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In Cobbler’s Gully

Mike Rader

    The remains of the old house were deep inside the pine plantation. And when I say remains, I mean a stone doorstep, a broken chimney, and a tangle of vines where a garden once bloomed. A lonely place, but 160 years ago, the heart of the Victorian gold rush in Australia. Where the old cobbler had lived and repaired thousands of miners’ boots.
    I drove from Creswick township, passed under the old railroad viaduct, and chose the dirt strip through the pines that led to the house. On this trip, I wanted to photograph the ruins at night. If my shots didn’t win the horror photo contest, nothing would!
    Parking the car, I got out and surveyed the gloom. I had a sturdy flashlight, and kept it aimed at the ground ahead of me. Hundreds of abandoned mineshafts still littered that valley. Some had never been filled in.
    I picked up the right trail, the moon silvering the ruins ahead. The thick grass clawed at my boots, the rutted earth a torture to walk on. A slight breeze rustled the pine branches. I was whistling to myself, approaching my goal, deciding on the images I’d take as I strode forward.
    “And who might you be?” came a voice.
    The man’s head poked up from an old mineshaft. A moment later he came climbing out to face me. I guessed he was one of those fossickers who came out here with their metal detectors.
    “You’re taking a risk going down there,” I told him.
    “Why? It’s my workings. My name’s Craven. Everyone knows me.” His face had an emaciated look, unshaven, streaked with dirt, his eyes burning out from deep sockets. “And you haven’t answered my question. You’re not here to steal our claims, are you?”
    I was about to scoff when I realized the man was deadly serious. I took a second glance at his clothes. Old-fashioned somehow, a filthy collarless striped shirt, grimy trousers. “No, of course not. I’m a photographer.”
    Craven sneered. “Where’s your camera?” he demanded.
    I held up my prized Nikon D5600, my investment in my future career. It was ideal for me, with its 24-megapixel APS-C sensor, fast 39-point autofocus, and 5 fps burst mode. Its flash capability was also what sold me: a Guide Number of 12/39 (m/ft) at ISO 100, which works out to about 9.9 feet at f/5.6 and ISO 200.
    Craven took one look at it, his eyes darkening. “That’s not a camera. Where’s the box and tripod? Where’s that fancy flash gun you use?”
    The man obviously had some issues although I didn’t sense immediate danger. I darted my uneasy gaze around the clearing. Few stars lit the scene. I figured I should come back some other night. In the meantime, I wanted to keep him calm so I could simply walk away.
    “If I’m disturbing you, my apologies.” I offered a friendly smile. “I’ll come back.”
    “No, you won’t.” Craven lunged toward me with a demented howl. “You’ll never leave!”
    His strength was supernatural. He gripped my shoulders, spun me around, and hurled me down the shaft. My flashlight was sent flying. I landed at the bottom of the pit on a bed of bones. My fingers scrabbled among skulls and limbs.
    Craven came clambering down after me, his feet scaling rough steps hewn into the solid earth. “You see, I’m the last one here. Just me. Everyone else has gone away. I need you, friend.”
    I got to my feet, my back aching. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket. I knew there’d be no signal out here, but if the man was truly insane perhaps I could bluff him. “OK, that’s enough. I’m calling the police.”
    He kicked the phone from my grasp. A moment later a knife appeared in his hand. A wicked blade, covered with dark dried stains.
    “I said you’re staying, friend. I need you here for my survival. I have a taste for blood and flesh. The way it works, I can’t leave this mine. That was the deal I struck with those in the Afterworld. I killed two men, and my soul shall find no peace. But strangers often come by, strangers like you, friend, and if I can catch their blood I can quench my devil of a thirst, and if I can feed on their good fresh meat my belly won’t be empty.”
    My mind was racing. I tasted death and disgust in the back of my throat. I had to escape. If I could keep him talking maybe I could think of something.
    “How long have you lived here, Mr. Craven?” I asked.
    “Ever since the gold ran out. Gave up counting the years, friend. Now, your blood first.”
    He moved closer, the knife aimed at my throat. “I need nourishment.”
    I stumbled back, my hands clawing for the walls of the pit. My feet crunched on bones. I lost my balance. My Nikon was still around my neck. Even though I faced death, I fumbled to save my precious camera as I went down. The cap flew off the lens. My fingers must have pressed buttons. The blinding flash lit the pit. Craven vanished.
    They always do, I read later. No ghost can tolerate light.

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