Back in April of 2013, I was a building and zoning inspector for Mon County, West Virginia. We were situated in an office up in Morgantown, where I usually worked with zoning permits and annual municipal building inspections. Not the most exciting job, but in my line of work, the best day on the job is a day where nothing happens. The fight against entropy is constant, and I had a sign hanging above my desk to remind me of such. It simply read ‘everything breaks’ in cursive, with a baby cherub in the corner.
I remember being called up early one morning. There had been some sort of “geological event”, and every inspector would be pulled off desk duty. We needed immediate building inspection in the area surrounding the outskirts of Greenbrier Valley. We were to coordinate our efforts with a central command up in Greene County. That morning, it seemed like everything was topsy turvy. The local news talked about an escaped murderer, and we were getting calls about a lake being drained. The local hospital desperately needed blood donations, but couldn’t tell us why.
Overall, something was up, and neither of us liked it. But we went along with it.
I was assigned to a full inspection of a farm close to the epicenter; the Oak Valley Grain Farm.
I was handed a dossier on the owner, employees, tax records, zoning permits, all that stuff. But I was practically pushed out the door before I got the chance to go through any of it. I’d only finished half of my morning coffee when I found myself standing in the parking lot with a stern-looking man impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for me to get on my way. Given the way they were hurrying us, I got the impression that something terrible had happened. And yet, we were told to expect minimum damage; if any at all.
Still, I had to remind myself of that eternal adage; everything breaks. That includes old barley farms.
Once I was out on the road, I took some time at a rest stop to go through the dossier. Mostly to get a feel for the place, and an idea of what to look out for.
So, the Oak Valley Grain Farm. A 75-acre area, originally established in 1882. The site was used both as a barley farm and a lumber storage yard, as most of the surrounding area was covered in oak trees. A few years into operation they expanded into having an off-site cooper and making their own barley malt for whiskey production. The original malting facility and accompanying barrel storage was still in use to this day.
The one problem I could spot was the historical buildings. Oak Valley had a series of prohibition-era buildings and underground storages, some of which were still being used. It was all legitimate, and more of a quirk than anything, but those areas had not been properly inspected for years. The landowner had been reluctant to allowing inspectors free reign, and Mon County hadn’t seen the use in harassing the owner because of what could be, at most, considered a curiosity.
There was about a dozen employees, not counting irregular extra labor, the off-site cooper workshop, and seasonal farm-to-table event organizers.
I got there at about 10 am. Even from the parking lot I could see rolling hills of sprouting barley. Red birds were circling overhead; some kind of migrating species that had come home to roost. There was a constant low droning in the air, both from machinery and emerging spring insects. The air was dense with a smell of rain-drenched manure and fertile soil.
I was greeted by one of the equipment operators, Elsie. A quiet middle-aged woman with a permanent squint on her face, like she was always blinded by the sun. I stifled my instinct to ask if she’d had her vision checked in the past 6 months and settled with shaking her hand.
“Welcome to Oak Valley,” she smiled. “Lacy will be out in a minute.”
“Is the landowner in?” I asked. “Mister, uh… Kettleman? Anders Kettleman?”
“Yeah, he’s not usually around that much,” Elsie sighed. “Lacy is the, uh, de-facto boss lady. Runs the day-to-day operations. Anders is sort of a hands-off kind of guy ever since he got sciatica.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I nodded. “Let’s see the boss lady then.”
Elsie showed me past the office and the silos. I was regretting not putting on more appropriate footwear, but most of my on-site inspections were usually municipal buildings. This was out of my comfort zone, and my feet would have to suffer for it. Manure-ridden water pressed into my socks.
I met Lacy Kettleman outside of the workshop. She was busy trying to get a hold of someone to finish the repairs on her secondary combine. Lacy was in her early thirties but had already started to go gray. She held up a finger as we approached, finished her phone call, and turned to me with an eagerness to walk right through me.
I’d met a lot of people like Lacy Kettleman before, but there was something about her that put me off. There was something… there.
“What’s this about then?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“A standard inspection, ma’am,” I said. “On account of the geological event in the area.”
“We ain’t had any geological events,” she shrugged. “So your services aren’t necessary.”
“This here is a sizeable property,” I said. “I’m sure you haven’t had the time to check if everything is up to code. I can help you with that, then I’ll be on my way.”
“I appreciate that, but no. No need. Business as usual.”
I looked over at Elsie, still hovering on the outskirts of the conversation. I clutched my dossier and resumed eye contact.
“Miss Kettleman. Do you mind explaining the problem with your combine harvester?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” she said. “That’s why I’m trying to get a hold of someone who does.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind me having a look at your garage? Or better yet, the combine?”
“The combine doesn’t constitute a building, sir. Not much use for a building inspector to look at that.”
“Let’s start with the garage then.”
While Lacy took off with her cellphone in hand, Elsie stayed by my side and guided me around the property. Turns out, Elsie was the one supposed to operate the second combine. Since it was out of commission, she didn’t have much to do. She only had access to a few buildings, but it was enough to get me started.
First off was the garage. While Lacy had said there’d been no noticeable ‘geological event’, there was clear signs of disturbance. Several items had been knocked off the walls, and there were web-like cracks in the concrete floor. Nothing major, but enough for me to take note. There was no way Lacy was unaware of this. I took some pictures, made some notes, and wandered off to check the storage sheds.
Over the next few hours, Elsie escorted me through the grounds. While most buildings were off-limits to her, and Lacy was nowhere to be found, I could still check the exterior. And while I didn’t see anything obviously dangerous, there were clear signs of the area being disturbed. I could see the ground having shifted downhill from the storage sheds; entire rows of barley were bent.
While waiting for Lacy to meet us by the offices, Elsie and I started wandering by the edge of the grounds. There were plenty of oak trees there, historically used for making their own barrels, and there were several old trails snaking through the undergrowth.
We were walking past a gazebo when I noticed an old well. Nothing out of the ordinary, at first sight, but I noticed something strange about it; algae.
I took a closer look. Turns out the well was overflowing with water. Elsie seemed just as surprised as I was.
“It’s been dried out for years,” she said. “That’s… definitely new.”
There was a pulse to it. Gulps of water making tiny bumps in the surface tension. Algae and lily pads overflowing, making a green circle around the stonework. It had a strange smell to it, like salt and ammonia. Lake water?
This wasn’t normal.
We met up with Lacy, and I explained the various signs I’d seen around the farm. Elsie quietly retreated, not wanting to be dragged into the conversation. Lacy just nodded along but didn’t seem to react as I told her about the cracked concrete, the tilted rows of barley, or the various disturbed shelves. Seeing as there was clear signs of the area being affected, I told her I had to take a closer look at the structural integrity of the main buildings. And finally, there was the well.
This time, she reacted.
She had nodded and accepted everything up to that point. But all of a sudden, she was defending herself. She tried to explain that the well was backed up, and that they’d had problem with water runoff in the past. There was nothing in the dossier about flooding, but Lacy was adamant. Also, arguing with her didn’t do us any favors in gaining access to the farm interior.
“You can stall all day, miss Kettleman,” I reminded her. “But we’re not done until I say so.”
“We’re not keen on government folks skulking about, sir,” Lacy smiled. “This place has history.”
I told her I’d be back the next day, and the day after that. As many days as it took for me to do my job. Lacy just grinned. She wouldn’t make it easy for me.
I took some time checking in with the other inspectors. Turns out I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed some strange abnormalities. A lot of bursting pipes, it seemed. The local high school was also a mess. Not to mention the elementary school over in Juniper. I was given no details about it, except that no one was allowed on the premises, and the entire school was sealed off; even for inspectors.
By comparison, my overflowing well was nothing. And still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Lacy was off.
I checked the dossier over and over that night, trying to make a game plan for the following day. I’d take some extra time checking the irrigation and plumbing, and put an emphasis on the interior. Lacy would just have to comply.
And yes, I would even check the old prohibition-era storages. She’d just have to deal with it.
I was up bright and early the following morning. I got to the Oak Valley Grain Farm at about 7 am, only to notice that it had been closed. Lacy had put up a sign on the door; “Closed for Renovations”. That was it. Maybe she figured we wouldn’t have to conduct any inspections if there was no current business being conducted, but that’s not how things work. I tried calling her, but got no response. I sent her a single text; she was either to open up the facility for inspection, or I had to take legal action. Shortly afterwards, she assured me she’d be there.
One hour and thirty minutes later, Lacy came out of the main office building. Apparently, she’d been there all along. Strange though, she had no car in the parking lot. She was out of her work clothes, having just slapped on a gray hoodie and a pair of torn jeans. She looked exhausted.
“Pleasant morning?” I asked.
I cursed myself for forgetting to bring appropriate footwear; again. Lacy didn’t respond; she just wrapped her arms around herself and kept her head down. Something was wrong.
We headed into the main office. Nothing out of the ordinary. No damage, no problem with the plumbing. All in all, it seemed perfectly fine. I couldn’t figure out why she was so reluctant to show it to me. Then I double-checked the dossier. Of course, there was the prohibition-era cellar.
“Alright,” I sighed. “Time to head underground.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” Lacy asked. “It’s a mess, we don’t use it for much.”
“You’ve been putting off an inspection for a long time, miss Kettleman. Given the circumstances, I can’t really motive putting it off any further.”
“It’s a cellar,” she shrugged. “There’s not much that can go wrong with it.”
“Everything breaks, ma’am.”
The door to the cellar was so small I had to move sideways to fit. How they moved contraband whiskey through there back in the day was a mystery to me. Still, I was there to check for damages; not sightseeing.
We came down to a larger open space, with an eight-foot drop into a storage area. It was about 16 by 20 feet in total. There was an old steel ladder leading down, with two open paths leading deeper down. A set of flashlights were hanging on the wall, so I brought one with me. As I put my hand on the first rung on the ladder, I noticed Lacy’s expression change. While she’d been angry or frustrated before, she looked almost apologetic now.
“This will complicate things,” she sighed. “But we’ll… work it out, somehow.”
“Sure thing. Now, the supports seem fine,” I said, climbing down. “But there might be damage further in.”
I stepped away from the ladder, taking in the smell of salt water and ammonia.
The moment I did, Lacy pulled the ladder up.
This caught me completely by surprise. I hadn’t even considered that an option. The ladder just rattled away, and I was left down there. It was so sudden that I didn’t know what to say. I just threw my arms out in a confused shrug.
“What the hell?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Like hell you are, put the ladder back!”
“I can’t.”
“I’m calling the police.”
There was no coverage. We were too far underground.
I was slowly realizing that she was going to leave me down there. All I had was this flimsy flashlight and a couple of hours of battery on my phone. Lacy remained up there, holding the ladder.
I could feel my heart pounding; drowning out the background noises in my mind. I was growing short of breath, struggling to exhale. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but this was something else. Something darker. A real, actual threat to my life.
“They came to me, looking for shelter,” Lacy said. “They speak, you know.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“They said you were coming, and I want to hear what else they have to say.”
“You can’t keep me here!”
“We just need time.”
“What do you-“
There was a sound coming from one of the side corridors.
My heart shrunk and floated up into my throat. I held my breath, trying to hear the sound through my hammering pulse. I could feel my fingertips growing cold.
There was a strange hissing sound, like someone trying to start a dying motor. Lacy stood at attention, listening intently.
Something was down there with me.
“We came to their home,” Lacy whispered. “Now they’re coming to ours.”
I backed into the corner of the room, only now noticing the thin layer of water covering the dirt floor. I turned off the flashlight and listened, trying to calm myself enough to not go into hyperventilation.
Something was coming this way. Footsteps.
“Hello?” Lacy whispered. “Will you speak to me?”
The footsteps stopped. There was another hissing noise, rattling me. It felt like someone was playing fiddle with my nerves.
“Of course,” said Lacy. “He’s all yours.”
I could hear her stand up to leave; taking the ladder with her.
The footsteps came closer.
Closer.
I tried to move, but I made too much noise. The footsteps stopped for a moment.
I thought I’d scared it. Frightened it; made it hesitant.
Then it burst into a sprint.
I turned my flashlight back on and ran down the corridor on the opposite side of the room. I tore down all kinds of debris as I went; planks, old barrels, empty jars. Whatever I could get my hands on. I glanced back, catching a pair of eyes coming out of the dark. A wide, shark-like mouth.
A side room; some kind of meeting area. I jumped over a table, knocked it down, and backed away. Seconds later, the table was smashed in two. Fragments of wood scattered across the room, making my nose itch.
But the thing stopped. It stayed just outside my vision; on the edge of the flashlight.
It hissed again, sending another shiver up my spine. But somewhere in that vibration, I heard something. It wasn’t a word, but a collection of scrambled thoughts. Much like a word square; a jumble of information that you had to find your own meaning in. But rest assured; there was meaning.
Fear. Anger. Hunger.
“What… what do you want from me?” I asked.
My flashlight flickered, and the thing twitched. It was ready to strike, like a coiled snake.
It hissed in response.
Hunger. Hunger. Sadness.
I retreated into the corner of the room, accidentally knocking over a shelf of empty prohibition-era bottles. I could see the reflection of those dark eyes shining back at me, as they patrolled back and forth; looking for an opening.
Another hiss.
A pleading. A promise. A bone-chilling coldness.
It was starting to sound like language. An old, primal language. A language that could summarize so much, with so little.
I fumbled with my hands, looking for the biggest bottle I could find. Finally, I got a hold of an old wine bottle. Waiting for the creature to hiss again, I readied the bottle for a throw.
As soon as I felt that tingle in my spine, I knew I was about to hear it. I stood up, lowered my flashlight, and threw as hard as I could.
There was a thick, fleshy thunk.
The hissing stopped, and I could see the dark eyes rise another two feet into the air. The thing had been hunched over; now it was taller than the tunnel itself. It flinched, spitting out another word. With that single word, a series of impressions washed over me.
Cold, water-filled tunnels. The crunch of raw fishbone in my mouth.
Dying men in black togas, giving praise to a drowned God; hoping against hope to see another dawn.
I didn’t notice I’d been zoning out. I’d leaned the flashlight downwards, and I could see those dark orbs inching closer. I backed up against the wall and inched away, effectively sidestepping my way around the room. The creature followed my movements, matching them. I ended up with my back against the corridor; so I turned to run.
It was right behind me, and it was fast. I just kept going, hearing the hissing coming closer.
Hunger. Joy. Hunger. Warmth.
I went straight through the storage room and into the opposing corridor. It twisted and turned, only to spit me out into a room with a slightly lower floor. I fell forward haphazardly, spraining my ankle and dropping the flashlight.
In an instant, the flashlight flickered, and died.
I fumbled through my pockets, bringing out my phone. My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t unlock the screen. On the third try, I got it open, and the flashlight app came on.
This time, the creature was almost upon me. It screeched and retreated; blinded.
It had too many limbs. Too many… everything.
Anger. Anger. Desperation.
Leaving my phone on, I tried to get back on my feet.
I couldn’t. My foot was too badly sprained. I could jump around a bit, at most, but I was no match for whatever was out there. Instead, I looked around the side-room I was in.
It must’ve been a kind of armory. There were broken wooden crates and used-up shotgun shells littering the floor. A used-up old oil lamp on the wall.
“Don’t… don’t come in here,” I said out loud. “I’m not dying here.”
Hissing. A strange word hidden in the fog of my mind.
A man handing a venomous snake to a golden woman.
Rolling hills of endless crucified men.
A certainty of a violent death, the wailing song of the doomed.
It didn’t understand my fear. I was already doomed, there was no point in fighting it. To the creature in the dark, time was an insignificant factor.
I realized I’d been sitting there listening to it hiss to me for at least ten minutes. My cellphone was running hot, and the water level had risen by about an inch.
Of course, the water level! There had to be water coming from somewhere!
Everything. Breaks.
It was a miracle that I hadn’t seen it before. There was an overturned table in the middle of the room. That’s what I’d sprained my ankle on. Kicking it with my good foot, I revealed a crack in the dirt floor from which water came bubbling up. A few lily pads plopped up, their coloration a strange blue; like a sad sunflower.
The crack in the floor might’ve been the remains of a well, or the start of a tunnel going deeper underground. Either way, I had to take a chance. There was no telling how deep it went. I could drown, but I could also find my way out.
I left my cellphone with the light shining on the entrance, holding the creature back.
With a final screech, it conveyed a final picture;
Webbed fingers, deep underground.
Tearing a human body to pieces.
I took the plunge.
I crawled my way forward; inch by inch. The wet dirt barely gave me any grip, and the water stung my eyes. My nails hurt from all the debris trying to dig into my fingers. I could feel my chest tightening; cramping.
A fork in the path. I went left.
A current. A stream. Brushing something slimy out of my face.
A tilt upwards.
Cold.
Can’t feel my arms.
Hunger. Reaching. Hunger.
I broke through the surface. I was in the stone well.
I threw myself out, gasping for air, looking back only to see something just under the surface of the overflowing well.
Two black orbs retreated into the dark, sinking back into the unfathomable depths.
I made my way to the nearest road and flagged down the first car I could see. Lacy Kettleman was brought in for questioning, but that’s all I know. There was no trial. No debriefing. I just told about my experience to a stern-looking man in a suit, and that was that. I was told to sign an NDA lasting a minimum of 10 years. It ended recently, and I’ve been waiting to tell my story.
Anders Kettleman eventually took back control of the Oak Valley Grain Farm. As far as I know, Lacy never went to jail. Something must’ve happened though; she was missing for the better part of a decade.
Maybe she had something they wanted.
I think that whatever I met in Oak Valley had something to do with the crisis of 2013. There were a lot of rumors coming out of that area, and I’m sure at least some of them originated with whatever Lacy had invited to stay in her cellar. There haven’t been many others coming forward about their experience of that incident, but I know they’re out there.
Maybe they’re hoping we’ve all moved on or forgotten. Maybe they’ve been safe behind their contracts and fear tactics. But I’d like to remind them, as much as I remind myself every day;
Everything.
Breaks.