The Last Cycle

The old road to the Bentley place wound through scrubland that looked like it hadn’t been tended in years. The house itself leaned slightly, as if the earth beneath it was slowly giving way. Out front, a rusted sluice box and a sad row of lemon trees with yellowed leaves. I’d come to investigate the claims of Margaret Bentley, widow of the famous miner Henry Bentley, who’d struck gold and then died of a heart attack right in his office, leaving the business and the house to her. She swore his presence lingered, that she could feel him in the workshop, hear the old stamp mill grinding at night. I thought it was grief, or maybe just old age.

I parked my ute by the fence and walked up to the veranda. The screen door groaned when I pushed it open. Margaret appeared from the shadows of the hallway, wearing a floral dress that seemed too bright for the gloom. ‘You’re the journalist,’ she said, not a question. ‘I’ll be heading to the shops in a bit. I expect you’ll be running out soon enough.’ She gave a dry chuckle and disappeared down the hallway. I heard the front door click shut, and then the distant crunch of her car on the gravel.

I stood in the living room. The TV was on, some old western, the volume low. The place smelled of dust and stale tobacco. My stomach grumbled. I’d not eaten since breakfast. I found the kitchen off a narrow corridor. The light from the living room barely reached it, leaving the far end in murky twilight. The only illumination came from a small window above the sink, which looked out onto a wall of weedy grass.

I opened the fridge. It was mostly bare, but there was a plate of cold meat and some bread. I made a sandwich and sat at the table. As I chewed, I noticed a door at the end of the kitchen I hadn’t seen before. It was ajar, leading to what might be a pantry or a cellar. Curiosity itched at me. I took a step toward it, and the sandwich suddenly tasted dry. I put it down.

The door creaked when I pushed it fully open. A set of wooden stairs descended into absolute darkness. I fumbled for my phone, switched on the torch, and started down. The steps were worn and uneven. The air grew cooler, and the smell of damp earth filled my nostrils.

At the bottom, the light revealed a small room, the walls lined with shelves of old jars and rusted tools. In the center, an old gold pan, caked with mud. I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. As I turned it over, a grinding sound came from behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. The sound seemed to come from the floor itself. It was a rhythmic, heavy pulse, like a heartbeat of machinery.

I followed the sound to a corner where a pile of old canvas tarps lay. I lifted one, and underneath was a trapdoor. The grinding grew louder. I lifted the latch and pulled. A set of iron rungs led down into a shaft, from which a faint, sickly yellow light emanated. I should have left, but the sound was hypnotic, and I felt compelled to see.

I descended. The rungs were cold and slick. After about twenty feet, I stepped onto a ledge. Before me stretched a tunnel, supported by rotting beams. The yellow light came from a lantern at the far end. The grinding now was a constant roar, and I felt a vibration in my chest. I walked toward the light, my steps echoing.

At the end of the tunnel, the wall had collapsed, revealing a natural cavern. In the middle of the cavern stood a massive machine, a cylinder of rusted iron, taller than a man, with pipes and wheels. It was turning slowly, making the grinding sound. Around it, scattered on the floor, were dozens of what looked like worn-out gold pans, all caked with a strange black residue.

The machine had a hopper on top, and a lever on its side. I approached. A sign bolted to the machine read: ‘BENTLEY’S PATENT ORE CRUSHER – DO NOT OPERATE WITHOUT GLOVES.’ I saw a pair of leather gloves on a ledge. I put them on, and without thinking, I pulled the lever.

The machine screeched, and the grinding stopped. A hiss came from a valve, and then a panel on the front slid open. Inside, there was a tray, and on that tray lay a small, black stone, polished like obsidian. It pulsed with a faint light, like a heartbeat.

I picked it up. It was warm, almost hot. A whisper filled my head, not words, but a pressure, a sensation of presence. I dropped it, and it clattered on the floor. The machine began to grind again, louder than before, and the vibration grew. The floor shook. I stumbled back toward the rungs.

As I climbed, the grinding grew louder, and the walls of the shaft began to tremble. Dust fell from above. I burst through the trapdoor into the cellar, just as a deafening crash came from below. The floor splintered, and a crack raced across the concrete. I ran up the stairs, through the kitchen, out the front door, not stopping until I was in my ute, engine roaring, tires spinning in the gravel.

I drove down the road, my heart pounding. I looked in the rearview mirror. The house was still there, but behind it, a plume of dust rose from the ground, and I could swear I saw a figure standing in the window, watching me. It was not Margaret.

I didn’t stop until I reached the main road. I pulled over, gasping. I had to tell someone. But when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. I tried again. Nothing. A cold panic gripped me. I looked at my hands. They were dusted with a black residue, like the residue in the pans.

I haven’t spoken since. I’ve been back to town, but I can’t form words. And at night, I hear a grinding sound, coming from inside me. I don’t know what that machine was, but I think I brought a piece of it with me. And I think it’s still turning.