The Terror #wattys2017 #TNTHorrorContest

The Miner

     He kept it dark where he lived so he wouldn't be reminded of his neon white skin and his pink eyes. He couldn't recall the last time he cut his hair, it was as wispy as angel hair and silky beyond words, extending beyond his waist and shone with a sort of pearlescence.

He had bad teeth that always hurt and gave his breath a stench that was hard not to notice. He had outlived all his siblings who had the same ailment, but they refused to stay out of the sun, preferring rather a shortened life than one lived in the dark.

Mostly, he was alone.

He had his small comforts though; a cup of good Twinnings tea with cream and sugar, a large and esoteric record collection with an astounding sound system, his ancient tomes of course and what he called, "his spices."

It was rumored in town that he was some sort of witch or warlock. Some even took it so far as to say he was a disciple of the devil himself and that he ate the flesh of children.

But of course, a small burg like Sunland/Tujunga would conjure a story or two about anyone they didn't have any contact with. That's the way of people, to fear that which they don't understand and he was fine with all that. It kept him from being bothered, except by the random child who was dared to knock on the door of, "The Miner."

They called him that because he was in the hundred-year-old house closest to the old Strickland mine that went sour in the late forties. It was one of the few houses that were allowed to exist in the Big Tujunga Canyon due to it being grandfathered in since the 1890's.

He was born in that old house some 52 years ago, as was his father before him. Built of logs it has been through several floods, earthquakes, forest fires and storms beyond count and still stands as if it belonged to the woods it shared with the possum's, raccoons, deer, coyote and the occasional black bear.

His visitors were few and primarily consisted of those who brought him his spices and those who dispersed them for him. There were others, of course, a trusted few who shared his beliefs and those who experienced those things he believed in but they lived far and away and were rarely available for social calls.

The only phone he used was at the little stone cafe a few mile up the canyon from him where he would go after hours and have a nice meal with the lady who ran the joint a couple times a week. Those who knew, knew when to call that phone.

He was known as Jimmy to his friends and Danny was one of those friends. Jimmy had an inkling as he pulled himself up into his old Studebaker pickup that evening to go see Rose at the diner, that he would be getting a particular call that night.

Jimmy was usually right about those inklings.