In search of useful and marketable minerals, Flavius Wilson constructed an open-pit mine here in 1850. But he was only scratching the surface.
Ninety years later, miners here felt drawn to dig deeper, to get underground. They couldn’t explain this temptation which had overtaken them. It wasn’t that they wanted to dig, it was that they had to dig. They told the public that they were digging for limestone, but the allurement was for something more, something they couldn’t articulate, a secret they mustn’t reveal. It was an addiction. They feared it, and they craved it.
All this digging exposed a system of underground caves. How did they get here? Where did they lead? Most of the miners took heed of the danger and hastened away to safety up top. But one curious miner, Claude Burroughs, could not resist the seduction, the siren song, and he began to explore the caves. He came upon an inner sanctum, a blissful wonderland, a euphoric retreat. A feeling of ecstasy washed over him. He had to let the others know. He assured his family, friends, and neighbors that there was nothing to fear and persuaded them to join him in this haven. Word got out about this wonderous place, and people were drawn from lands far and away. The rapturous intoxication enveloped them and bid them stay. Their community grew. Its members reveled in their good fortune, wallowed in merriment, embraced forgetfulness, and had no desire to leave.
Some years later, a stranger, clad in a black, knee-length, funnel-collared suit jacket, a black vest over a black collared shirt, and a white clerical collar, joined them in their frivolity. Oozing with charm and brimming with benevolence, he walked amongst them, introducing himself as Reverend Dickens and assuring them he was there to save their souls for eternity. At midnight, he stepped up to a podium and called for the crowd’s attention. “I have up until now kept my true identity hidden, but, my fine souls, I introduce myself finally as the founder of and your host in this village.”
“You may know me as Reverend Dickens, but I am known by many names, as is this hamlet you now call home. Please take a closer look at what I have forged.” He swung his arm in a sweeping motion, and the façade fell away, exposing their true surroundings. Hellscapes, swamps, and chambers of horror. Crumbling churches, decrepit homes, and sinister places of torturous experimentation and incarceration – monuments to the folly of man. Decomposing bodies and the grotesque creatures which feasted on the remains. Disorienting mazes guarded by vicious beasts and savage demons. Heat and fire, pain and agony, hopelessness at every turn.
His amiable persona fell away as well. His skin reddened. His body stretched and distorted. Horns grew from his head, and a tail erupted from his lower back. Cloven hooves emerged from leather-soled shoes. A flaming pitchfork appeared in his hand. His smile contorted into a sneer.
“Welcome to hell.”
The villagers, now inmates, suffered in the pit, many going mad. Others embraced the evil and rose through the ranks – in service to their new master – as overseers of gruesome rituals and twisted deeds, purveyors of depravity and torment. One captive, Irma Whistler, however, braved the mazes and made her way back to the world above. Though her soul was forever tainted, she told her tale to whoever would listen and begged for their help. Few believed her story, and fewer still endeavored to save the other lost souls. Many of those who tried never returned, prompting the legend to grow. Much to his amusement and satisfaction – and always needing to replenish his surplus of souls – the devil, each year, is eager to welcome ever-increasing numbers of the brave, the foolhardy, the naysayers, and the hedonistic thrill seekers as they traverse the caves to discover for themselves whether the legend is true.
Written by Teri Davis