There is a place not far from my own town that is the last dying remnant of a mining town nestled in one of the most desolate, polluted, unsettling places in the world- this place is called Picher. Don’t believe me? Google it. The place is dominated by chat piles- mountains of grey gravel and dirt that stretch up hundreds of feet, collapsed mines and sink holes, abandoned and destroyed roads and buildings. The place is an absolute post apocalyptic wasteland, other than the few people who still refuse to give up their claim of land on the borderlands of hell. And there are even less of those now, since a tornado swept through and demolished half the town a few years ago. Once again, google.
But strangest of all, there is a cult out there that hides in the chat piles and forgotten mines.
In and around Picher, things have a funny habit of going missing- pets, livestock, and even drifters. And they don’t usually show back up. Where do they wind up, you might ask? At the bottoms of water filled mines, stretching down hundreds of feet into the earth, disposed of by these people, is the most common answer. Most of the locals just call them a “Satanic cult,” but then, I know that there are a lot more things out there to worship and give tribute to than just old Scratch, who who knows. It isn’t even a scoffed at as some urban legend- the locals know that they’re out there just as surely as they know anything, and they don’t keep guns loaded by the bed for ghost stories. It isn’t ever a wise idea to go exploring the chat piles and abandoned stretches of waste at night, because the people I have met over the years that had encounters all claim that these people mean business, not hesitating to chase after or taking shots at whoever might have had the nerve to interrupt their rites. Sometimes, though, if you investigate during the day, you will come across the remains of whatever it was they did the night before. Fire pits, stone circles, dead animals, an occasionally a bit of jewelry or some other little oddity. I saw three of them once when they attempted a road trap on myself and some friends on a dirt road, but it has been much more often that I have come across those cold traces at one time or another out there exploring. A burned log here, a hollowed out dog there, and once even a ring, which upon consideration, I left right where I had found it. One thing always stood out though, stranger than the rest, that I saw.
I had seen a vertical shape in the distance, though obviously not a tree, and decided to investigate it. And the closer I got, the more and more unnerved I became at the steady realization of what it was. A wooden cross, planted in the ground, every bit of seven feet high. And there was something on it.
From the distance I thought it was actually a person on there, and that had my adrenaline racing, ready to turn and race back to my car if that was the truth of it or if I so much as heard a twig snap. But the closer I got, I realized that it was something else, some sort of animal. It was a goat.
But let me explain. It’s front legs had been cut and broken so that they could form a T, like a human, and it’s ankles had been nailed into the wood. As had the ankles of the back legs, crossed over each other. A true crucifixion. The topper, though, was the head. A crown of rose bush thorns had been wrapped around the things head, it’s horns jutting up through the center, which in a way made me think of the cartoon devil using it’s horns to hold up the halo. It’s eyes had been gouged out. And there was a silver dollar shoved in it’s mouth, keeping it propped open in a silent scream.
I turned and left, walking at a brisk pace to say the least, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of people hiding in the trees or chat piles, my hand close to the pistol under my coat. I did hear some rocks go sliding at one point, but saw no one, and made it to my car unharassed and proceeded to haul *** out of that place.
There are reasons you don’t go out in Picher at night, or if you’re smart, not at all.
