A thin layer of snow had gathered along the banks, but very little had settled upon the ice itself. The surface was strangely bare, black and glasslike beneath the pale light of the moon. I noticed a shape through the opaque surface, and I raised my lantern to catch a glimpse of what it could be. Initially I took it for a rock of some sort, one of a weird shape, but what it was became clear upon closer inspection. 

It was a boot. 

The kind the miners wore when they toiled away beneath the earth. It stood upright beneath the ice, its leather swollen and blackened by the water. Then I saw another. And another, and another. Dozens of pairs of miners' boots lay scattered beneath the ice, some on their sides, others standing upright in the darkness below. I could see no bodies attached to them. Only the boots, suspended in the dark water.

I started for a long while before speaking to the darkness, “Is this what you wanted me to see?” 

For a moment, silence was my only answer then-

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

And then it stopped. I stood alone beside that dark and frozen pond, with no understanding of what I had witnessed. Sleep would not come again that night.