The Prospector

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The light did not flicker or dance, even though the wind howled through the trees. Nor did the light cast a yellow glow; no the light was blue with a ghostly pallor.

The area surrounding Flagstaff is covered in Ponderosa Pines that reach high into the sky. The mountain air and gold draw both pleasure seekers and opportunists alike. Nothing can match the beauty or the danger.

I was walking the trail to the peak of San Francisco Mountain just north of the town when I happened upon the cabin. That is before it was illuminated so unnaturally. It was derelict and aged, with weeping logs and a sagging roof. As a curious fellow, and a little destitute myself, I made my way up the path toward the cabin to investigate.

Cast iron appliances, rotting wood, and a forlorn bed were all I found that day.

Now though. Now there was a light. A light most unnatural.

I was transfixed. What manner of candle could produce such an impressive blue and calm flame.

Had I known what I would find, I would have left the cabin alone, just this once. I am a curious man though and such a puzzle grabbed my attention and refused to let loose.

The cabin sat upon a ridge overlooking a valley with a mountain creek. There was no gold in the creek, unfortunately. The devil take me, I panned for endless hours; however, that is neither here nor there.

The cabin occupied my mind and the strange light within.

Although my pack was heavy and my legs tired, I decided to risk the short trek to the top of the ridge.

Every step I took caused my cooking pan and my gold pan to meet with a light metallic clang.

Clang, clang, clang. It was rhythmic and purposefully done. A prospector setting out for California told me it warded off bears.

A hushed whisper, barely audible, echoed down from the old building. It was the whisper of warning. The whisper of terror.

I froze immediately and stared up, the blue flame had vanished.

The Hopi had a legend of a wooden-backed spirit who often appeared as a coyote or a maiden, luring fools like myself to their deaths.

The air had hushed around me. The cicadas, so frequently noisy this time of year, were as quiet as a stranger at a funeral.

For ten minutes I stood there mute. The cicadas made their cacophony again, but that was the only noise I heard.

Confident the whisper was my imagination or perhaps an echo, I decided to make my way once again to the cabin. Something or someone was in there and I needed to know what, devil or witch, demon or Kokopelli, I needed to know.

One foot forward. Clang. The next step. Clang.

A baker’s dozen steps later and the candle reappeared. This time it was white and bright, and once again, the wind did not touch it.

What demon was plotting on upon this land? What witch had conquered flame and wind?

Fear gripped me, but curiosity held me tighter. Eugene Stafford would not be stopped by some strange flame in a derelict cabin.

Clang, clang, clang. I slowly made my way up the side of the mountain. Every step I took was measured, every foot I placed felt gently for the ground.

I was only twenty paces from the cabin and could hear commotion and rustling. Someone or something was in there with that ghostly light.

Foolish I was, curious I was, but forlorn I was perhaps the most. The lonely life of a destitute gold panner is something I would wish upon no man.

Slowly I approached. The dark moonless night still had the glow of the stars. The sides of the cabin had been renewed. The door once a few boards stuck together by iron plates, now was a solid piece.

A shrill scream that set my hair on end blasted from the cabin. Simultaneously the light disappeared.

I froze in my tracks. I was only a few paces from the cabin window and if I squinted I could see into the dark dwelling. Nothing untoward stood out. That is nothing I could see. Breathing, however; breathing like a man being tortured made its way to my ears.

Not a man of merit or badge, I was never decorated. I didn’t even serve in the war. I had fought down a bear before, but that was because I had no choice. That was survival.

I could turn around and leave. I could turn around; pretend I saw nothing. I could turn around and remit the soul in that cabin to their fate at the hands of whatever foul creature had nested within.

Not a brave man, but not heartless. I slowly made my way up to the cabin window.

The breathing, which was not mine, grew louder. The pace quickened, and with it my heartbeat.

I reached the window. The only protection against the elements the portal offered was a set of slatted shutters. The shutters were latched open and I had free access to the interior.

Who would I rescue? What would I see?

“I think it’s here!” A young woman said in a whisper.

I looked around for whatever creature had kidnapped her. I knew not how to slay a devil, but I knew how to run, and I could carry a load meant for a mule.

My heart began to thump. I gathered my wits and my gumption, and I finally whispered in kind. “Where is it?”

Two screams pierced my ears. One woman and one man, both bellowed in pure terror. I saw them bound from their position on the floor and leap out the door.

They did the only sensible thing one could do in such a situation.

I turned to run as well, but something stopped me. Something I could not quite understand. Whether a witch cursed me or a devil tempted me, I could not say, but I did not run.

Slowly I rotated and looked. The candle lay bare on the floor. It must have been knocked over when the people fled.

Its light was a dull white and in an impossible shape for a candle.

It brought a small illumination to the cabin and I saw the beds had been replaced, the iron cookware removed, and a small white metal box was chained to the wall.

No devil was present.

Making my way through the window, I was drawn like a moth to flame. As I crawled closer I could see that it was not fire, but a strange luminescence that backed words.

Kneeling down, transfixed, I wondered what prose could possibly embellish such a supernatural grimoire.

Then I read it and my heart stopped.

Some say, on nights with no moon, the old trapper can be heard climbing the ridge. His gold pan and cook pan announce his arrival. Legend says his name is Eugene Stafford. No one knows why he haunts this area or how he died. Although many sightings…