Hollow Wishes: Haunted Halls: Winter's Cavern, #1

Telling the Dead Man’s Tale

Everybody wants a happily-ever-after. They want the monsters slain, they want the hero and heroine to kiss with the sunset behind them, they want the ghosts laid to rest.

But I knew that real life wasn’t that easy. People might call me jaded, especially for my young age of eighteen as my aunt liked to say with a sigh, but it’s all in how you look at it.

Jaded. Pessimistic.

Practical.

I looked over the little room filled with people waiting to go on the cavern tour. Mostly families, but there was a young couple and an older couple, as well. A teenage boy who must’ve been from out of town because if he went to my tiny school, I would know him. Twenty folks in all. It was a big tour. That meant it would be harder to get their attention. But once I had it, they’d be riveted.

All right, everyone, I said in a loud voice, my name is Winter, and I’ll be your tour guide and storyteller today. If you’ll direct your attention to the items on display here, you might see something kind of creepy.

Immediately, three ten-year-old boys snapped to attention at the front of the crowd. Their gazes went straight to the display case in front of me.

"Is that a bone?" one of them asked.

The room quieted.

"Yes, that is a bone, I said. A human bone brought up from the cavern many, many years ago."

Can we bring up bones? one of his buddies asked.

No, sir, I said. They’re protected by all kinds of laws these days. Besides, we’re not going down to look for bones, we’re going down to hear a story.

All three of them groaned while their dad tried to shush them. The dad gave me an apologetic glance, but I just smiled and shrugged. It was okay, I was used to this sort of thing. Once I got them under my storytelling spell, they’d be hooked and silent and they’d forget they ever complained.

I gestured to the walls to the side of the display case. These black and white photographs show the cavern in its early days, when people were still exploring and finding bones.

The photos on the wall were grainy, which only added to their mystery. Cavern formations framed grotesque images of bones. One image showed a young woman wearing a helmet and holding up a flashlight at the cavern’s entrance. Another one showed the pond at the bottom of this cavern. The stalagmites to the side of it rose up, looking like ghosts. I watched for a couple of minutes while the tourists examined the photographs, nudging each other to point out the bones and the pond.

We’ll have more time to examine them when we come back up, I said. Now, who’s ready to climb down the passageway and hear a scary story?

Hands shot into the air, and a couple of people clapped, but their enthusiasm felt empty and forced. A man in his mid-twenties looked over at the woman next to him and rolled his eyes. Likely they were here because friends had sent them, but they didn’t really know what they were in for, not yet.

Soon, every person in this room would be mine, caught in whatever story I decided to weave for them. If they were lucky, I’d allow the monsters to be slain, I’d allow the hero and heroine to kiss in the sunset, and I’d put the ghosts to rest.

And if I didn’t? Well, that was a lesson everyone had to learn eventually. Because at my young age of eighteen, I’d already learned one big lesson: not everything has a happy ending.

I rummaged through the box behind the display case, bypassing some old helmets with headlamps until I found an extra flashlight. We had light switches up top and down below, but it never hurt to be prepared just in case. Then, the group crowded around me while I fumbled with the lock on the large door leading to the caverns. Tours Only. Do not pass this point without a guide. I smiled to myself. My mom and aunt had finally agreed to let me be a guide two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. I’d been begging since I was a little kid. Lago Caverns was like my second home.

Right this way, everyone, I called out cheerily. I’ll lead the way through this passage, but give me a shout if you need a hand.

The passage was on the small side, and more than one claustrophobic tourist had needed to abandon the tour in the past. If anyone needed to turn back, my mom was waiting at the counter of the shop to lead them to a bench so they could catch their breath and wait for their panic to subside.

The wooden steps leading down into the belly of the cavern were age-worn, and no longer gave off any scent. These days, only the metallic smell of minerals tickled my nose when I came down here.

I kept an ear out for anyone who might be having trouble, but so far this group seemed fine. At the bottom of the steps, the passageway widened to a large ledge, wide enough for twenty-five people to squish onto. Below was a sixty-five-foot drop. I held fast to the safety rail that spanned the ledge. One of the lights installed at the hallway flickered. I’d need to let Mom know. These lights weren’t cheap, and she wouldn’t be happy about another expense.

Is this where you tell the stories? a little girl asked. She clung to her father’s hand.

Not here, I said, still thinking about expenses, and the flickering light. I needed to make my story awesome so these tourists would come back. "This is where we take a break before we go down there." I pointed past the ledge, to a massive spiral staircase that led another sixty-five feet down.

Whoa, a woman said, taking a peek past the ledge. Whoa. I don’t know if I can do that.

The lack of sunlight and shadows made it difficult for our eyes to interpret distance. Everything looked closer or farther away than it was. A stalagmite twenty feet away might look close enough to touch. It exacerbated vertigo when combined with steep drops.

The woman’s husband rubbed her back. I can go down with the kids if you want, he murmured. You can go back.

No, she said, jutting out her chin. I’m gonna do this.

I shot her an encouraging smile. Well, if everyone’s ready, let’s make our way down. Please remember to step carefully.

The spiral staircase was enclosed in a sort of wire cage so nobody could go tumbling over the railing, but climbing still required caution.

After a couple of minutes, we reached the bottom. Some tourists looked paler than others. In most cases, their fright was overcome by their interest in the surroundings.

The large chamber we now stood in was roughly a circle, about forty feet in diameter. A long passageway curved off toward the east, and near a small pond was another dark curve, a sort of hollow filled with rocks and mineral formations.

I dimmed the lights and said, While you look around, I’d like to tell you a story. The story is true, some say, and it’s been passed down for generations. A band of forty-niners, men hungry for gold—desperate men—stole a cache of gold from a newly-wealthy couple who had been saving it to retrieve their parents from Ireland, their home country.

While I spoke, a hush fell over the room. This was the moment I lived for, when everyone fell under my spell. I hoped the spell would last long after today, and they would come back for more tours. So far, though, we hadn’t had much luck with that.

"The man was spiteful, for he hadn’t only wanted to bring their parents to California, he had hoped to use their wealth to create more and more wealth. He cursed the thieves and performed magical rites beneath the new moon.

"His wife, seeing the madness coming over her husband, intervened in her own way, with charms and protections learned from her grandparents.

The thieves could feel changes coming over them. They began fighting, falling ill, and dying, one after another. Every time someone came to check on their hoard of gold, that person would perish.

A shadow appeared behind one of the boys, and I did a double-take. The little guy gazed back at me, thinking I was staring at him, but the shadow was manifesting right beyond his shoulder.

That shadow became a person—a person who smiled and waved at me. I looked away, not wanting to alarm the little kid in front of him.

My heart lifted a little, knowing that he was around. He came and went as he pleased, although lately, he’d been showing up more often.

Garrett did an old-timey dance step, trying to distract me. Nobody else noticed him; nobody else could see him. I bit back a smile at his antics.

The wife did what she could, while her heart was breaking for the dark turn the husband took.

I continued weaving the story, outlining the wife’s efforts to stop the evil. The cavern was so quiet, all I could hear was my voice and the steady drips of water into the pond. Even Garrett had settled down to listen.

Desperate as her husband was finally consumed by the dark forces he used, the wife traveled into the mines, far back into the caverns where they originated, and helped bring out the gold.

I stared past the tourists and into the dark, curving tunnel that led beyond my cavern, far under the earth. Was it just my imagination, or did a cool breeze come from that direction?

The ground shook, I said, shoving aside the spooky thought, and the spirits clutched at the bags she and a few other regretful thieves carried. The husband arrived to fight the escaping thieves. In the blindness of his evil, he even tried to prevent his wife’s escape. But she moved forward nonetheless.

I took a deep breath and looked around the room. She survived, I said, my voice a whisper, but just barely. The others perished, including the husband. And now those greedy spirits, crushed by the mines, haunt the cavern. One would have thought that the gold’s return would appease the forces that kept the spirits locked in limbo, but to no avail. Like my mother told me, and her mother told her, there’s no place in heaven or hell for that kind of greed.

The tourists stared. I hadn’t meant for this story to get quite so dark. In a small voice, I finished up with my usual line, Well, thank you for listening to my story.

I think I see a ghost! one of the boys exclaimed.

Quickly, I found Garrett, but nobody was looking at him.

The boy and his friends started laughing.

That was a marvelous story, the mother said, shooting the boys a glare before turning back to me.

Her husband came over to hold her hand. I agree. Our friend told us that you make up the stories new, each time?

Yes, I