All Good Things Come From Gold Mines

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It flickered with a lonely sort of hunger, all through the night, until morning came. No one saw this candle, except perhaps at a great distance, and it could have been taken as light cast by a lone traveler’s lantern or campfire. Needless to say, it was a very strange occurrence, indeed.

Its former tenant, a long-dead logger, was safely in the ground at the Grantsville cemetery a few miles away. His death had not upset many people, but it hadn’t made anyone glad, either. He had been buried on a gray November afternoon, in an unremarkable black coffin, by his younger brother, who left town to return to the city the next day.

No, this is not a tale of a man back from the grave, haunting the woods, ax in hand– as specter or otherwise. The logger’s ghost, had he the opportunity to do such a thing, would have politely turned the offer down. And there was no spirit or haint who cared enough about the unremarkable man to resurrect his undead body, despite his prime real estate venue.

This is a tale quite simple in nature, but so very intertwined with the tale of another that our story itself seems quite complex.

In truth, dear reader, it is really just the story of two brothers.

A gold mine.

And a candle.

***

Our story truly begins in a small town called Grantsville (you may remember me mentioning it before.) It was sleepy and old, only located so deep in the heavy forests and hazy mountains because of an old gold mine, sucked dry during the civil war by various prospectors looking to make their fortune. Back then, the confederates needed money, badly. When they heard of the prosperous mine for themselves– a certain Tucker P. Grant had written to his older brother, Captain John W. Grant, of his success there– they were quick to dispatch their own men to send the prospectors packing. Many refused to leave, and it became a source of rivalry in the community– the families of the original prospectors stubbornly pitted themselves against the families of the soldiers who were sent to retrieve funds for their cause.

Needless to say, the town’s rivalristic history was the most interesting thing about it. Even its name was derived from the dispute– if anyone remembered and held fast to the feud, it was the descendants of Tucker Grant against their own flesh and blood. They still claimed John had betrayed Tucker in revealing the mine to the military, robbing him of his riches. John Grant’s grand- and great-grand-children were less hot-headed about the issue, but if provoked, they would hold that the army needed the money more, and it had been John’s duty to assist the confederacy in any way possible.

But all this about armies and mines and Grants was all talk. Nothing truly happened in the town. Once the mine ran dry, its inhabitants turned to logging to pay the bills. There was a single grocery store in the town that got restocked by a truck each week, and a single doctor’s office that also served as a dentist when necessary. Harper’s, the town’s only place to stay for out-of-towners, was also the only place to get a good drink. The place was managed by Dusty Harper’s son, Liam Harper, a portly and jovial man who was always telling some sort of story to whatever measly crowd or rare traveler was willing to listen. Sometimes, the town’s youth would duck in through the back door to listen to his outlandish tales. The knitting club ladies scorned such behavior, as the whole town knew full well that Liam allowed them to “sneak” in.

“He shouldn’t be filling their heads with such terrible fantasies,” one would say to another after completing a particularly difficult stitch. “Ghosts stories that keep you up at night and tales of bloodthirsty murderers. It’s not good for their minds.”

“True, true,” another would respond, needles clacking. “The things children hear these days! It’s bound to come back out one way or another. Why, just the other day…” And off they would go.

So now you see what kind of place Grantsville was– tired, old, and starved for gossip.

Now, about 12 years before the death of our dear departed logger, the starving town had a taste of the drama it was searching for. You see, the Grants of the time– that is, the descendants of Tucker Grant Grants, not to be confused with the John Grant Grants– consisted of three families. One, a Grant daughter, had married and become a Finn. The other two, both Grant sons, had both married and had two children each. We are not concerned with the affairs of this vast extended Grant family (though it is important to regard its size), but rather, we are concerned solely with the affairs of the second Grant son and his two children. Grantsville is where our story begins, and this family is with whom it begins.

Thomas Grant, Tucker Grant’s great-grandson, was a widower with two sons. At the time in question, 20 years before the candle was lit, those two sons had become old enough to begin making their own way in the world. The older of the two, Paul Grant, was always content to go on in his father’s footsteps and work in the lumber industry alongside most of the town’s men. However, the younger son, Thomas Jr., wished to pursue a different life, one of intelligence and luxury. His father couldn’t provide the funds to send Junior to medical school, and he didn’t approve of him leaving their town, but Thomas Jr. applied anyway. This was somewhat of a scandal since no one ever left Grantsville, especially not a Grant. When Thomas Jr. received word that he had been accepted, it was Paul, not their father, that made the long trip with him to the city. The knitting circles of the town, having tasted the first bit of good gossip they’d had in years, eagerly ripped apart this fleshy story. Unbeknownst to them, their gossip was about to get much juicier.

Paul had resolved that he would stay in the city one night before making the trip back home. One night, and then back to the world he knew. But the bright lights and dazzling views in the city swept him off his feet, and something completely unexpected happened.

He fell in love.

Not with the city, of course. He was a Grant, after all. Grantsville was the only home he ever knew, and would ever know. No, he fell in love with a girl.

When he returned home two days later, leaving his brother in the city to work his way towards his sought-after medical degree, he was lovesick. The woman he had met, whose name was Judy, wrote him letters from her home in the city. He waited for each one with anticipation, and wrote back just as quickly as he could. He even visited the city occasionally, on his weekends off. He was shy, and he was patient, but he knew he wanted to build a life with her someday. So as Thomas Jr. finished his studies, swearing the hippocratic oath and beginning to build a life of his own, Paul began building in the only way he knew how– with wood.

He built a home for them, nestled in the trees a short distance from the town, where they could enjoy the beauty of nature together. It was a modest place, but comfortably furnished. Somewhere they could raise a child or children, if they so chose.

This place, as you may have already suspected, was the cabin I mentioned earlier in this story. Unfortunately, Paul’s fantasy was to remain one.

But I digress. You’re not here for dusty small-town dramas and forgotten murders that only made local newspapers. You’re here for the candle. Shall I continue?

Very well.

***

That night, the candle cast cold shadows upon the wall. A lonely figure with a tall, thin frame could be seen shuffling about, muttering.

“Do no harm,” it whispered through its teeth. “No harm, no harm…” It scrambled around with an unevenness about it, like a rabid dog. Its stringy hair, thinly draped across a balding head, was disheveled and unkempt. In its motions there was a searching desperation. “Have to find it, have to find it,” it seethed.

The spirit of the candle watched the creature move about with satisfaction. It was, after all, what he deserved. A murderer of the worst kind. A betrayer of oath and blood. As if sensing the candle’s attention, the troubled soul stopped moving to stare at it.

The candle’s waxy surface was inlaid with intricate golden patterns that seemed to shift in the flickering light. It illuminated a human face frozen in an animalistic snarl, eyes sunken in with exhaustion and lips cracked and dry.

After a moment of pause, it continued its search, tearing open drawers and scattering dusty items onto the floor. This went on for some time, until it suddenly stopped, clutching a thin vial in its hands. Its finger grasped at the small cork stopper eagerly, ripping it open and downing the contests in a single swig. The thin golden liquid warmed the man’s features, eyes becoming bright and hair regrowing to cover patches of baldness. A healthy glow returned to his previously pale skin, and he stood upright to dust himself off.

The spirit of the candle sighed inwardly. It had awoken solely to observe the punishment of the man who had murdered her, what had become of him once he ran out of the elixir. What he had stolen from her that night, a gift from her betrothed, was enough to last two decades. But now here he was, back to replenish his soul.

She doubted anyone in the town knew what was absorbed in their drinking water, running through their veins. Subtle amounts, seeping from that old gold mine into the town’s underground reservoir– not enough to make one immortal, but certainly enough to compel the citizens to stay in their tired little ghost town. It was like a drug for the soul.

The elixir of life, the fountain of youth, whatever name compels your imagination– this was what Tucker Grant had found. Gold, yes. But secretly, an elixir of the same appearance that granted one youth in a single large dose and immortality in several. However, completing the process corrupted the soul irrevocably, as it would fight against the unnaturality of cheating death until it was nothing but a shell.

The few drops the townspeople consumed each year were not enough to activate the elixir’s supernatural qualities, yet the potion longed to be completed. After years of consuming it, going without it would cause effects of… withdrawal.

To my knowledge, the discovery of this fact may have been what drove Paul Grant to cut himself off completely. The vial left in his cabin was likely a way for him to back out, just in case the effects were drastic. But he never gave in. Even as his youth drained away before his eyes, he subsisted solely on water that had traveled to the town in flimsy plastic bottles by the once-a-week shipment to the lone grocery store. In a matter of weeks, he was fighting his own mind, tempted to drink of the vial and get it all back. But he thought of Judy, and he was strong. He never knew just how close she was.

I do not know how he discovered the existence of the golden liquid. He certainly didn’t know of it when he gifted Judy an antique lamp with a reserve hidden inside it. He had been in possession of many heirlooms, passed down from Tucker Grant himself– a journal, an antique candle, an hourglass, and various other items of lesser interest. Perhaps Tucker’s journal held a detailed account of what happened to his fellow prospectors that drank of the liquid, those that were left empty-eyed and cruel from the transformation.

But those are details forever lost to history. The truth of the matter is that while he lay dying, Judy watched him from the closest place her spirit could reach– a candle, painted with the elixir of life itself. Somewhere she could watch over her beloved and the home he had made.

Why had she not left when he died? It is a mystery. But I believe she was waiting to do one last thing before she joined him in the afterlife.

And now, Thomas Jr. had finally returned for her to exact her revenge.

Thomas Jr., who had murdered her for the potion he had sensed in her possession. He had been desperate. The first person to move away from Grantsville in over a century, only to come crawling back because the outside world made him sick? No. Even if dreams of his broken oath to do no harm would haunt him for years, he would do anything to remain outside the confines of those invisible chains, that small society which he so hated.

So when he visited her that night, seeking comfort as he searched for a solution, that old antique lamp that hid a supply of the very thing he needed beckoned to him, called out to be liberated. She was merely an obstacle in the path. Some part of him didn’t even remember striking her on the head with the very thing he stole.

A lamp becomes a murder weapon.

A brother becomes a murderer.

Judy’s spirit waited for the right moment. The moment when her triumph would be sweetest. She waited as Thomas stood, surveying the cabin. Then, for the first time, he noticed the lighted candle. This was the moment. She reached out with her voice, whispering.

“Now what will you do? You’ve run out.”

Thomas jumped, sucking in air in a fearful gasp. His breathing quickened, and he began backing out the door.

“Don’t worry,” the spirit whispered. “There’s a river flowing with it, deep in the gold mines.”

Thomas froze, mouth agape. It opened and closed a few times, noiselessly, before he found the strength to speak.

“Where can I find it? This… river,” he questioned, trying to keep his voice firm. Unfortunately for him, he was very much failing. The spirit relished the quiver in his voice.

“Follow me,” she replied, her voice dripping with honey-like sweetness. After all, you know what they say about flies.

At that moment, the sunlight shifted in through the windows as it broke through the trees. Because of this, only Thomas saw the flash of light as the candle was extinguished. Judy’s spirit hovered in the air, invisible, yet a slight palpable glow hung in the air around him. On the shelf next to where the candle rested, an hourglass painted gold at its rim and suspended at its middle rotated slowly upside down. The sand inside began to shift, filling the cabin with a gentle shhhhh noise. The spirit’s presence shifted out into the forest, and Thomas tentatively followed it.

This is how Thomas found himself in an abandoned gold mine, his only light slowly disappearing as he traveled deeper into the cave.

Somewhere, far away, sand in an hourglass continued to flow solemnly to the bottom. Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

Finally, Thomas came upon a wondrous sight: a river, flowing with gold liquid. He rushed to its edge, looking at his reflection in the metallic sheen, dipping his hands into the water and drinking of its life. He didn’t notice the spirit’s presence leaving him and instead settling into the elixir running through the foundation of the cave.

Shhh. Shhh. Sand shifted behind him, filling in the tunnel. Pillars of rock began to crumble around him, and he was finally shaken from his stupor. His hands and mouth dripping with gold, he searched for the way out, to no avail. His eyes filled with terror as the cave filled in around him.

Stone. Gravel. Sand.

The top of the hourglass was nearly emptied. Time was nearly up.

The final grains of sand slid into the bottom as the mine caved in completely. Sand filled his lungs as he tried to breathe, tried to scream. The gentle shhh was now a deafening roar. In his mind, in his ears, everywhere.

As the last of the rubble filled in and he succumbed entirely, he stared out into the pitch-black nothingness that was his eternal fate. And there, just before the sand covered his eyes, he saw a glowing figure, smiling. She was finally ready to go home.

The sand grew still. The hourglass was empty.

From whence he came, so he returned.

To the river of gold.

***

So now you know the truth of Grantsville. How two brothers, past and present, shaped its story, and how greed twisted the fates of many. The human pursuit to always have more was what ultimately led to their doom. Yet I hope you too will find, as some in our story found so long ago, that not all good things come from gold mines.