My Bloody Valentine (1981)

The Road to Valentine Bluffs

The old highway into Valentine Bluffs is poorly lit at the best of times. Tonight, with a thick fog rolling down from the mining hills, it feels like driving into a void. Your headlights catch the faded welcome sign: “Valentine Bluffs – A Town with Heart.” Someone has spray-painted over ‘Heart’ so it now reads ‘A Town with Hate.’

You’re almost into town when a shape stumbles into the road. You swerve, tires skidding on wet gravel, and come to a stop in the ditch. Heart pounding, you step out. There’s no one there. Just fog... and the distant, rhythmic thud of machinery from the direction of the old Bethany Mine.

That’s when you see it—imprinted in the mud where the figure should have been—is a single, deep mark. Not a footprint. The distinct, sharp imprint of a pickaxe head, driven into the earth.

The fog shifts. Twenty yards ahead, under a shattered streetlamp, a tall figure stands perfectly still. Head to toe in black mining gear. A rusted gas mask turns slowly toward you. In his grip, the very pickaxe that matches the mud-print.

He doesn’t advance. He simply raises his free hand and points—past you, back the way you came. Leave. The message is clear.

Then he points forward, toward the faint glow of the town’s Valentine’s festival. Or go to the party.

Finally, he taps the pickaxe against his own chest, and points into the dense fog toward the deep, dark silhouette of the mine. Or come with me.

The choice is yours. But the fog is closing in, and he is waiting.

The Last Train Stop

The train to Valentine Bluffs doesn’t run often anymore. You’re the only one who gets off at the deserted platform late on February 13th. The stationmaster’s booth is dark, a “CLOSED” sign swinging in the cold wind. The town brochure promised a “charming Valentine’s welcome,” but all you see are boarded-up windows and a single, flickering neon heart above a diner across the street.

You’re searching for a taxi that isn’t there when you hear it—a low, grinding vibration coming up through the platform boards. The station’s single bulb explodes in a shower of glass.

From the unlit mouth of the old freight tunnel at the end of the platform, a yellow light appears. Not electric. The wavering glow of a miner’s lamp, fixed to a helmet.

Scrape... thud... scrape... thud...

He steps into the dim light. A monument of worn black canvas and leather, soaked in the smell of coal and damp earth. His gas mask is streaked with dried mud, the lenses reflecting nothing. The pickaxe in his hand isn’t clean—it’s stained a dark, flaky brown.

He stops at the edge of the platform, looking down at you from his full height. Slowly, he reaches into his coat and pulls out an object. He tosses it at your feet. It’s an old, dented lunch pail, the kind miners used. It lands with a heavy, metallic clang.

Inside, when you open it, is not food. It’s filled with wet, black coal, and nestled on top is a crushed, blood-stained Valentine’s card.

He points to the card, then to the festive—but empty—town square. Then he points to the coal, and back to the dark freight tunnel he came from.

He tilts his head, waiting. Will you take the hint and leave this cursed town? Or will you pick up the pail and follow him into the tunnel, to learn what the coal—and the card—really mean?

The Archive of Secrets

You’re in the Valentine Bluffs Historical Society archives after hours, thanks to a sympathetic curator. You’re researching the Bethany Mine collapse for a university paper. The air is thick with the smell of old paper and dust.

In a box marked “1961 – ACCIDENT”, you find a faded photograph. It shows five miners, smiling, arms around each other. Written on the back in shaky cursive: “Harry, Joe, Ben, Carl, Mike. Last shift before Valentine’s.”

Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummets. Your breath fogs. The photograph in your hand crystallizes with frost, the faces of the miners blurring behind ice.

From the dark aisle between tall shelves, a new smell cuts through the dust: wet soil and cold iron.

A heavy, gloved hand reaches out from the shadows and rests on the edge of your table. The leather is cracked, stained with ground-in dirt. You look up.

He’s there, leaning over the aisle, his rusted gas mask just inches from your face. The red pinpricks in the lenses seem to look at the photo, then at you. He makes a low, wet sound in his chest—not a growl, but a shudder of recognition or pain.

With one black-nailed finger, he points to the name ‘Harry’ on the back of the photo. Then he taps his own chest.

He sweeps the other photographs off the table with a crash. From his belt, he pulls a heavy chunk of black coal. He places it on the table where the photos were, then lays his pickaxe down beside it, the blade pointing directly at you.

He leans back, crosses his arms, and waits. The message is a riddle in three parts: The photo (the past), the coal (the truth), and the pickaxe (the consequence).

Will you ask about the photo? Will you touch the coal? Or will you try to run, past him and into the dark, maze-like archives?

The Closed Mine Tour

You signed up for the "Historical Bethany Mine Tour" on Valentine's Eve, but you're the only one who showed up. The guide, an old miner named Frank, seems nervous. "Folks 'round here got superstitions 'bout this night," he mutters as he unlocks the rusted gate.

The tunnel is cold, lit by sparse, flickering work lights. Frank tells the story of the collapse, his voice echoing. "Harry Warden was the only one they pulled out alive. But he wasn't... right." He stops at a memorial plaque deep underground.

That's when the power fails. Total darkness. From somewhere ahead, a new sound echoes: Drag... thud... drag... thud... Frank's flashlight clicks on, shaking. "Oh God. He's early."

The beam catches a figure standing before the memorial plaque. Black mining gear. Gas mask. Pickaxe in hand. Frank drops the light and runs back toward the entrance, leaving you in near-darkness.

Harry steps on the flashlight, crushing it. The last light comes from his own helmet lamp, casting sharp shadows. He points his pickaxe at the plaque with the victims' names, then at you. Then he gestures deeper into the mine, where the tunnel narrows into absolute blackness.

Frank's screams suddenly cut off with a wet, final sound from the direction of the exit. The tunnel behind you is now silent. The only way forward is toward Harry... or deeper into the mine he's blocking.

The Valentine's Eve Party Crasher

The Valentine's Eve party at the old community center is in full swing. You're with friends, drinking punch when the mayor makes a toast: "To forgetting the past and looking to the future!"

Suddenly, the main doors burst open not from force, but from decay—the wood rots and crumbles in seconds. A freezing wind sweeps in, extinguishing candles and dropping the temperature.

He stands in the doorway. Not dramatic, just... present. Coal dust billows around his boots. The music dies as the speakers blow out in a shower of sparks.

People scream, backing away. He walks forward, his pickaxe dragging a deep groove in the wooden floor. He stops in the center of the dance floor, right under a spinning heart decoration.

With terrifying precision, he swings his pickaxe—not at a person, but at the floorboards. They splinter, revealing not subfloor, but black, empty mine shaft beneath the building. The party was literally built over the old tunnels.

He looks around at the terrified crowd, then his mask fixes on you. He points to the hole, then to you. He reaches into his coat and throws something at your feet. It's a miner's helmet. Then he points down into the darkness.

Everyone is watching you. The exit is clear—you could run. Or you could pick up the helmet and see what's really under this town.

The Descent into Level 5

The elevator cage hit the bottom of the shaft with a bone-jarring rattle, the rusted iron doors jammed shut by years of neglect. You are trapped in Level 5, the deepest, most forgotten vein of the Hanniger Mine. The air here is heavy and thick, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of iron and the suffocating scent of coal dust that has settled over decades. A single, flickering light bulb hangs from a frayed wire overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely cuts through the oppressive, ink-black darkness of the tunnels. From the shadows of the main drift, a rhythmic, mechanical sound begins to echo—a low, wet hiss-purr... hiss-purr.... It is the unmistakable sound of an MSA Chemox rebreather recycling the thin oxygen. Then, he appears. Emerging from the gloom with a slow, predatory stride, The Miner looms over you. His dark, grime-encrusted coveralls are slick with mine water, and his face is hidden behind the terrifying, insect-like glass goggles of his gas mask. The beam from his helmet’s headlamp sweeps across the cavern walls before landing directly on your eyes, blinding you for a split second. He doesn't utter a word; he is a silent, industrial nightmare. With a terrifyingly deliberate motion, he shifts his weight, the rusted head of his pickaxe scraping against the stone floor with a screeching metallic ring before he levels the sharp point at your throat. He tilts his head, the glass of his mask reflecting your terrified expression, and he gestures with the heavy tool toward the dark, narrow tunnels behind him. He isn't just hunting you—he is herding you into the abyss.

THE FORBIDDEN DANCE

The town of Valentine Bluffs is glowing with red heart-shaped lights and kitschy decorations, but here in the Hanniger Mine Canteen, the atmosphere is suffocating. You and a group of friends decided to ignore the Mayor’s warnings and hold your own secret Valentine's dance deep within the mining complex. The music from a battery-powered radio echoes off the cold, industrial walls—a cheerful tune that feels wrong in such a dark place. Suddenly, the music cuts to static. The heavy steel door at the end of the canteen screeches open. Standing in the frame is the silhouette of a man in soot-covered mining gear, his MSA Chemox rebreather hissing with every ragged breath. He isn't holding a box of chocolates; he’s holding a blood-stained pickaxe. The Miner doesn't scream or run. He walks with a slow, mechanical gait, his heavy boots thudding against the concrete floor like a funeral drum. He stops in front of a table covered in red lace and paper hearts, tilting his glass-eyed mask to look at the "Valentine's Queen" banner hanging from the ceiling. With a violent, silent swing, his pickaxe tears through the table, shattering the punch bowl and sending red liquid—too thick to be juice—spraying across the floor. He turns his headlamp toward you, the blinding white light pinning you in place. You've broken the rule. You brought the dance back to his mine. And now, he’s going to make sure this is your last Valentine's Day.

THE URBAN EXPLORER

The legend of Harry Warden was supposed to be just that—a legend. A story told by locals in Valentine Bluffs to keep kids away from the rusted gates of the Hanniger Mine. But standing here at the mouth of the tunnel, with your flashlight beam cutting through the thick, stagnant air, it feels all too real. You’ve made it past the "No Trespassing" signs, your footsteps crunching on the gravel as you descend into the gloom. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic dripping of water... until you hear it. Hiss-purr... hiss-purr... It’s a mechanical, wet sound, like a respirator struggling in the dark. You freeze, sweeping your light toward the sound, only for the beam to reflect off two cold, glass circles deep in the tunnel. It’s him. The Miner. He’s standing perfectly still, his MSA Chemox gear stained with decades of grime and something darker—something wet. In his hand, the rusted head of a pickaxe scrapes against the floor, a sound that vibrates through your very bones. He doesn't run. He just stares at you through those goggles, a silent guardian of the grave he was buried in. You realize too late: he wasn't waiting to be found. "...He was waiting for a reason to start the killing again. The heavy, rhythmic hiss of his respirator is the only thing filling the silence as he takes a slow, deliberate step out of the shadows, the rusted pickaxe held white-knuckle tight in his grip."

The Union Hall Massacre (1981)

The air in the Valentine Bluffs Union Hall is thick with the smell of cheap perfume, stale beer, and the sweet, cloying scent of heart-shaped sugar cookies. It was supposed to be the town's big "fuck you" to the past—the first Valentine's Day dance in twenty years. The music is loud, a jagged 80s synth track that vibrates through the floorboards, but as you step away from the crowd into the dimly lit basement to find more ice, the festive noise begins to muffle, replaced by a heavy, industrial silence. You reach the bottom of the stairs, your hand fumbling for the light switch, only to find the cord has been cleanly severed. The only light comes from the red "Exit" sign, casting a bloody glow across the rows of stacked folding chairs. That's when you see it—a large, industrial laundry vat in the corner is overflowing with hot, white steam, but the scent coming from it isn't soap. It’s copper. It's blood. Hiss-thump... hiss-thump... The sound is rhythmic and mechanical, echoing perfectly in time with your own racing heart. From behind a rack of heavy coats, a hulking silhouette emerges. The red light glints off the twin glass lenses of an MSA Chemox respirator and the polished, lethal curve of a rusted pickaxe. He isn't running; he’s just standing there, blocking the only exit, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. He's been waiting twenty years for this dance, and "...he’s finally found his first partner. The red 'Exit' sign glints off the rusted edge of his pickaxe as he takes a heavy, metallic step toward you, the hiss of his respirator drowning out the muffled music from above."

The Last Heartbeat (Level 5 Deep)

The elevator cage didn't just stop; it died with a grinding, metallic shriek that left you suspended in the absolute blackness of the lowest shaft. Level 5. The air down here is heavy, tasting of ancient coal dust and a copper tang that makes your skin crawl. Your flashlight is dying, the beam flickering into a dim, sickly yellow that barely cuts through the gloom of the tunnel. You’re the last one left—the dance at the Union Hall is over, and all that remains of your friends are the blood-stained candy boxes scattered like breadcrumbs leading deeper into the mountain. The silence of the mine is a physical weight, pressing against your eardrums until you can hear the frantic thud of your own pulse. Then, the silence is broken by a sound that has haunted Valentine Bluffs for twenty years. Hiss-thump... hiss-thump... It’s coming from the darkness behind the rusted ventilation fan. A hulking shadow detaches itself from the jagged rock wall, the red "MSA" logo on the chest-mounted regulator box catching your fading light. Harry Warden doesn't rush to end it; he moves with the methodical, heavy grace of a predator who knows there is nowhere left for the prey to run. He drags the head of his pickaxe against the iron tracks of the ore cart, a rhythmic screech that sparks against the floor. He isn't just a man in a suit anymore—he is the vengeful spirit of 1960 made flesh and rubber. The exit is gone. The light is dying. "...And the Miner has finally come home. He drags the rusted point of his pickaxe along the iron ore-cart tracks, sending a screeching shower of sparks into the dying light of your flashlight."