When more people started to appear, tightly bundled in their skinny coats and scarves, he knew he was headed in the right direction. The sounds of music drew him toward the apparently late-night shopping district. For the first time since leaving Paris he was in his element, as Edmund had been a heavy drinker in high school and the year following it.
The street was lined with clubs and pubs, ritzy to questionable. A barrage of neon lights and smoke-filled entryways drew his attention to several places at once. He ignored all of this after spotting what looked like a gas station at the end of the club street.
Inside, he found one attendant, a middle-aged woman who didn’t even see him enter but instead remained glued to a black-and-white television program behind the counter. He was about to formulate a way to ask for a charger, but decided against it for the moment and went to shop for snacks since his supply from earlier was almost gone.
Edmund took anything that looked crispy—chips, dried apples and peaches, even some kind of Japanese import that had a cartoon girl on the bag with jalapeno peppers for eyes. He walked past the book and magazine rack, mostly averting his gaze because the wall of strange, scribbled polish gave him a headache, but he quickly backtracked, his eye catching something on the center rack.
It was today’s newspaper.
There were two photos dominating the center—one was a man, probably mid-twenties, and the other was an older woman, possibly late-fifties. Both looked like snapshots provided by family members, like those that turn up on the news when a tragedy strikes. What caught Edmund’s attention was the photo on the other side of the text accompanying the story.
It was old photograph of a holocaust train.
In it, hundreds of dark shapes were being herded through the large, opened door on the side of the car, like some giant creature eating Jews. A couple of SS guards faced the camera. One was smoking a cigarette, his hand resting on a rather vicious looking machine gun. His eyes seemed to scoff at a disapproving photographer, as if he was asking, “So what?”
The train photo was connected to the two people pictured above, and the three paragraphs of Polish in between. He had no idea what the words said, but he could translate it—slowly, with assistance from the app Sophie had helped him download.
Edmund took the paper from the rack, then moved to the rear of the store where he could rest it on a standing table by the window. Cigarette butts littered the surface so he used the paper to sweep them away, then placed his phone next to it.
Slowly, he translated the article, but the app wasn’t very precise. It didn’t account for how certain words were conjugated, nor did it take into consideration a singular or plural word, to which Polish could be wildly different. Each time he grew frustrated and told himself that he’d take the paper back to the BnB for Sophie’s help, he honed in on a juicy word that made him continue.
When he translated the word ‘ghost’ his heart fluttered.
He could already see that the word Treblinka was tied to the article. Now, the story of Addey, the hesitation to go ghost hunting, it was all starting to fall into place, although he didn’t have nearly enough pieces yet to understand.
“Ghost Train strikes again?” said the translated headline. “God, what’s it mean? What’s it mean?” he muttered to himself.
He continued his translation, paying no mind to the occasional shopper floating by him, to the muted vibration of the clubs’ music against the windows, to the large SUV, as uncommon as could be in Europe, that had rolled up to the first gas pump.
His fingers tapped, entering in all the strange words he could, typing full sentences that the translator app managed, but mangled with just enough clarity that he still caught the general gist of what was being said.
From what he gathered, these two people, a Rebekah Mazur and Jozef Wozniak, both of a place called Wyszków, had been missing for two weeks. Lots of people, a surprising amount of people, disappeared in Poland, as if they flitted away into the fog. What made these particular cases strange is that both, shortly before going missing, witnesses had mentioned seeing an ominous, ‘antiquated’ train heading along an empty span of track on the Bialystok line.
Rebekah’s car was found stalled in the middle of the road, her door open with no sign of her anywhere. Jozef worked at the post office, and he’d left his portal unlocked. Someone had even witnessed him leave—saw him exit the building, turn to the east and head through the woods.
Finally, the last part of the article which garnered the most attention from Edmund was the mention of the ghost train, and how it had been linked to several disappearances over the years. As the article read, “The Ghost Train of Treblinka rides every winter, and each time she does, a few souls decide to ride along with her . . .”
“So those are the latest, eh?” came a deep, British voice from behind Edmund. The store was so quiet and the voice so out of place that he started, then whipped around embarrassingly fast to see a pair of men standing by the soda coolers.
“What?” asked Edmund, unsure what the first one, a tall, gaunt man dressed all in black, had meant.
He pulled a green bottled soda from the cooler and nodded toward the newspaper Edmund had on the table. “Them. Guess those are the newest to go missing? I see the train there.” He rolled his eyes at the mention of train.
Edmund wasn’t sure what to say, so he only glanced back at his paper and agreed. “Yeah. Says the Ghost Train claimed them.”
The men laughed—the second one, dressed equally dark but wearing a driving hat, said, “Rubbish. They’ve more superstition in this bloody country than the whole of our island.”
“Maybe they just . . . ran off?” said Edmund. “Happens all the time. People just leave without telling anyone.”
“Or we have a serial killer on the loose,” said the taller one. “There’s no Ghost Train.”
Edmund wasn’t feeling combative enough to argue. Sure, he always believed in ghosts, but as he grew older the notion started to feel very childlike, so he only spoke of it to friends. But perhaps it was the strangers’ tone, or perhaps it was their flippant dismissal of the idea that brought him all the way here to see Addey, but Edmund found himself at least willing to defend it.
“I’m going to see for myself tomorrow,” he said, then proudly added, “I’m a bit of a ghost chaser.”
The men looked at each other, and although they didn’t fall over laughing, Edmund knew they were working to keep it out of their faces. Instead, the first one turned to him and said, “Then I suppose we shall be seeing you again, friend.”
“How so?”
The taller one sat his soda on the table and extended his hand. “I’m Brian Harrick. This here is my colleague, Marcus Davies. We’ve come all the way from Surrey to locate information on a missing person, although you won’t find her in any of the newspapers now.”
“She’s a bit of old news,” said Marcus.
“Right. In a couple of days she’ll have been missing for a year.”
“Who is she?” asked Edmund.
“Can I have your name first, good sir?” asked Brian, attempting to put as much levity into the odd conversation as possible.
“Edmund. From Salisbury.”
“I’ve no clue where that is. But anyway, we are looking for information on a Katherine Walker.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, a flyer that had probably been in circulation ever since the girl had gone missing. “She was twenty-two at the time of her disappearance. Backpacking with some friends a little north of Poniatowo. She said she was going walking one night and never returned. Her parents have been looking for answers ever since.”
“And that’s why we’re here,” said Marcus.
“Indeed. Flew in from Kraków last night and are headed that way now, so perhaps we’ll see you while you’re . . . hunting ghosts.” Edmund assumed ‘that way’ meant toward Treblinka, because those who went missing seemed to be relatively close, at least in the eastern pa
rt of Poland.
“If not for the train, what do you think happened?” Edmund asked. “Three people have gone missing around there, right?”
Marcus said, “Actually about sixty people have gone missing around there. All the way back to 1948.”
“It’s a serial killer, nothing more,” said Brian. “There’s so much wilderness out there. Untamed forest, caves, mines. He’s been lucky, but I guarantee there’s a fellow somewhere out there with a sick and twisted room, probably full of the rotting heads of his victims and—”
“And you think someone’s been at this since the forties?” Edmund said. “I think the Ghost Train is more plausible.”
Marcus shook his head. “You Yanks love your killers, right? Surely you’ve heard of copycats? That’s the most logical answer, eh?”
Edmund shrugged and started to gather up his things, tired and unwilling to steer the conversation any further.
“Keep that,” said Brian, giving him the picture of Katherine. “God knows her mum printed enough of ‘em.” The girl in the photo was quite beautiful. Although it was black and white, he was fairly certain she had blond hair. She had what his dad called a hawk nose, but it didn’t detract from her face—she had the cheekbones and chin to support it. Edmund folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Well boys, it was nice meeting you. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
“Perhaps we will,” said Brian. “My mobile number is listed in the contact information beneath the ole girl’s photo. If your . . . ghosting nets any real findings, do give me a ring?”
Edmund smiled and nodded, then left the gentlemen who made a straight line to the counter to buy their sodas. He lingered by a stack of cookbooks, wondering why on earth such a place that sold so many random items even existed, and watched them leave. They got into the large SUV and headed north, taillights disappearing into the hazy night.
When Edmund got to the counter, he pulled out Addey’s phone, held it up for the woman to see, then tapped the charging slot along its bottom. She considered him for a moment, then turned to the pegboard behind her to survey the universal adapters. She was friendly enough to open two packages in order to help him find the right fit, but was rude enough to charge for all those that she tried. Edmund didn’t care. He slid his bank card and took his purchases back to the BnB.
He was exhausted by the time he stumbled into bed. Edmund hooked up Addey’s phone but nothing happened. For ten minutes he waited, hoping the battery had only been in the dregs, but would soon power on. No such luck. After staring at the black screen for thirty minutes, Edmund’s body was losing the battle to stay awake. Whether the mystery of Addey’s phone would soon be revealed or not, he physically couldn’t make himself wait. A week of weird sleeping arrangements, jetlag, and inconsistent food had finally caught up to him.
He’d been asleep for fifteen minutes when Addey’s phone powered on, filling the room with soft, blue light.
Treblinka
January 3rd, 1943
Anger beget fear.
Had the child not loosened her grip, he may very well have dissipated into the ether, into that unknown void between life and death, Heaven and Hell. His essence was unraveling as her fingers graced what was noncorporeal. But he was spared that cold morning, for when the child reached through the slats to touch him, an older woman, possibly a mother, possibly a stranger who’d been equally and randomly slated to die at Treblinka, put a comforting hand on the child’s arm and pulled her away from the cold. It was the Entity’s only saving grace.
He staggered, his form becoming more tangible as his energy waned. As he traveled up the length of the stalled train and into the engine, he put a thought into the mind of the main conductor, a horrible man named Klaus Wagner. And lucky for the Entity it didn’t take much convincing because he didn’t think he had the mental capacity to influence a more steadfast heart. Klaus, without possibly knowing that the thought had been implanted, turned to the second conductor, a man named Otto—a man with secrets, a man running—and explained the plan just as the Entity had whispered it into his ear.
The engine came alive and slowly the train started to back down the line.
***
His lair was a culmination of many different peoples. The Poles found it, mined silver from it until it was nothing more than useless, black rock. The Germans laid the track, hollowed it out, and just as quickly forgot about it. And finally the Entity made his way there—just a stone’s throw from Treblinka where he could linger in the darkness and taste the death floating on the air, like warm apple pies on a windowsill.
The tunnel was massive—had to be if all forty-nine cars and the engine were to fit. It was wonderfully dark, especially at the far end that may as well have been reaching right into Hell. With the engine off, it was deathly silent, despite so many shivering bodies crowded in the cars.
Humans were more unpredictable than not. At least in the last few centuries. He was certain the cars would be screaming, that the Jews would be crawling over each other to escape the train, but they weren’t. They’d been crammed together in the ghetto and were crammed together now. Their spirit had been broken, and for that, the Entity was glad. Broken spirited people rarely caused trouble.
But the little girl . . .
Some people were good—to the point of it giving them power. True goodness in the world was rare, and often those who possessed it didn’t even know it. The Entity was afraid, more so than he’d been in thousands of years. Why, the last time he’d encountered such goodness in the world was when they were nailing the Son of God to a cross.
Thankfully he’d been full when fate put him on that hill, his metaphorical belly bulbous with fresh death. After all, he’d dined well during the Siege of Jerusalem. But now, after being asleep for so long and needing to feed impossibly frequent to keep himself satiated, he knew his power was on the decline. He needed half the world to die right now to feel restored.
It angered him to be at the mercy of a child who’d only known of the world for a fraction of his own years. He made sure to stay away from that particular train car, so he simply lingered nearby in the darkness. If she got out, if she grew curious again and wanted to touch him, he didn’t know if he’d have the power to escape. Why did he even bring her here?
The Entity was forevermore curious of the humans.
Perhaps a small part of him wanted to study the girl, to understand the power she held over him. But alas, that wasn’t possible. He’d misjudged her potency. Those long years past, after Christ, after the scant others who were powers of good, had dulled his memory of why he should have been afraid. It bothered him that he couldn’t probe her thoughts as he could any of the two-million Jews he’d lingered near in just this past week. He didn’t know her name, where she lived, what she feared and loved. It was difficult not having that sort of leverage against a human.
No matter, he would be rid of her soon.
The Entity stared Klaus in the face—at such close proximity the German engineer would never be able to resist such influence.
There’s a girl in the fourth car. No more than five years old. Kill her.
“Kill her?” asked Klaus.
“What?” Otto said. Both men were coming out of the stupor the Entity put over them in order to make them more complacent.
Do it. Go now.
Klaus nodded in the darkness but no one other than the Entity could see it. He slid the door back, hopped down to the floor of the tunnel (which had been covered in gravel years earlier thanks to the German) then put his hand up to the cars as he walked, partly to count, partly to keep his balance.
Halfway there, he pulled out his sidearm, a sleek little Beretta M1934. It was new to him—had been sent from his brother in Italy only a week ago and the Entity could feel his excitement to finally get to fire it.
A chorus of wonderful cries rang out as Klaus stepped up to the door, unlocked it, and slid it open. The Entity hovered nearby, not seeing the insi
de, fearful that if he even turned eyes upon the child she would somehow weaken him further.
“Back! Get back!” Klaus said to the chaotic train car. His voice rippled down the line, and more frantic cries answered the call. When he fired his gun, the windows lighting up in a brilliant flash of white, the whole train clamored to a frenzy. It had only been a warning shot into the air, the bullet sparking against the train’s roof and filling it with the smell of cordite.
“Which one? Which one? There’s four little girls in here!” said Klaus to the darkness, because no one ever heard the Entity’s voice, only his suggestion.
The Entity whispered into his mind. Then kill them all.
Without hesitation, the gun went off—three successions—pop-pop-pop! The trains came alive with a ruckus that the Entity had to fight to drown out. Being so omnipotent was a curse more often than not. The Jews were screaming in half a dozen languages, focusing on thoughts of their children, their homes before the stark walls of the ghetto, and what they’d do differently in their lives if only God would deliver them from this cold, dark nightmare. But in his weakened effort to silence the prisoners, he failed to realize that there’d only been three shots. Not four.
“I can’t kill her. I won’t kill her,” said Klaus.
You will kill her. Now.
The Entity used as much essence as he could spare, tightening a vice around Klaus’s mind. The man was evil, but he was weak. All he cared about was his family—his wife and two girls. Perhaps he saw something in the child that he saw in his own daughters. But that didn’t make sense because he’d just splattered the brains of three others before stopping at this special, nuisance of a girl.
The Entity dared to float closer.
Inside the car, the adults had scrambled to the far end, looking more like a bag of beans than a group of people. They were so pressed together, so afraid of this big, stocky German man and his outstretched gun. Could they even see by now? He was certain even humans could grow accustomed to the dark after they’d been in it for so long. At least three bloody shapes lay face-down on the cold, metal floor.
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