Black Ghosts

The well seemed to stretch on forever.

As he stared down into the depths of the earth, Honeycrisp couldn't help but shiver, even in the heat of the western midday.  "Alright. Get that bit moving down there. We're close. I feel it."

Surrounding workers hustled about, operating various machines in a fashion intelligible to all but them. Soon enough, the metal rod began spinning - lazily at first, then more quickly as time went on. The black well beneath was filled with the sounds of metal grinding on rock.

Honeycrisp took a step back, then two. He hadn't truly taken in just how marvelous the Derrick Machine was. It was a variable empire of small bits of machinery, perilously held together by a wooden frame that stretched fifty feet into the sky. And all this for that one thing, the thing that would make Appleton's fortune. The thing that had been until recently disregarded as a mere annoyance.

The black sludge naturally seeped throughout the town and its surroundings - thick, oozing, reeking of sulfur. Who would have thought that the stuff would be of any serious value?

The chemists back east said it could be used for big things. Transformative things. They were right.