The Sister(176)

‘When I asked him why, the whole room went quiet. It seemed they were looking at each other, deciding whether or not he should tell me.’ He stirred more sugar into his mug.

Miller sat forward attentively. ‘Come on, John, get to the point.’

‘Well, he told me no one goes there anymore because the place has a jinx.’

‘Jinxed – is that all you got, you gave me the impression there was more.’

‘Patience, Miller, there’s more. You know; Vince was a caver, been all round the whole of Devon, Cornwall, Somerset, potholing, exploring old mines and caves. He told me he’d never have gone anywhere near the place. From a caver’s point of view, it was just too dangerous. Unstable, water that rises out of nowhere, underground collapses. Not to mention gas pockets. You know, Miller; I was there, waist deep in my imagination, as Vince continued.

'I’ll tell you what, John, it was John wasn’t it? Well anyway, a little team of us gathered there once. I’ve been in some creepy caves, and mines so dark, the imagination can take hold and spook you out, the unexpected sound of dripping in an enclosed space, shadows that seem to come and go, and your headlamp only makes it worse. The eerie atmosphere outside this place was enough to put us off, but then the gas detector was picking up methane, hydrogen sulphide gases, all kinds. We decided not to go any further. Afterwards, we heard at least two explorers who'd been there before had died, succumbed to the gas. Round here, it has a reputation for people disappearing, so yes, the only people who would go there would be outsiders; I'd say that quite definitely.

‘Then Vince pointed to a little alcove in the corner, Cyril’s Corner, he told me. Cyril must have been around ninety years old. Vince said, “What’s your name again?” I repeated it, and he took me over to meet him. “Cyril, this is John. He wants to know about the Devils Pond.” The old man looked at me; one of his eyes was withered and cloudy, and the other bore right into me. “That pond is cursed; the whole place down there is – always has been. My grandfather died there in the mine; they reckon he was swept away underground. They never found his body, most of them drowned, or crushed. Twenty-three souls were taken in one go. All that rain and water finding its way into subterranean channels, did something to the ground. The following morning, Devils Pond, appeared. Kids kept drowning in that pool, I don’t think they found them all. Too deep, too dark ... only one person goes there now from round these parts.” I asked him who it was, and he said, “Whoever it is that marks the old Whitethorn tree with clooties.” He noticed my puzzled look, and explained, “They are offerings to the spirit that lives there, wiped with the pain of the sufferer, with the hope the spirit will take it away.” He turned the handle of his empty mug towards me. “Used to think it was one for every soul that perished there.” He leaned in and beckoned me closer. “When I was a kid I went down there for a dare one night in July, they say the people who died in the mine all those years ago, walk again on that night.” Did you go? The old man nodded solemnly. What happened? I asked. The old man paused to sip from his mug, and with some theatrics, showed me it was empty. He sat there with his arms crossed, and made it clear he’d say no more until he got another drink.

‘I got him another beer, and he sipped at it, obviously deep in thought. Well, what happened? I asked him again. He looked so serious I thought it would be something horrendous. He slapped his leg. “Not a damn thing!” He guffawed, and then coughed so badly, I thought he might choke on the spot. When his cough settled, I asked Cyril who put the clooties there. Cyril told me no one knows. “There were twenty-three of them that night, the clooties, that is.” Then completely unexpected, he asked if I'd heard about the three boys that died there.’

Miller listened intently. This cannot be a coincidence.

‘I told him, I might have heard something. It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to hold out on me.’

Miller couldn’t take his eyes off Kennedy. Is he playing a game with me? Does he know?

Kennedy continued, ‘He told me while they were dredging for the bodies, they found so many skeletons in there, all shapes and sizes. Most of them were miners, men and boys. They also found a few female skeletons, five of them, weighed down with rocks and boiler suits tied around them – and two men dressed up the same.’

Miller’s thoughts reeled. ‘If he hadn’t been disturbed, Jackie would’ve ended up in there, too, wrapped in the boiler suit he was wearing that day.’

‘Most likely,’ Kennedy said. ‘Incidentally, did I tell you how many clooties were tied up when I last visited the place? It was forty-nine.’

Miller looked incredulous.

‘The twenty-three original rags Cyril saw and a further twenty-six; if you take the original mine bodies, the seven murder victims and the three boys off, that leaves thirty-nine. So what is it those clooties represent?’

Confused by rapid developments, Miller needed time to digest the question.

‘And I haven’t finished yet, there’s one more thing,’ Kennedy said.

‘What’s that?’

‘After the boys died, and the place had been thoroughly searched, Cyril told me the locals clubbed together to have the pool filled in and fenced off more securely by the local farmer.’ He leaned in closer. ‘You know, when I visited there that morning, sixteen years after they'd said it was filled in, it was back again. The pool was there again. I'd gone with Cyril and Vince in his Land Rover. We drove as close as we could. The last bit took an absolute age. Neither of them would go that last few yards with me, so I crossed the field on my own, stepped between the top and middle wire of the fence. It struck me straight away, what Cyril had said about the locals. They knew its boundaries and kept away. You'd know it if you ever went there. It’s a spooky place, and the people around are superstitious. You have to remember, we’re in a land where they still believe in Pixies, a land full of Iron and Bronze Age burial chambers. Cyril told me he reckoned those miners cut through something, some invisible barrier that let something out; it was released with such a terrible cry that those who heard it said it was the sound of tortured human souls – like nothing on earth, a thousand voices pent up in misery.’