A phantom light at the end of a tunnel

SOME years ago, aged 21, I was working as a collier in the local coal mine. On a Monday morning, with two other colliers, Charlie Willis and Jonny Shears, I collected a lamp and went down the pit to start a day’s work at the coal face. We waited about half an hour for the other colliers to turn up. When no one came, we walked to the main heading where there was a phone. On the way, Charlie suddenly said he could see a light about 30 yards away. We shouted ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no reply. We walked towards the light, but it kept the same distance ahead of us. We thought someone must be playing a joke on us. We started walking back to the phone and saw the light was at the entrance to the coal face. Being very fit, I said I would catch whoever was playing about. I ran as fast as I could, following the light ahead of me. I ran the full length of the coal face, around 150 yards, but could not make any headway. Returning to my workmates, I said I’d failed to catch whoever it was, and suddenly realised the light was facing me all the time. When I told the other two, they became agitated. I asked several times what was wrong, and finally — without explaining why — they told me not to tell anyone in the pit canteen what we’d seen. We phoned the pit bottom and were told the colliery was on strike that day and we were the only three who had collected our lamps. The following day, I was back in work and was surprised that Jonny and Charlie were not there. I’d already handed in my notice and was to start a new job on the Saturday. At the end of my final shift in the mine, I invited my workmates to share out my tools. I was told a few weeks later that the man who had taken over my stint had been killed by a roof fall. I later learned that seeing a light underground was a sign that someone was going to die. You would think that was the end of the matter, but my identical twin brother came home from doing his National Service in the Parachute Regiment and told me of a strange experience he’d had. He’d dreamed he was falling through the air and his parachute had failed to open. It was so real that he’d woken up on the floor of the barracks. I asked when this had happened, and he said at about 6.30am on a Monday — the same day and time as I’d witnessed the light. When a parachute fails to open, it is called a Roman candle. Could there be a connection with my light?

Eric Hughes, Bridgend, Glamorgan.