They said the Brinkholt Kettles were caused when a couple of old mineshafts collapsed after hitting an underground river. Now its left five pitch black ponds that are either full of dead miners or gigantic man-eating eels depending on who you ask.
I've seen a thing or two in my visits there and back, nothing too drastic but nothing that can be explained. Most folks around here have a tale or so to tell and some have little souvenirs they'll bring out if theuve had one cider too many.
My experiences were mostly benevolent, only one person died which is a damn sight better than most outcomes. Better still, I hardly knew the fellow so I didn't get any unwanted knocking on my door and awkward questions.
Not to sound heartless, mind you, but I did give him a fair warning about the kettles and he chose to try his luck and mine by fishing there after dark. No local in their right mind would do that normally but I'd been paid well enough in booze to ease my concerns.
We should have left when the water started to churn and boil and speak to us in dead men's cries for help but we couldn't find it in ourselves to move. Somehow I think that would have made things worse.
After a while of hearing these poor souls screaming and crying out their heads started to rise up from the depths, blood-slick and water-bloated and all facing us. The boat felt absolutely pitiful against all of them.
I don't know who started swaying first but I do know that the fellow with me, the new-in-town one had this genius idea to begin with, was still and silent as a rock. Probably why they went for him.
All I can say for certain is that I went home alone and his house was emptied a few weeks later. There wasn't a funeral here for him, not officially anyway, but we all had a silent pint in his honour and poured one into the kettles to appease his poor soul.
I've seen a thing or two in my visits there and back, nothing too drastic but nothing that can be explained. Most folks around here have a tale or so to tell and some have little souvenirs they'll bring out if theuve had one cider too many.
My experiences were mostly benevolent, only one person died which is a damn sight better than most outcomes. Better still, I hardly knew the fellow so I didn't get any unwanted knocking on my door and awkward questions.
Not to sound heartless, mind you, but I did give him a fair warning about the kettles and he chose to try his luck and mine by fishing there after dark. No local in their right mind would do that normally but I'd been paid well enough in booze to ease my concerns.
We should have left when the water started to churn and boil and speak to us in dead men's cries for help but we couldn't find it in ourselves to move. Somehow I think that would have made things worse.
After a while of hearing these poor souls screaming and crying out their heads started to rise up from the depths, blood-slick and water-bloated and all facing us. The boat felt absolutely pitiful against all of them.
I don't know who started swaying first but I do know that the fellow with me, the new-in-town one had this genius idea to begin with, was still and silent as a rock. Probably why they went for him.
All I can say for certain is that I went home alone and his house was emptied a few weeks later. There wasn't a funeral here for him, not officially anyway, but we all had a silent pint in his honour and poured one into the kettles to appease his poor soul.
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