Dare and Scare!

The Dare.

“Get the light out of my eyes Georgie” said Clifford Potts, trying to cover his eyes with too small hands, as the beam from the massive torch seemed to burn his retinas to goo.

“You said you’d go first Pottsy” complained George Smith, trying bravely to hide the terror he was feeling. He lowered the light beam to their feet. “Then me, I don’t want to go first, it’s not fair – you said!” He brushed away a stray tear and tried to stand taller than his 4 foot 8 inches, the smallest of them there today.

The three 10 year old boys were out for a dare and a scare. The dare had come from the biggest boy, Norman Davis.

Norman (who’s last growing spurt had seen him grow to one inch short of 6 foot) towered over the other two boys by 6 inches (Pottsy) and 15 inches (Georgie). Norman: he of no fear, he of muscles like Popeye’s, he who had spent the night alone on Witches Hill (on a dare, and lived), he who was held in awe by all 26 boys at the “special” boarding school (and truth be known, by all the male staff members, and most of the females.) He who, one day last year, in a rage, had punched a hole in the door to the single toilet (it was still there). It was whispered among the boys, that he had beaten up his coal-miner father when that “worthy man” had attempted to thrash him again. None of the boys knew the truth or falsity of this, but they weren’t going to tempt fate to find out. Norman wasn’t saying either way. The father had gone, leaving 3 other children and their mother in the dank and dark Yorkshire town while Norman was shipped to the school.

The dare was to crawl the full length of the grain chute at the old mill, without light of any sort, and THAT was what would provide the scare, no light!

Now, standing there in the old mill, all three in coveralls and plimsolls (as trainers were called in 1963), the scare seemed all too real. Dusk had dimmed the light outside and the glare of the torchlight inside made the shadows grow and morph into monsters not to be dreamed of by Rowling for another 35 years. All three glanced at them occasionally - but they didn’t seem to move and, as the boys were brave, they could be ignored. In front of them was the opening of the chute. They’d decided to start from inside the mill so that no passing busybody would see and try to stop them.

The Old Mill.

The mill, five miles from the school and surrounded by nothing but trees, had been closed down in 1948 after four workers had died mysteriously. News reports at the time had pointed an accusing finger of blame at the owner, citing negligence on a massive scale. The owner was charged, but committed suicide by rope before his trial began. No relatives stepped forward to claim the mill and it had been closed and left to rot. In the years since then a legend had grown among local children that the four dead workers wandered the mill at night, screaming and cursing the owner. Eight years ago a teenager claimed that, when he had attempted to enter the mill via the grain chute (to “find out for himself”), he had been grabbed by the foot and physically dragged out and dumped on the ground. He ran the 7 miles to his home screaming in fear. His body was covered in scratches and his arm was broken. He now resided in the local asylum for the insane, reliving his escapade every night. Following this, the authorities had erected fencing around the mill to keep intruders out and started a process to have it demolished. This had never reached fruition and the mill stayed standing and in child legend. The fence had become damaged and now anyone with a mind to, could enter the mill. Not many had that mind.

Truth and Dare.

Three days ago, in the bright summer light of a June Wednesday, Norman had boasted with no shame “There’s nothing that can scare me.” Pottsy wasn’t so sure and asked “Nothing? What about the old mill?” Norman laughed.

Georgie, the third of the gang looked up at Norman and teased “Oh yeah, Normie’s afraid of the old mill” with no evidence to support it, in fact all knew it couldn’t be true. Norman glared at him and pushed him over. “What do you know? I am not afraid of ANYTHING, and I can prove it.” He did not need to prove it but the three often played a game and Norman loved it – Truth and Dare. This time it was a dare.

“On Saturday night, when the sun goes down, all three of us are going to the old mill AND we’re going to crawl through the full length of the chute without any light. I dare you. I DOUBLE DARE YOU.” The rite had been followed to a T, and there was no backing down for any of them.

So here they were, ready to match the dare. On Wednesday Pottsy, feeling brave in the daylight, had offered to lead the plucky gang, then Georgie and lastly Norman – “to make sure nothing grabs their feet from behind.”

And now, Saturday at 8:35 PM, Pottsy was trying to renege. “If you don’t go first I am going to punch your stupid nose” threatened Norman. So that decided it.

“Alright, I’ll lead” he conceded, “Are we ready? Georgie? Norman?” they both nodded. Potsy wasn’t but he couldn’t reveal that now. Georgie was ready to piss his coveralls, only Norman felt no fear, just curiosity as to how long the game would take.

“Let’s go!” said Pottsy as he climbed the ladder to the opening and his future.

Pottsy.

Pottsy leant into the opening carefully, checking as he did for anything that might await the unwary; spider webs, nails, splinters, rats, ghosts “etcetera, etcetera, etcetera” as Yul Brynner says. Seeing nothing immediately threatening he reached up, grabbed the edge of the square entrance and pulled his body inside, up to his waist. Then, crawling slowly as the light from George’s torch diminished, he entered the dark hole. “Hurry up” (Norman) “Can you see anything?” (Georgie) “Shut up you two” (Pottsy) thinking he heard a snigger from Georgie. The odyssey began.

Born and raised in Birmingham (the one in England) by a hard working teacher father and book keeper mother, Pottsy had been at the school two years now and he loved it. He had friends who liked him and teachers who listened to him and seemed to care what happened to him, unlike the harsh father and lush mother who locked him in his room and never cared where he went after school. Until the day he was bought home by two stern police officers for smashing all the windows on a row of tenement houses. The monetary cost woke the parents up and they realised they needed to “get that kid sorted out.” They then absconded from their duty of care to their offspring by sending him away to the “special” school for naughty boys in the countryside. Problem solved!

As he crawled farther in, the sparse light from behind began to diminish until it was extinguished entirely. He started to shiver, even though it wasn’t cold. “I am not afraid” he repeated over and over whispering to the dark, sure that at any second he would feel the grasp of a dead hand on his foot. His shivering stopped and he kept crawling, the mantra playing over and over. He heard mumbling from behind, the other two preparing to follow. They had agreed to put a five minute gap between each entry. Soon he could hear nothing, from anywhere, dead silence. It bought to mind the night they’d “Dared” into the churchyard, the cemetery – quiet as a grave people say. That thought caused him to recall the legend of the four dead mill-workers and the teenager in the nuthouse. He kept crawling.

His head made a thudding contact with something ahead, stopping him mid-crawl. Reaching tentatively forward he felt rough wood blocking his route. “What the heck?” He reached to his left and felt another wall, then to his right and felt nothing – “A corner, ah” he sighed and crept to the right and onwards.

His hand, as he reached forward, touched something soft. He quickly pulled it back as he inhaled sharply. He peered vainly to the spot he’d touched. But the pitch black revealed nothing to his un-adjusted eyes. He reached his right hand slowly to the thing. As he did he heard an erratic scratching sound from the corner behind him. He jerked forward and his fingers found the invisible object. Involuntarily he clutched it. It was cloth around something hard. He gingerly raised it and, laying on his right side, felt it with both hands. Listening, he heard no other sounds. He explored the object and could make out three spindly pieces of something hard sticking out of heavy cloth and a squarish hard object inside – he suddenly realised “A hand!” and dropped it. He tried to turn around to go back but couldn’t in the limited space he had, so he tried to crawl backward but soon realised that futility as the others would be coming soon. He had to keep going on.

“It’s only some old bones, they can’t hurt me” he told himself. He steeled himself and began to crawl again, until he found the gloved hand. “Hey, this will tell us if Norman really is afraid of nothing!” He put it behind him and sniggered quietly, then crawled on.

The sound he heard next confused him, “Water?” but he knew that was impossible. He could see more light now, coming from in front, only a glimmer but it was there. He thought his eyes were starting to adjust.

The sound of water grew louder then stopped, the diffused light seemed to gain a green lustre to his eyes. He shivered, this time it was from the increased cold in the air. His clothes all at once felt wet, soaked in fact. His throat suddenly seemed full of dirty water, he spluttered and began to yell, incoherent words that gurgled, he struggled, all thought now gone, just a screaming from all around, getting louder by the second. He had stopped moving forward and flailed his arms, trying to gain purchase on an edge, with no success. Over the noise of his own screams he again heard water, rushing this time and could feel it surrounding his small body. His breathing became a struggle, his head holding unclear thoughts, flashing lights, calling men. His breath halting. All was a muddle as Clifford Potts age 10 years and 9 months slowly died in a dark and water free grain chute, his lungs full of stagnant water. His final thought, as he died in the dark, was of his friends, Norman and George.

Endings.

His body was never found and the other two boys were suspected of his murder and the disposal of his body, although they insisted the trick they’d played on him had been crawling through the chute and they saw him enter.

A short newspaper article mentioned that the four men who died 15 years before had drowned when someone had let the sluice water run down the chute they had been attempting to unblock.

The old mill still stands, dark and forbidding and the legend of five deaths grows.