Phillip Psutka

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Phillip Psutka. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go. And stay close, for you never know what might be waiting for you around the bend. 

So dim the lamps, settle in; welcome to Dark River.

If you were to venture two kilometers outside Dark River and cut up around the northwest tip of Dark Trout Lake, you would find a landscape unlike any other around it, where the trees have  been felled to expose the land, the logs used to form the walls of large dwellings that serve as boarding houses for workers. Walk past them and you would find the serene view of Dark Trout Lake blocked by a clump of larger buildings: a superstructure. And if you stopped to look around, and stayed to listen for a while, you would catch snippets of various languages mingling together, for while none can truly claim to be of this land, some are newer to this place than others, freshly arrived from different parts of the world, Norwegians and Cornishmen far from home, here to dig a paycheque from the ground. For here is industry beyond anything else in  northeastern Ontario, opportunity to rival the world. Here, if you’re up to the task, you may be rewarded with gold. Or at the least, cash enough to feed your family for a while.

Mining began in Ontario in the mid-19th century and grew over the next fifty years at a staggering rate. Silver was the primary target, until they discovered the nickel-rich soils along Lake Superior. Once they realized how well nickel alloyed with most other metals, it became the next buried treasure.

Mines were set up pretty much anywhere that prospectors could get their hands on, which was a fair amount of land considering that you could attain an acre of it for about a dollar in the early 20th century (roughly thirty dollars now). Within a decade, Dark River had gone from a few houses at the intersection of a couple dirt roads to a booming town, reaping the benefits of Canada’s industrial boom.  

But the Dark Trout Mine contained treasure beyond what had previously been unearthed. It was said that the very first bit of gold had been discovered when a prospector visiting a relative in Dark River had slipped on a rock, scraping off the moss and exposing the shining ore beneath it. After that discovery and countless others like it in the north, Ontario became the leading mining province by far.

So it was no surprise that when prospectors Benny Gillies and Alex Hollinger established the mine on the lake, all manner of workers and other prospectors soon followed. While quiet serenity jeweled the rest of the lake, industry tore up the land and shattered the silence of the vast dark woods. Some said the remaining trees around it had begun leaning towards the east, straining for safer ground.

The digging went deep, twisting further into the darkness, eventually beginning to carve its way under the lake. That beautiful lake, sensing this trespass, dispatched from its depths an endless onslaught of frigid water that soaked the men’s boots, dripped down their backs, lapped at their tools, and slowly filled the spaces where once there was dirt. The men found themselves on the frontlines of an unwinnable battle, pumping water in defense of their claim. At that depth, you couldn’t hear a thing from the surface – the shafts were silent as the dead. But the quiet battle continued where no light could see it.

The days were long and dark for the workers as they burrowed through massive underground tunnels. They wore leather or rubber boots, cotton overalls pinned high around their shoulders, and until hardhats came around, soft fabric hats were all they had for protection from falling debris. The main source of light came from candles affixed to the hat of each worker. This created the additional risk of setting one’s own head alight when the candle burned too low. With so many dangers to face, the workers looked out for one another, as much as was possible in the gloom. 

Dirt and mud permeated everything and many nearly lost their hearing from the drilling in the tunnels, the staccato onslaught reverberating throughout the underground world. It was always a relief when the time came to return to daylight and head to the cookhouse for a hearty meal. Life was hard, but it was made bearable by the promise of great riches, always just beyond the next shovelful of earth.

It was a crisp early-November day when the Ontario Legislative Committee arrived. The committee consisted of thirty men, all sporting expensive suits and very large moustaches. Not at all the type of clothing suitable for the dirty confines of underground work, but that’s not what they were there for. They walked with the kind of swagger that men get when they know they have authority over others: chin up, chest out. 

Benny and Alex took pleasure in showing the Committee around the lodgings and superstructure, enjoying the opportunity to boast about their recent successes as they walked them through the building that housed their current gold production, where thick bars had been stamped and stacked two-on-two, the bright metal catching the light and reflecting its brilliance back. The committee raised their collective eyebrows, their moustaches curving downwards, heads nodding slowly. They seemed impressed. And why wouldn’t they be? This was the origin of Ontario’s relationship with native gold after all.

Members of the committee went down in the main shaft while both prospectors retreated to the employment office, staying above ground while the mine’s most trusted workers continued the tour.

“That went well,” said Alex once they were alone in the office.

“So far,” said Benny.

“So far?”

“Well,” said Benny, “I don’t know what they’ll have to say about going that deep under the lake.”

“They’ll say, ‘Good for you, boys!’” said Alex.

“The water keeps coming in. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about that.”

“You’re not sure of anything,” said Alex.

“I just think—”

“You think too much,” snapped Alex, and that was when Harry Greenburg, the head of the committee, appeared in the doorway.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his face hard as stone. And was it a little pale? Alex thought so.

Ignoring the faint feeling of cold water sloshing in his stomach, Alex responded with perfect cheer. “Beauty, ain’t she?”

Harry’s face didn’t change. “I’m afraid adjustments must be made immediately.”

“Adjustments?” said Benny. “Because of the water? Do we need stronger pumps?”

Alex turned and shot Benny a look that was unmistakable: “shut your mouth”, it said. “What sort of adjustments?” he asked aloud, polite as a gentleman.

“Start by pulling your men out of there right now.”

“Is there a flood?” asked Benny, forgetting Alex’s threatening glare and heading for the door.

Alex shot out a hand and grabbed Benny by the arm as he attempted to pass. His grip was firm. “Now let’s not get ourselves tied in knots here,” he said.. “We need to know the problem  before we can fix it, don’t we?” Slowly releasing Benny, he turned back to Harry and gently gestured for him to continue. 

“The braces are insufficient,” said Harry. “At that depth, the tunnel needs to be fully lined and you’ve only got patches holding the worst  spots at bay. The committee’s immediate recommendation is to pull all your men out and send an emergency team down to reinforce before you dig yourselves into a watery grave.”

A moment passed before either man spoke. “Well,” Alex stated calmly. ”Thank you for your recommendation.” He turned towards Benny, but then turned back again quickly. “And thank the committee from us as well.”

“We’ll get right on it,” Benny added in earnest.

“You’ve really done a fine job here,” said Harry. “You wouldn’t want a catastrophe on your hands now. Not when your whole operation has been doing so well.”

Benny shook his head vehemently. “We certainly don’t.”

“Benny, would you show Mr. Greenburg out?” Alex prompted.

As Harry turned to follow Benny, he paused. “Heed my words."

The water in Alex’s stomach turned to ice. How much was a man’s life worth? A day’s lost profits? A week? “We shall,” he finally said. “We’re gonna pull  the men out right now.”

A breath of relief passed between them. “Gentlemen, a pleasure.” And with a tip of his hat the head of the committee turned and left, nodding as Benny held the outer door open for him and followed him outside.

No sooner had the two of them left when a young worker by the name of Albert ran in. Alex recognized him immediately – there were few other workers who displayed such enthusiasm for dirt and darkness; his youth was likely to blame. He was born and raised in Dark River, which meant that he was bred for this. But for a boy like Albert, joy is never extinguished. It simply burns where it lands, and never knows it could have landed somewhere better. 

His face and hands were covered in dirt, as was his soft hat; however, the candle fixed to the front of it was pristine and white as a cleaned bone. It was like a ritual for Albert, keeping those candles clean. Like he took comfort in it.

Before Alex even had the chance to say anything, Albert blurted out: “We struck gold! A lot of it!”

“Where?”

“Down in Shaft #3!”

Hadn’t the committee just come up from that one? No, surely they had been referring to a different one. 

“Under the—”

“You bet! Who knew it was all sitting right there under the damn lake!”

Harry’s words were so fresh that they still hung in the room, almost audible. Alex nearly told Albert that it wasn’t safe, that it needed additional reinforcements and that he was pulling everyone out. He opened his mouth…

Silence came out. 

This would mean burying the very thing they were trying to extricate. The reinforcements would have to cover the walls. Not only would the gold be untouchable, but covering it up would  mean the loss of both time and resources. Money.

The boyish pride on Albert’s face tipped the scales. Alex didn’t tell him to run to Shaft #3 and tell the men to halt operations on official orders. Instead, he simply said, “Dig.”

“You got it, boss!” And Albert was out the door in a flash.

Alex wandered aimlessly around the office for the next few minutes, straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. When he became too restless to stay within the confines of the small room, he decided to seek some fresh air to clear his mind.

He walked outside and his gaze turned towards the lake. It lay there like a benign presence, but it was almost too still. A brisk fall wind had picked up, but there was not a ripple on the water and the sheen of its perfect smoothness made the lake look relaxed, almost heavy, as if it was settled. A half-crazed thought entered his mind: it’s up to something.

Alex turned and looked up towards the slopes behind him. Long shoots ran down the hills terminating at the stamp mills, utilizing gravity to push the precious metals through the process. Why couldn’t they have found the gold up there?

The wind surged suddenly.  Alex turned his coat collar up against it, pulling his toque further down over his ears. A chill passed through him that had nothing to do with the cold, a feeling more acute than the icy feeling that had settled in his guts back in the office. As before, he pushed it away, burying it as he retreated inside. “I should be celebrating right now,” he thought, as he took a swig of whisky. “Blast those old men, trying to protect their own back ends, nothing more! This is my time.” But still the cold would not leave. 

He returned to the warmth of the bottle and was greeted by his friend, silence. “It will be fine,” he told it. And he almost would have believed himself were it not for the return of the icy cold feeling, this time unmistakably wrapping itself around his chest. He coughed, he drank, he coughed again. The whisky did not warm it. 

At that moment, down in Shaft #3 by the dim light of his lit candle, Albert swung his pick, buried it deep in the wall, and pried. He caught a tantalizing flash of yellow brilliance right before the surge poured it. In a split second, the whole tunnel was flooded – no one even had a chance to scream.  All their candles were extinguished.

At the surface, all was quiet. The lake didn’t even shudder.

Alex stepped out into the chaos as if in a trance. The instant the walls had given in, guilt had bellowed, pride and greed now silent as the dead men; snuffed out like their candles. As the workers rushed to the impossible task of draining the tunnel with their desperately inadequate pumps in hopes of saving their friends, everything was in slow motion for Alex. The sounds around him were dulled as if he too were underwater. Someone was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make it out; the man’s lips moved without a sound, the words tumbling into a void. Alex mumbled something about doing what needed to be done and turned away. He knew how useless he was to the efforts around him, but couldn’t seem to find any way of communicating it and couldn’t stand anyone who came too close.  Removing himself seemed the only useful thing he could do, so he turned to head to his cabin.

There was a man standing in his path, dripping; as Alex slowly raised his eyes to see who was standing in his way, he came face to face with Albert, who was thoroughly soaked. Others rushed past, sparing no time for even a glance of the two men. Alex couldn’t bring himself to meet the young miner’s gaze, so he nodded his head and continued past before Albert could speak. Alex was sure he could feel that gaze on the back of his neck all the way to his dwelling and … something else gnawing at him.

It wasn’t until much later, after the whisky bottle was nearly empty, that Alex suddenly realized that the dripping candle on the young man’s hat had been burning steadily, impossible in the wind. Yet he was sure of it. That candle had been burning with a deep, blood-red flame.

Alex was unable to sleep that night. 

He turned over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time when he caught a faint sound coming from outside his window. “The wind has picked up again,” he thought. Gathering up his blankets, he tucked himself in a little deeper and drifted off.

Some time later, he was awakened by an odd sound. The wind had begun pulsing in steady beats, and  a low hum was echoing faintly through the camp. He sat up in bed and listened intently. The sound was growing louder as the seconds ticked by. No, not louder. Closer.

He waited, drawing his breath and holding it while he listened. Now a third sound  was audible: a hard beat at the beginning of each pulse. He strained to hear it, but soon it filled his one-room cabin and it became unmistakable, inescapable, reverberating off the walls, a single word, repeated over and over again in a steady rhythm.

He saw his arms push aside the covers and watched his legs carry him to the window, his ice cold feet moving along the creaky floorboards. He could see nothing through the darkness outside, although the chanting continued, reaching a crescendo and pressing relentlessly on.

And then he saw them.

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment we’ll take a closer look out the window, but first, I’d like to let you know that we have new original spooky stories coming every 2 weeks, so please subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you listen to your shows. And if you know someone else who might like to experience this haunting small town, tell them about Dark River and where they can find it. It’s always welcoming new travelers. But now, let’s rejoin Alex at the dark window.

He could see nothing through the darkness outside, although the chanting continued,  reaching a crescendo and pressing relentlessly on.

And then he saw them.

At first he couldn’t make out exactly what was coming towards him for it appeared as if the sunrise were creeping along the ground, but it was much too early and the sky showed no signs of illumination. As he watched, the sunlight transformed into a ball of fire before his eyes. He blinked against the brightness of it and it fractured, splitting into many little fires that danced towards him.

Candles, still fixed to the hats of their men and blazing bright red, an accusation, beacons of retribution. The men were coming for him and their slow chant of, “Dig, dig, dig,” hit Alex like a pick in the gut, over and over again, and something inside him snapped. All at once he knew that everything was going to be alright. 

Alex was nowhere to be found the next morning. When  the disaster in Shaft #3 was finally under control and the dead had been counted and named, a search party was sent out to look for him. They scoured the woods for who knows how long, but to no avail. It was only when they were coming back along the shore of the lake that someone spotted the tracks. One set of bare feet marching its way from the direction of the cabins down to the lake, ending at the water’s edge. One of the men began to say something about it being too cold for swimming, but stopped abruptly as he noticed the other tracks.

The swimmer hadn’t been alone: there were boot prints following him down to the shore – countless sets of them. They stopped just shy of the water in a perfectly straight line.

Even more curiously, there were no tracks leading away from the shore: not the bare feet, nor the boots. Whatever had happened had been final. It was as if a small crowd of spectators had seen what they’d needed to see, and then simply vanished into the dawn.

This has been a tale from Dark River, written by Phillip Psutka and Lindsay Bellaire, with original music written and performed by Phillip Psutka. Podcast artwork by Chris Psutka. The show is hosted and created by Phillip Psutka. Thank you for stopping by, and see you soon. 

Copyright © 2020 Phillip Psutka