Ghosts in the Fault: Angels on a Mission

By Earl Fashbaugh

The underground iron mines of Wisconsin and Michigan's Upper Peninsula were some of the richest deposits in the world. Axel and his younger friend, Jerry, worked in the Montreal mine where they forged a strong friendship. With hesitation, Axel shared a secret with Jerry--the mine was "haunted." Soon they were caught up in a spiritual battle that raged thousands of feet below the surface and emerged in the town of Ironwood, Michigan and the sprawling city of Dallas, Texas. The miners and spiritual beings, Mike and Gabby, would become entangled in circumstances that would involve a gangster, an American president, and a sinister plan to destroy the most valuable resource that remained on the south side of a geologic fault. Were these truly spiritual beings who knew something about the future? Could good come out of obvious evil, prosperity out of deception, spiritual awareness out of despair? Were they tormenting ghosts or angels on a mission? The battle continues to this day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885402996

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Ghosts in the Fault

Angels on a Mission

Earl Fashbaugh

ISBN 979-8-88540-298-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-299-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Earl Fashbaugh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Truth

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Ben and Beth

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgements

About the Author

To my brother, E. Jack Fashbaugh, who passed away before this book was published. Thank you for all you did. Until we meet again, we rejoice in your new life. Along with him, this book is dedicated to other cancer victims and survivors.

Prologue

The Montreal River is a geographical boundary between Ironwood, Michigan (Upper Peninsula), and Hurley, Wisconsin. Immigrants came from Europe to work in the underground iron mine, which lies thousands of feet beneath their company homes. The shoestring-shaped deposit extends forty miles east and west of the Montreal River. One of the mines and a small town are named after the river—Montreal, Wisconsin.

The mine is haunted, some say, even though it has not produced ore for over sixty years. It could have been converted to a gold mine, partially owned by a Chicago mafia. Yet the gold was nothing in value compared to a resource that would drive society in the twenty-first century. Many miners involved in the mine resigned during the eighty years of operation. They punched their time cards and just left the area without explanation. The suicide rate and incidents of alcoholism and drug abuse ran high, as did the rate of accidental deaths. Two miners—Axel and Jerry, although separated by a generation, found the secret of the mine. It was a dark secret hidden between two spiritual realms.

Are there actually ghosts to be blamed? More importantly, is there a spiritual world that battles beneath the surface and spills out onto the hardwood forests and penetrates the floorboards of miner's homes, businesses, and the people who simply want to raise their families in this aging community? Their story is one of long suffering and joy, torment and peace, and ambition and hopelessness. Are there ghosts in the fault that defines the iron deposit, or are there angels on a mission?

Chapter 1

November 21, 1963—Montreal, Wisconsin

A large lift wheezed from corrosion as another crew of miners arrived at the surface. A massive spool reeled in the two-inch cable while the elevator car entered a shed constructed of galvanized sheet metal. A more refreshed crew entered the elevator from the opposite side. They were the night shift and would not see daylight until the sun rose over this small village in Northern Wisconsin. The day shift would experience little day light either. In late November, the days were getting painfully short. Some of the off-duty workers used an air hose to blow the red ore dust from their clothing while others just trudged off to their vehicles. A few of the miners elected to enter the main changing room and merely hung up their soiled work clothes. Those that went straight to their vehicles, sat on old blankets, lamely trying to protect worn upholstery in their severely rusted trucks. Many of the vehicles had deteriorated beyond repair and bore a mottled reddish-brown hue, the identical color of hematite ore they extracted. The Montreal mine continued to be the lifeblood of the community that lived, literally on top of a deposit, now being mined over five thousand feet below the surface.

Axel Jensen waddled to the punch clock, thinking about the last day he would torture his 65-year-old body in this tiring job. He was the only child of Swedish immigrants who sought a better life in America. It was getting more difficult for him to hoist a drill that would bore the blast holes and advance the mining shafts. Several decades of mining changed a person, physically and emotionally. His muscular frame became smaller with time. So was his life shrinking, rarely venturing outside of a twenty-mile radius. All he needed was in Montreal and Hurley, Wisconsin, and bordering Ironwood, Michigan.

Life was consistent and cyclic, the way he liked it. He would tap a few maple trees on his forty-eight-acre tract of land in March. His Milwaukee Braves would start playing baseball in April, before the snow all melted. Opening fishing started in May, so he would prepare his boat whether he went out or not. Garage sales started in June for which he would attend but never buy anything because he needed nothing. And then the short summer would be enjoyed on his front porch with the two rocking chairs, one empty. Autumn would bring an abundance of apples to a small orchard, where he long ago built a series of rock fences between rows of sagging trees. It was hard for him to walk on the top of the two-foot-wide walls, but he managed with great care to pick several bushels, only to give them away. In the late fall, he would repair the rock wall, knowing with great certainty that a hard frost would cause more repairs in the spring. He was happy and melancholy at the same time but took several aspirins to subdue nagging arthritis in his back and hands.

The proclivity of work disseminated any ambition to be anywhere else, to the extent that vacation time upset his routine. In all this, Axel was bored with the work but somewhat frightened of retirement. He did not have glorious World War II stories to trade with the other workers because his work was considered essential by the armed services and he was one of the few that stayed and worked the mine, along with the women. Someone had to lift the drill and Axel could easily do so with one arm during the war. Arthritis is a bitch, he thought to himself, as he briskly ran the air hose up and down his coveralls.

When asked by virtually everyone, why he still worked, Axel would simply say, I have my reasons.

Axel, come on down to the Silver Dollar and have a beer with us! the young miner shouted across the pitted, blacktop parking lot.

No, I don't think so, Axel quickly responded.

Why not? the young miner demanded.

Well, it's six o'clock in the morning, for starters. You got a pretty young thing waiting for you at home. You ought to be spending time there, Jerry.

Well, I will get home after a single beer and you could have some breakfast there, you know. They started serving bacon and eggs and coffee, all for a buck.

That a fact? I did not know that.

Jerry quickly opened the door to his two-door Plymouth. So we'll see you there?

He was hungry so conceded. All right, I'll meet you there. Axel returned a genuine but subtle smile.

It was an unlikely friendship between Jerry and Axel. Despite their generational differences, they respected each other. Jerry never got tired of Axel's mining stories and Axel enjoyed the exuberance of the twenty-one-year-old. To Axel, Jerry was something like a surrogate son who replaced his own boy that drowned in the Montreal River while Steelhead fishing.

Jerry Lattinen started working at the mine three years ago. He thought about going to college, but the lure of making a good wage, and being able to buy a new car, put those thoughts to rest. There was always next year or maybe not at all. For now, it was good enough to run around with his wife of seven months and enjoy the nearby ski slopes in the winter when there was more snow than most people cared to endure. The town of Hurley was his home, his parents' home, and his grandparents' home. Like many families, they immigrated from Finland with word of iron mining in a place called Wisconsin. He leaned into the pedal and ravished the throaty roar of the 283 under the hood of his '57 Plymouth Belvedere. Eventually, he would have to fix the rusted muffler, but for now, he enjoyed a little more intimacy with the sound of the car.

In the same motion as cranking the wheel toward Hurley, he turned up the radio which was playing the Beetles' Please, Please Me. Little could be better and a beer in the morning would feel good after a night's work. The matter of sleep would come later, after his wife got up and made coffee. Jerry sang off-key as he cranked up the radio.

Axel tailed behind in his '54 pickup and took note of the subtle daylight. He regretted that the leaves were nearly all down now, save for a few oaks. Winter was getting more difficult, and his arthritis reminded him of it as he scaled a narrow stairway to his bedroom at night—a very lonesome bedroom with grim reminders of his wife's passing a year earlier. Axel could still hear her play the violin and would sometimes wake up, visualizing her swaying to the music. The barren trees would always remind him of the day a backhoe dug a hole in the ground to bury his wife of thirty years. He slowed as he passed the cemetery and then drove over the very river that took their son's life. Maybe death will not be so bad, he thought to himself.

But for now, it was enjoyable to have a young friend like Jerry. He was kind of like the younger pup that kept an older dog more active. They always talked about doing bigger things, maybe buying a hardware store or reopening the Ironwood sawmill. They even talked about making a new ski area and calling it Big Powderhorn. They made fun of each other in a manner that only good friends could. Axel touched his brakes lightly as he saw the town cop car in it's usual place. It was too late for Jerry to do the same and the Plymouth veered into the gravel parking lot of the town bowling alley. Sergeant Snyder turned on his spotlight, as if his single, flashing red light were not enough, and pulled briskly behind Jerry.

When will that kid learn, Axel muttered. Then he laughed because it would make good conversational fodder and go well with the breakfast. He just smiled politely as he slowly passed the town cop who already had his tablet out and was writing his third ticket of the morning. Jerry let a small smile creep onto his face as Axel passed, knowing that this event would be mentioned several times in the next hour, week, and months. Axel's humor would make the ticket a little less painful, but the $26 fine would not be humorous to Jerry's pregnant wife, Elizabeth.

Axel arrived well ahead of Jerry and parked on the street, nearly in front of the Hardware store, located on Silver Street. Even though there was parking immediately in front of the Silver Dollar Bar, he did not want there to be an illusion that he was soliciting the shady business. At night, a couple of local strippers would be on the stage, but they had gone home a few hours ago and the place looked remarkably normal, like any small-town diner. Still the stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. The bar had an ancient buck head mounted on one wall, with a yellowed cigarette wedged between its teeth. A bikini top hung from one tine of the antlers, a trophy of sort, adorning another trophy of another matter. The eyes appeared glazed from dust and smoke. Several workers had already arrived after their shift and were hoisting bottles of Leinenkugel's. Axel nodded a polite greeting and sat at the bar and grabbed a worn menu from the salt and pepper shaker holder. The handwritten note confirmed $1 breakfast, Two eggs, any way you want 'em. The owner thought it would be original to position an image of two sunny-side-up eggs over a hand-drawn sketch of a stripper, appearing like two large breasts. A manager came by with a plain, white mug and set it firmly in front of Axel and raised his eyebrows, asking without saying if he would want coffee. Yes, Axel simply replied.

Jerry arrived and sat down as Axel looked straight ahead with a wry smile on his face. All right, Jerry said, let's hear it. Axel exploded with laughter and slapped his deformed hand on the bar, ignoring the pain.

So you had a little conversation with Barney Fife, this morning, did you?

Axel's reference to the town cop as a character from The Andy Griffith Show was about as original as the breakfast menu, but it launched a beaming smile from Jerry, who up to this point was furious about the speeding ticket. I warned you about that stretch of Highway 77, more than few times, Axel said with a broad grin. Yeah, I know, but Snyder could look for other ways to occupy his time, Jerry said, in his lame defense.

Axel was quick to remind him that there was precious little else for him to do and then started in on how busy the cops were in the twenties. Do you see that hole up on the right-hand corner of the mirror, Axel said.

You mean by the clock? Yeah, I see it. I suppose you have a story about that too.

Well, Axel said, as a matter of fact, that hole was put there in 1931 by Ralph Capone as he discharged his .38. Jerry raised a suspicious eyebrow, thinking that this was another one of Axel's jokes.

You mean Al Capone, don't you? Jerry queried.

No, Ralph, Al's brother, who was a beverage distributor in this area—all over, for that matter.

So you knew Al Capone's brother? Is that what you are saying?

Sure did, Axel responded. He was an arrogant son of a bitch, kind of like his brother, but a pretty nice guy—when he was sober. He was the number one bootlegger out of Chicago. Anyway, one night, in Mercer when I was talking to him at the bar, he pulled out a .38 and pointed it at a bottle on the shelf and shot. The cops came and asked to talk to Ralph outside and then gave him back his gun, telling him to go home and sleep it off.

Jerry was doubtful of the story and was going to pose a couple challenging questions when the manager came over and greeted them and asked Jerry what he would like.

You know, I think I'll have the breakfast special, Jerry said, Over easy.

Got it, the manager shot back. He looked at Axel and inquired, Did you tell him about the bullet hole?

Axel was a little embarrassed as he was not aware that the manager saw him pointing to the bullet hole.

Yep, Axel, responded.

Did either of you meet Al Capone, Jerry asked as he looked between the two men at the hole near a large mirror.

Bob used to go hunting with the Capones. Didn't you, Bob?

Bob convulsed with a raspy laugh. You went one time, too, didn't you?

It was clear from his demeanor that manager Bob had a few stories of his own. The late nights at the Silver Dollar and six-pack days were clearly evident from a major belly overhang. He may have worn a belt, but no one could tell from the front where his suspenders disappeared under a large lobe. He looked to be the same age as Axel but was at least fifteen years younger.

The bartender straightened a little and confessed that they went out quite a few times. We always got our deer. In fact, we sometimes got our deer with fifty bullets from a Tommy Gun. They all laughed. Then Bob pointed to the buck mounted on the wall and declared, We did not get much meat off that poor guy. Bob wheezed and led the other two in sadistic laughter over the thought of the deer taking several bullets before collapsing in a heap of bloody flesh.

As Bob walked away Jerry leaned toward Axel and asked, You have a lot of stories but are they all true?

Axel displayed his usual coy smile. Well, they are sometimes a little embellished. I did not really go hunting with both Capones. I met Al Capone and talked briefly, but only really knew Ralph. We shot a few rounds off at the old golf course, near Mercer. But the bullet hole is for real and there are many other secrets in the mine.

Jerry studied Axel's pale face, trying to see if the telltale smile would appear. This was not really a mine story as far as Jerry was concerned. The problem with your story is that this is not Mercer. This is Hurley. So maybe you got your towns mixed up a little or you got your story mixed up because you were too drunk to remember. Besides, it does not look like the bullet hole, as you call it, goes through the wall behind the oak trim.

Axel paused, as if he were contemplating a rebuttal.

You see, smarty-pants, this bar frame, along with the inset mirror, was moved from Mercer to this location before Billy's bar was torn down by the FBI. They allowed the low bidder to take the old oak bar and frame around the mirror.

The answer seemed to bear some credence as many of the Capone businesses were repossessed by the FBI after federal convictions dealing with tax evasion. Jerry settled back a little on the bar stool.

Tell me more.

Axel hesitated, as if he had reservations about sharing anymore accounts with Jerry. You would probably not believe me if I told you one of the mine secrets.

Once again, Jerry surmised that this was not a mine story but decided to ignore the issue.

Try me, Jerry demanded quickly.

Axel looked to confirm that Bob was outside of hearing range. There was a long pause as Axel thought about the mistake he made about secrets of the mine. One way out of the conversation would be to tell him a secret that was less meaningful like his finding a rare sphalerite sample in one of the mine fractures. But the fact was that Axel wanted to share this high-level secret with a trusted friend, someone who would not call him delusional or tell others who would slander them both. He looked straight ahead and said, The mine is haunted.

There was a long moment of silence. As soon as Axel divulged his secret, he regretted his announcement.

Jerry queried, You mean there are ghosts in the mine?

Well, I do not know what you call them. They could be spirits of sorts or ghosts, but they are there on the thirty-first level, prob'ly other places too.

You really are serious, aren't you?

Axel continued eating and finished the undercooked eggs, sopping up the yoke with his burned toast. He took a swig of the cold coffee and declared, I better get home, now, grabbing his breakfast bill and slamming five quarters on the counter. Let's see if we can arrange permission for you to meet me on the thirty-first level at ten thirty tomorrow morning. I am too tired to work out all the details right now, but I think we could swing it.

Jerry looked at the bullet hole and thought about Axel's secret and reminded himself, He would not say something like that unless he really believed it. He watched Axel nod farewell to Bob and then turn his head back one more time as if he were going to say something but just sent a parting smile and a quick wink, the way he always did.

Jerry decided to have coffee and a stale roll instead of a beer while he gazed again into the bullet hole, as if there were some truth oozing from it or a mysterious cave extending to the truth about Axel and his story. Maybe all his stories were bullshit, Jerry said out loud. Bob saw him and laughed with a short snort, lending further doubt about the ghost he would meet on the thirty-first level tomorrow. That is just about the deepest level in the mine at 4,800 feet below the road that Snyder ticketed Jerry and others. After a lengthy yawn, Jerry rolled his quarter tip on the bar and added fifty cents to cover the coffee. It was time to go home and have more coffee with Liz and then try to sleep.

There were few patrons left in the bar. Bob was gathering dishes and cleaning up—as much as Bob ever cleaned up. To the right of Jerry was an American Indian, Jerry guessed in his late sixties, obviously in an alcoholic stupor. His left arm was missing below the elbow, so his flannel shirt was cut off and sewn below his stub. It appeared that he had to be shown the door on a regular basis. He slowly turned his head and looked up at Jerry as he was getting ready to leave, and said, Take it easy.

He was from the Chippewa Nation and was a regular in the town, known as Happy. The town folks were kind to him as he always seemed to have a smile and was willing to do chores for a sandwich or a cup of coffee. The kids were sometimes mean to him, mocking his slumped over walk and single arm but they did not mock his speech. It was clear that he was an intelligent man who could talk about current events that he wrought from the local paper and from an occasional, but unwelcomed visit to the local library. Happy's favorite subject was the civil rights movement and