clearly the
mine’s entrance. It had been dug into a small hill, maybe six feet high, and
capped with a big concrete block, probably way back when the mine was shut down.
Now the block was destroyed, half of it in pieces on the ground, the other half
pulled partly away from the big wooden beams to which it had been bolted.
It didn’t seem
possible that a twelve year old boy—and a small one, at that—could have smashed
the concrete apart, but Julie knew immediately Tim had done exactly that. He
had broken the seal to the old mine shafts and was now trapped underground,
lost inside a maze of tunnels and warrens, some of them over one hundred fifty
years old.
“We’ll find him,”
the cop with the radio told her, understanding immediately she must be the lost
child’s mother. “We’ve already called out a search and rescue team, with dogs
and plenty of men. He can’t have gotten far. We’ll find him,” he said again,
although more quietly.
Julie whimpered
helplessly, staring at the ground in front of the tunnel as Matt finally caught
up to her and curled an arm around her waist. Scattered among the rubble of the
broken mine seal were the tools Tim must have used to smash the concrete: a
heavy hammer and a gigantic screwdriver, as well as his backpack, filled with
water bottles and snacks. Lying a few feet away was his flashlight, still
switched on.
Tears spilled from
her eyes. His flashlight was on the ground. Tim would never have voluntarily entered
a pitch-black tunnel all by himself without a flashlight.
But his flashlight
was right here.
On the ground.
And Tim was
nowhere in sight.
***
Julie was exhausted. She felt as
though she had searched the entire Tonopah Mine herself, tramping through miles
of confusing underground pathways, none of which had seen human beings for
nearly a century.
And she would have
done it, too, had the search and rescue team allowed it, but instead she had
been forced to cool her heels outside the entrance, pacing back and forth on
the dusty ground, waiting for word of her missing son’s fate. Praying. Dozens
of men had come, with dogs as promised, and disappeared inside the old mine, toting
flashlights and survival gear and GPS units.
And weapons.
“Why do they need
guns to look for a twelve year old boy?” she asked, and no one looked her in
the eye. No one answered, either. Julie McKenna had lived in town less than a
year, but she had heard the stories—whispered rumors, really—of the supposedly
haunted Tonopah Mine, the one from which grown men had disappeared, never to be
heard from again.
She had heard the
stories, and she had scoffed at them. This was the twenty-first century, a time
of reason, with instantaneous worldwide electronic communication and
earth-shattering scientific advances being made almost daily. Nobody believed
in ghosts and boogiemen anymore; at least no one with half a serving of common
sense.
But that was two days
ago, back when things made sense. That was before her trustworthy young
son lied to her face, faking illness so he could go traipsing into a
long-abandoned pit hundreds, if not thousands, of feet deep in the earth, abandoning
his flashlight before entering the tunnel.
That was before seeing
tough, burly outdoorsmen filing into the mine shaft, faces pale and drawn, packing
weapons along with water and survival gear while searching for her little boy.
Seeing these
things made the possibility of ghosts and boogiemen seem, if not likely, at
least possible, to Julie McKenna. Because she knew one thing as surely as she
knew her own name: Tim would not have entered that mine shaft without his
flashlight.
So she paced in
front of the mine’s entrance—back and forth, back and forth—just as she done
inside her kitchen. Trying to stay out of the way, not wanting to be a
distraction but unable to force herself to move more than fifteen or twenty
feet from that awful black gaping maw, that hole in the earth with the smashed
concrete and
mine’s entrance. It had been dug into a small hill, maybe six feet high, and
capped with a big concrete block, probably way back when the mine was shut down.
Now the block was destroyed, half of it in pieces on the ground, the other half
pulled partly away from the big wooden beams to which it had been bolted.
It didn’t seem
possible that a twelve year old boy—and a small one, at that—could have smashed
the concrete apart, but Julie knew immediately Tim had done exactly that. He
had broken the seal to the old mine shafts and was now trapped underground,
lost inside a maze of tunnels and warrens, some of them over one hundred fifty
years old.
“We’ll find him,”
the cop with the radio told her, understanding immediately she must be the lost
child’s mother. “We’ve already called out a search and rescue team, with dogs
and plenty of men. He can’t have gotten far. We’ll find him,” he said again,
although more quietly.
Julie whimpered
helplessly, staring at the ground in front of the tunnel as Matt finally caught
up to her and curled an arm around her waist. Scattered among the rubble of the
broken mine seal were the tools Tim must have used to smash the concrete: a
heavy hammer and a gigantic screwdriver, as well as his backpack, filled with
water bottles and snacks. Lying a few feet away was his flashlight, still
switched on.
Tears spilled from
her eyes. His flashlight was on the ground. Tim would never have voluntarily entered
a pitch-black tunnel all by himself without a flashlight.
But his flashlight
was right here.
On the ground.
And Tim was
nowhere in sight.
***
Julie was exhausted. She felt as
though she had searched the entire Tonopah Mine herself, tramping through miles
of confusing underground pathways, none of which had seen human beings for
nearly a century.
And she would have
done it, too, had the search and rescue team allowed it, but instead she had
been forced to cool her heels outside the entrance, pacing back and forth on
the dusty ground, waiting for word of her missing son’s fate. Praying. Dozens
of men had come, with dogs as promised, and disappeared inside the old mine, toting
flashlights and survival gear and GPS units.
And weapons.
“Why do they need
guns to look for a twelve year old boy?” she asked, and no one looked her in
the eye. No one answered, either. Julie McKenna had lived in town less than a
year, but she had heard the stories—whispered rumors, really—of the supposedly
haunted Tonopah Mine, the one from which grown men had disappeared, never to be
heard from again.
She had heard the
stories, and she had scoffed at them. This was the twenty-first century, a time
of reason, with instantaneous worldwide electronic communication and
earth-shattering scientific advances being made almost daily. Nobody believed
in ghosts and boogiemen anymore; at least no one with half a serving of common
sense.
But that was two days
ago, back when things made sense. That was before her trustworthy young
son lied to her face, faking illness so he could go traipsing into a
long-abandoned pit hundreds, if not thousands, of feet deep in the earth, abandoning
his flashlight before entering the tunnel.
That was before seeing
tough, burly outdoorsmen filing into the mine shaft, faces pale and drawn, packing
weapons along with water and survival gear while searching for her little boy.
Seeing these
things made the possibility of ghosts and boogiemen seem, if not likely, at
least possible, to Julie McKenna. Because she knew one thing as surely as she
knew her own name: Tim would not have entered that mine shaft without his
flashlight.
So she paced in
front of the mine’s entrance—back and forth, back and forth—just as she done
inside her kitchen. Trying to stay out of the way, not wanting to be a
distraction but unable to force herself to move more than fifteen or twenty
feet from that awful black gaping maw, that hole in the earth with the smashed
concrete and
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