An October 2017 Post from the Strange Places Forum, on the Mining Town of Coventry

I don’t remember how I got the job in Coventry.

The first thing that sticks out, looking back, is that I couldn’t very well say no. Petra, my partner, and I talked it over, and we just needed the money.

The physical separation was going to be killer, but we were optimistic that she could find a job nearby and join me after a few months or so. So we kissed goodbye, and I boarded the train and set off.

On the day I arrived, a pea soup of mist hung over the town. It was even green. I later learned this was not uncommon. But on that first day, the weird greenish haze in the air felt odd. I half-imagined there was a chemical spill.

Fortunately, the welcome wagon arrived before I got any funny ideas.

“Hey, you Jules?”

There was only me and two other passengers getting off there, so I must have been easy to identify. The welcome wagon was Terry Blodger, foreperson for Team A of the Coventry Mining Association.

We introduced ourselves, and Terry gave me the fifty-cent tour.

“Coventry is the sister town to the British city of the same name. Just like them, we’re kind of post-industrial here. Town wasn’t on the map until the mine opened up, and then it went dry sometime in the early 1950s. We call days like today ‘easy peasies,’ because we’re instructed to stay home instead of—”

But I wasn’t sure I’d heard part of that right.

“Excuse me. Did you say the mine went dry?” Little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was there to work in the mine—for ludicrous wages—and the thought crossed my mind that I’d been the victim of some scam.

Terry frowned and looked to be searching for words. “Oh yes, of course. The mine doesn’t produce what it used to. We in the Mining Association have another mission now. Surely you were told?”

I shook my head, and Terry rolled his eyes and said something about the “damn unprofessional” headhunters the Association was using now.

I learned that the Mining Association was now employed by a wealthy philanthropist interested in ancient cultures. Nestor Donegal. Made his money in satellites.

He had them/us looking for artifacts of ancient human activity in the region. Evidence that he believed could be located by going through existing mineshafts. Which was a damned good thing. The gold mines were emptied twenty years ago.

According to Terry, “Good Ol’ Uncle Moneybags” basically resurrected the town.

“Half the Association’s members had moved away, found new work. The other half were stuck here, desperate, until Donegal threw a lifeline. You won’t hear anyone say a cross word about him,” Terry finished.

“What’s to say bad about him?” I asked.

Terry grinned and made a zipping motion, like ‘Nice try. My lips are sealed.’

I thought we would get along.

My introduction to the mines was different from what I’d expected.

Terry introduced me to Frank, and Frank was the one who led me into the depths.

The first thing that was weird was when Frank gave me a gas mask. He said sometimes the green-tinged fog comes into the mines. Problems with the low elevation. The stuff’s not dangerous per se, according to him, but if it’s concentrated, it could knock you out.

That was why we weren’t allowed to mine in the ‘easy peasies.’ The gas masks were good to get you out of the mine, but you couldn’t stay. Needless to say, I thought that was weird, but whatever, right? Something for smarter people than me to worry about.

For the same purposes, we were equipped with through-the-Earth radios. Despite the fact that there was no likelihood of a mine collapse given our gentle activities, we needed to be able to warn other people if we started to see that pea-colored fog.

Anyway, on that first day, Frank guided me around the mine shaft. It was dark and a bit claustrophobic, but I don’t scare easy. Where the light touched, it was kind of pretty. Hard stone walls and floors, bereft of gold. Almost smooth in places from so much traffic over generations.

Frank took me near the last place someone found an artifact. They hadn’t found anything else by walking around and looking carefully, but the expectation was that someone would probably find another artifact buried in the wall.

Frank showed me how we were supposed to dig in that situation. He had a tiny pick, chemical rock polish, and some little brushes. He was weirdly careful. It reminded me that even though I accepted a ‘mining’ job, we were almost like archaeologists.

Frank made sure to mention the bonus for any artifacts found.

“I’ve never found any myself, but a friend of a friend did,” he said. “Quite a pretty penny, and Old Donegal had him over for dinner!”

I asked what the artifacts look like. Frank said the ancient civilization’s craftsmanship apparently looked like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Unusual colors and geometries. Hard to describe.

“They used unique local materials. Now any individual artifact is pretty much one of a kind.”

Now, if you’ve heard any of the weird rumors about Coventry, you’re wondering where the green men come in.

I’d never heard about them when I started.

Well, after I left the mine, Terry showed me to my quarters. Provided through the Association like everyone else’s. Complimentary.

“I could get used to the complimentary stuff,” I said. We had a chuckle about that.

Then I had another tour, of my new pad.

We started on the ground floor. Pretty decent kitchen. Living room with fireplace. Second floor similarly nice with the bedroom and bathroom perfectly adequate.

And with just the slightest hint of reluctance, Terry showed me the basement last. It was dank and dark, with lights that didn’t illuminate the whole room. Slightly drafty.

I remember the way Terry’s nose wrinkled when we stepped off the stairs. Apparently they’d had some issues with mold down there, and they planned to have someone clean it up. But not yet.

“I guess I won’t spend much time down here,” I said out loud.

Terry muttered something like, “Probably for the best.”

Then I noticed something weird. I hadn’t seen it at first because of the shitty lighting, but there was a big, wrought-iron door on the far wall. Looked sturdy. Reviewing my mental model of the house, I couldn’t imagine where it led.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Oh, that!” Terry noticed where my eyes had landed. “That’s the, uh, boiler room. Root of the mold problem, that. Best not to go in there for your own health. I believe it’s locked.” Terry gave the doorknob a quick attempted turn. It didn’t budge.

I stared at the door for a minute. I couldn’t see where the lock was. I wondered for a crazy moment if it was on the other side of the door. But that wouldn’t make sense. Would it?

Terry noticed my preoccupation. Teasingly: “Hey, don’t worry, the green men won’t get you!”

That was the first I’d heard of green men, and I said so.

“Oh. That’s good, really. Just a local superstition.”

I don’t know why, but those words made me shiver. We quickly left the basement.

After the weekend, I had my first real day at the mines. Things started out normally enough.

Then I heard Frank call out: “Damn it, it’s that green shit again!”

I turned, and it was the green fog I’d seen when I arrived in town. Inside the confined space of the mine, it felt ominous.

I freaked a little. Dropped my flashlight, yanked my gas mask on. Fell flat on my face trying to run away. Frank helped me back up, and we retreated.

The weird thing was when we came back the next day, after the all-clear.

My flashlight was nowhere to be found. I kept looking out for it the whole day, my eyes periodically shifting to the ground wherever I worked.

Eventually, Frank noticed and asked what was up. He reported it up the chain, and the Association had a new flashlight for me the next day. Frank said someone probably broke it and just didn’t want to fess up.

One of our younger workers, Jason, found me at lunch and suggested another theory.

“The green men took it,” Jason said. “Sometimes they need surface technology. Things they don’t have down where they live. When they need things, they come up into the mines.”

“Who are these green men?” I asked. “Assuming I believed in such things.”

“Oh, I think they’re the ancient civilization we’re digging for,” Jason said, tone casual. “Old Donegal just doesn’t tell people about it, because he doesn’t want to sound crazy. Or something else is going on.”

He’d grown up in Coventry, and he was well versed in local lore. The green men were here before the first humans, legend claimed, and they used to trade with pioneers. There had been a falling out at some point. Maybe the humans were using too many of their natural resources. The green men retreated into a vast network of underground tunnels, and sightings of them stopped.

“Until a hundred years back, when they started digging the mines.” Jason winked knowingly. “You ask any local, and see if they don’t tell you more of the same!”

“And now?” I asked. In truth, I thought Jason was a nut, but I liked the guy. I didn’t want to be rude and seem uninterested in his story.

“Now, maybe what they wanted has changed,” he said thoughtfully. “Legends are clear, they used to wanna be left alone. But ever since we’ve been digging here again, that pea-colored mist comes more often. And sometimes things go missing. Tools.” He looked at me. “Livestock. Occasionally people.”

“So, why do you still work here?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Oh, you know, I guess I want to know if it’s really true for myself. Find out the answer to the mystery. Plus, I’ve got a notion that maybe Donegal has some kind of arrangement with them. He’s either got a deal with them done, or he wants to make first contact. Either way, ain’t this kind of an adventure?”

At that point, I excused myself.

I asked Terry about it, since he was where I first heard of green men, and his face soured. He muttered something under his breath. Sounded like: “Jason’s playing with fire.”

Then, aloud: “Don’t worry about it, Jules. Miners are a superstitious lot. Don’t be like Jason!”

I’d been working for a few months when I had a possible encounter with the green men, if you could call it that.

Another day was going as normal, when someone shouted the green fog alarm. I put on my gas mask. I began retreating.

Then I made the mistake of looking back toward the fog.

I swear to God, I saw living shapes in there. They were just like human figures, but longer. I couldn’t vouch for what color their skin was, of course. I booked it the hell out of there.

When I told Terry about it later, he said, “I knew I made a mistake mentioning that to you! It’s just local superstition. Now your mind’s playing tricks!”

I didn’t feel that explained it.

Terry asked if I remembered whether there were people below my elevation in the mine at the time this happened. Maybe I saw other miners rushing up to get out of the fog.

“That green fog distorts images,” Terry said. “Ask anyone. It doesn’t play the same as normal fog. That’s the main reason it’s a hazard.”

That made me feel a little better.

A few weeks later, we had the makings of a real tragedy.

The ground shook. A low level earthquake. There was a cave-in.

Jason was trapped. Alone.

It was pretty clear he’d injured himself, maybe hit his head. He was saying strange shit over the radio. With a massive pile of rock on top of where we knew he was, and our friend obviously hurt, it didn’t seem like things could get worse. Someone went topside to fetch rescue equipment.

Almost on cue, the green fog appeared.

We had to evacuate. There were tough men with tears in their eyes who had to drag themselves away from the rocks. We promised ourselves we’d go back. We promised Jason via radio.

But the fog didn’t let up. Over Frank’s objections, the bosses sent us home.

That night, I snuck my radio back with me. I wanted to feel closer to Jason, like I could help him if I could hear what he was saying.

Stupid sentimental shit. I know.

Anyway, in the middle of the night, radio starts crackling. I was already asleep, but the noise wakes me up.

And I’m half-asleep for the rest, but I swear, hand to God, this really happened.

Jason starts screaming bloody murder over the radio. There was something weird about the sounds, but I was so focused on what he was saying, I didn’t catch it at first. He was frantic. Saying things like: “They’ve got me! Help!”

It was a little garbled, but not so garbled that I couldn’t tell he was in a struggle for his life with someone or something. I pulled my pants on and looked outside my window. I could see the fog was thick as ever. And I still wasn’t quite sure what would happen if I actually spent a lot of time in it. People from the Association would just hem and haw if you asked.

I was staring outside when the radio went silent. I walked over to check if it was dead, but no.

Either Jason stopped screaming, or something smashed his radio.

Then I heard one last sound. It didn’t come from the radio.

That was when I realized why it sounded weird before. I was hearing the same noises twice, once through the radio and once, muffled, from somewhere closer.

The radio remained silent, but I heard a scream from somewhere nearby. Downstairs? Outside? My blood ran cold.

And I froze.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was scared shitless. The first thing I did when I could move was lock my bedroom door. That scream came from way closer than the mine. It was definitely Jason’s voice.

Whatever got him was within shouting distance.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Around sunrise, I went downstairs a little nervously. I jumped and then giggled at every little squeak of the stairs or creak of the house. I tried to tell myself that I had imagined the noises last night. Maybe I had a night terror.

No. Too real. Too awake by the end for that to be true.

I went outside, where the wood pile for the fireplace was. I grabbed the wood axe. Then I made myself go down to the basement.

After hours of lying awake, I’d finally had to admit to myself that was the only place the sound could plausibly have come from.

How would Jason have gotten from trapped underground to outside my house? He wouldn’t. Impossible.

I descended the stairs, and flicked on the shitty basement light. I clutched the axe tightly for my own sanity as much as fear of any real danger. At this point, any tiny noise might make me jump out of my skin.

I went to that wrought-iron door and smashed the wood axe into its most vulnerable spot: the hinges. It took about ten minutes of work. I’m a strong guy, and the axe was good, well-made steel, fortunately.

Finally, I was able to pull on the doorknob, and the door fell inward onto the floor. I stepped aside as it went down.

And I looked.

Instead of a boiler, I saw what I’d half-expected to see.

What I was afraid of.

Deep darkness.

A black tunnel leading into the mines.

The reality of it made me shiver.

I bent down to grab the door. I wanted to immediately close it back up and keep whatever got Jason as far away as possible.

But I dropped it mid-lift, and it fell with a clattering sound that I could feel echo in my bones and into the mines.

I looked down and saw the texture that had freaked me out.

There was dried blood on the side of the door. A rust-colored stain, roughly the size and shape of a handprint as the hand gets ripped away from the surface. Or maybe that’s the shape I imagined. The lighting was bad, you understand. I carried an axe downstairs, not a flashlight.

It wasn’t old. I was pretty sure I knew when it got there.

Just below that, there was a little smudge of dried greenish goo.

I wanted to confront the bosses about all this, but I was scared.

Maybe Jason’s ‘superstitions’ were true. Maybe green men live underground here. Maybe the bosses at the Association have some dealings with them, or they just want to find them for some reason or other.

I didn’t care anymore.

I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge, but the only train would come early in the morning. I’d have to spend one more night in the place.

So I typed this up for the Strange Places Forum. Never realized this site existed until tonight. Even though some of the posts on Coventry are laughable, I figured this was the place to post a record/warning.

Something is very wrong here. I’m taking the train out tomorrow. I’ve only told the station clerk who sold me the ticket.

Hopefully I make it through the night and get on the train, back to civilization.

Will add more reflections when I return.

~ Jules Brody, 10/17/2017 9:22 PM