by J. R. Rain
“But I hear it all the time, ever since we moved here. I hear the whistle, too.”
She sighed and straightened a framed photo of her dead husband in his uniform—desert camos. She ran a finger down the cheek on the photo and then walked to her son and did the same.
“I’m getting to look more like him, the older I get, aren’t I?” Judd suddenly asked. His mom looked at him quizzically, then kissed him goodbye on the forehead.
“Do I, Mom?” he persisted. “Look like him?”
At the door with briefcase in hand, she said simply, “Make sure you load the washer.” And then she nodded. “Yeah, you do. A lot.”
And then she turned and left.
***
Judd listened to Leno poking fun at a female guest. She said something back, apparently equally as funny, and the crowd laughed.
Judd was staring at the ceiling again, listening to his mother’s TV from across the hallway. He was fully dressed in jeans, a light tee-shirt and sneakers. In his school backpack hidden under his covers was a flashlight, a sandwich and a digital camera.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard his mother click off her bedroom TV and in the silence, heard the tink of her lamp switch being turned off. Ten minutes after that, he heard her snoring lightly.
He slipped out of bed quietly, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and stepped out into the dark hallway. He paused, listening, verified that his mother was still sleeping, and headed downstairs.
His mountain bike was waiting for him at the side of his house. He hopped on it, opened the latch to the side of the house, and was soon pedaling down his quiet street in the dead of night.
A clean escape, he thought, grinning into the wind. Mom will never know, and I will prove to her once and for all that there’s a train.
With a big, goofy grin on his face, he sped quickly away from his house. A moment later, he made a right onto Dale Street, the street that would eventually take him straight to the train tracks. Shortly, he came to the intersection of Valencia Avenue, which was a four-way stop.
He passed some warehouses and the famous sticker factory—heaven on earth as far as students from his school were concerned, where reams and reams of stickers were discarded, stickers that eventually found their way onto almost anything in the city of Fullerton.
He soon came to Commonwealth Avenue. The light was red. He pressed the crosswalk button and when the enthusiastic-looking walking figure appeared, he crossed the street—and found himself across from Fullerton Airport, with its rows and rows of Christmas tree lights paralleling the runways.
Here, Dale Street curved and Judd found himself at Artesia Boulevard. The traffic light here was also red, and Judd waited patiently. He thought about the train. He wondered if he would see it tonight. He also thought about the sandwich.
After crossing the boulevard, he came to an industrial park. Behind high chain-linked fences with strips of white plastic weaved through them, loomed the massive heads of heavy machinery that always reminded Judd of dinosaurs. A true Jurassic Park. At least, in his imagination.
He sped by the industrial park, giving the heavy machinery only a cursory glance, all too aware that they seemed to be staring back at him.
Just before him, perhaps twenty feet away, were two lampposts on either side of the road. A welcomed sight. Behind the lights was a hundred or so acres of pitch-black farmland. Somewhere to the right, just off the road, was a rickety old fruit stand whose sign read simply: Fresh Strawberries.
Before the fruit stand, however, were the train tracks, where the tracks ran between the industrial park and the farmland. He stopped his bike in the bright pool of light where Dale Street crossed the tracks. The red-and-white striped arms that rose up into the night—arms that, when parallel, held back traffic—were actually not very red and white at all. In fact, they looked as if they’d been through a thousand sandstorms.
It was just after midnight, according to his cell phone. The train always came after twelve, but never at the same time. Sometimes it came around three in the morning, waking him with a start.
He pulled his bike off the narrow single lane of Dale Street and headed down a dirt embankment. The half moon above glowed brightly, and Judd was able to see clearly enough.
This is damned stupid, he thought, looking nervously into the vast farmland around him. He had forgotten about his sandwich. No matter what anyone says, a train comes through here. I hear the darn thing every single night.
Actually, he told himself, getting off his bike and leaning it into a bush where he hoped it was hidden well enough from the street, what’s really stupid is coming here alone.
Yet, he really didn’t know anyone well enough to ask them to come out with him to the train tracks at night. He hadn’t done very well in the friend-making department and anyone he called a friend would have given him too much crap.
Why do you need someone with you, anyway? he asked himself as he stepped away from his bike. You scared? You scared of being alone at night only ten minutes from home?
Actually, yes.
He was almost as tall as the tallest scrub tree that crowded near the tracks, and what possessed him to walk into this mini-forest he didn’t know.
He did so now, and his perception of his surroundings suddenly changed: he no longer felt as if he was in the suburbia of Orange County, but in an actual countryside with woods that could have gone on for miles. Although he couldn’t have told you exactly why he entered the dark shielding of the trees, he was pleased that he had conquered some of his fear.
Granted, he hadn’t gotten very far into the copse of stunted trees, but he was still feeling fairly pleased with himself. By God, he was going to get to the bottom of things.
The trees crowded near the tracks, and soon he came upon a small clearing. He spied a large rock and had just decided to sit there when a thought scooted across his consciousness just long enough to register: he was in a dark, hidden place where different rules applied—rules that didn’t give a damn if you were only ten minutes from home.
At that troubling thought, Judd looked around nervously. He shivered even though the night was quite warm.
To take his mind off the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him, he shrugged out of his backpack and found his sandwich. He also grabbed his flashlight and held it in his lap. Just having the flashlight nearby made him feel better.
He opened the baggie and was soon eating, voraciously. He was nearly done with the PB&J when he heard a sound behind him. He gasped, snapped his head around quickly, fumbling for his flashlight. He clicked it on, but no one was there.
No doubt a mouse, or a rat.
To his dismay, his mostly masticated sandwich had slid off his lap and now lay in the dirt. Damn.
It was suddenly very cold. How did it get so cold? As he rubbed his arms and looked down at the sad remains of his sandwich, Judd was suddenly certain that he had made a very bad mistake.
No, he nearly shouted. Not a mistake. I hear that damn train. I hear it every night. I need to know if it’s real. I need to know why I hear it so clearly. Why me, and no one else?
So, he wrapped his arms around his body and waited, and realized all over again that a friend would have been welcomed just about now.
The tracks were just out of sight from where he sat in the clearing. He looked at his watch: twelve-twenty. He thought about his bike and hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to find.
He yawned mightily and rubbed his eyes. When he was done rubbing his eyes, he saw someone standing at the edge of the clearing.
Judd squeaked.
It was a man. A bum, actually. Judd squeaked again.
The man took a step forward and Judd nearly wet himself. The man said, “You here for the train, boy?”
Judd couldn’t speak.
“Answer me, boy.”
“Yes,” he finally said, although it sounded too high-pitched to be his own voice.
The man nodded and stepped forward again. �
��What’s your name?”
Judd bit down on his lips, stopping himself from saying his name, and wondered if that was a good idea anyway. It’s just your name, a voice inside his head said. How much harm could he do with your name?
“Judd,” he finally said.
“Nice to meet you, Judd. I’m Reggie.”
They both stared at each other some more. Judd was suddenly certain that something very, very bad was going to happen to him. Reggie stepped closer, his face still hidden mostly in shadows. Judd shifted his weight. He was ready to sprint in a heartbeat.
“Okay, Judd,” said Reggie, his voice sounding old and gravelly. “Let me guess: you’ve been hearing a train at night. Am I right?”
Judd couldn’t speak again. Indeed, he was having a hard time processing what he’d just heard.
Reggie stepped forward and spoke again: “And only at night, too?”
Judd still couldn’t speak, and so he nodded. He didn’t know if the man in shadows could see him nod or not, but he didn’t care.
Reggie continued, “And, further, you’re also the only one who can hear this train?”
More nodding. Leaves crunched as Reggie drew closer still.
“And not only do you hear it, but it sounds like it’s going to blast straight through your brain?”
Nod, nod.
The man stopped just before him. “You’re not the only one, Judd, nor will you be the last, I’m sure.”
“Then you hear it, too?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t hear it, but others have. Come on. Let’s get into the light so we can at least see each other.”
The old bum stepped past Judd and led the way through the trees. Judd didn’t move. Not at first. His bike, he knew, wasn’t far off. And Reggie seemed really old. If worse came to worst, Judd would run for it, grab his bike, and hightail it home.
For now, keeping some space between them, Judd followed the old man through the scrub trees. Shortly, the trees thinned and Judd found himself near the train tracks, which glowed dully in the moonlight.
What’s happening? he asked himself. What’s going on?
Reggie was heading toward an old, rundown building off to the side of the tracks. A light hung from the door. Judd stopped. There was no way he was going into that building. No way. Heck, that was the spookiest place he’d ever seen. Reggie must have sensed something was wrong because he turned and looked back at the boy.
“It’s the old train depot. This is where I spend most of my time, believe it or not.”
Judd believed it. A creepy old man hanging out in a creepy old building made sense to him. He still wasn’t going to go in.
“C’mon, Judd. This is where everyone waits for the train. You might as well wait for it here, too.”
That got him moving. Everyone? How many had come looking for the train? He didn’t know, but he soon found himself moving again, trailing behind the old, stooped man.
The train station seemed to be in a world of its own. From what Judd had gathered about upscale Orange County, it wasn’t a place that let old buildings like this exist for very long. Old buildings like this got destroyed in the name of progress.
“The way I figure it,” said Reggie, stepping onto the wooden platform that surrounded the wooden building, “is that folks in these parts pretty much forgot about Depot 77—that’s its name. It’s far enough off any road not to be an eyesore, and I can verify no funny business is going on here, certainly nothing that would attract the cops. It’s all but forgotten, which is the way I like it.”
Judd stepped onto the wooden walkway as well, which creaked loudly under his sneakers.
Reggie went on, “The windows are all busted out and most of the furniture’s gone, but it was never really much to start with. Still, it’s home to me, and in case yer wonderin’, no, these tracks haven’t been used since I moved in, seven years ago.”
Resting underneath the hanging lantern was a long wooden bench. Reggie motioned to it. “Have a seat, kid. And don’t look so nervous, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Famous last words, Judd thought, but he sat anyway. He suddenly felt very, very far from his home. Far from his bed. Far from his mother. It all might have been a world away.
Reggie sat, too, at the far end of the bench. There was plenty of space between them. Reggie, no doubt a devout member of the Holy Order of the Homeless in Fullerton, found a crooked cigarette in his huge Army jacket and lit it.
“You fight in Iraq?” Judd asked before he could stop and think.
Reggie exhaled a billowy plume. “Yup.”
“My dad did, too.”
Reggie squinted, although his eyes were mostly hidden in shadows. “He didn’t make it home, did he, kid?”
Judd shook his head.
“A lot of good folk didn’t.”
“Well, I never got to meet him. We don’t even have home videos of him, just photos. And my dad’s dog tags. They found ‘em near a bombed-out building and sent them to my mom. She had them silver-plated—cause I am allergic to most other metals—and she gave them to me at the MIA memorial service. She kept the flag. It’s in our living room in a triangle box with glass in the front.”
“Silver, huh?” Reggie said, cringing. “I don’t like me no silver.”
“I wasn’t offering them.” Judd clasped the dog tags through his shirt, jingling the matching silver ball chains, his talismans.
“Magic, aren’t they?” Reggie said, not unkindly.
Judd nodded. “Yes,” he responded.
“You keep him alive in your memory by wearing the dog tags,” Reggie said. “But silver.” He shuddered.
“Do you have anything to eat?” Judd asked, deciding to change the subject. “I accidentally dropped my sandwich in the dirt.”
Reggie laughed, his blackened teeth letting loose a stench that took Judd aback. “No, I find my own food when I’m hungry.”
“Like hunting?” Judd asked.
“Something like that. I don’t really eat. It’s more like... drinking.”
Judd’s eyebrows went up. “Like beer and stuff?”
“No, no. Reggie don’t drink beer no more. More like... blood.”
Judd’s heart nearly stopped. He fell silent, thinking hard. The crickets weren’t, though. They were loud near the old train station, filling the silence. Judd thought he heard the sound of frogs, too. There must be a pond nearby.
A slow realization came over Judd. He put his fingers over his dad’s dog tags, squeezed them hard.
“Like people’s blood?” he asked and drew the silver dog tags from inside of his shirt and held them up to Reggie, who shrank from them.
“No, small animals. Rats, rabbits, even. I certainly wouldn’t drink the blood of children. I got my standards. And I wouldn’t wish this existence on anyone. Especially not the son of a fellow soldier who died in Iraq. That’s just too much pathos.”
“What’s pathos?” Judd asked.
“Tragedy.”
Judd nodded and returned the silver-plated dog tags inside of his shirt.
“When the train comes, will you help me?” Judd asked.
“Don’t do it, kid,” Reggie said suddenly.
“Do what?” He became aware of his heart beating hard in his chest for the first time in his life.
The old man shook his head, and the long gray whiskers of his beard fluttered about. “Don’t get on the train.”
Shadows moved in the dark spaces between the old planks that made up the floor. Or at least, Judd thought they had. If Reggie would have said a monster lived down there, Judd would have believed him.
He looked away to veil his eyes. “Why would I get on the train?”
“Because they all do.”
That was the craziest thing Judd had ever heard, and panic ripped through him.
Judd wilted back down on the bench; the wooden floor creaked and the monster stirred below. “I’m not the only one who hears this thing. I can’t be. There’s a hundred houses betw
een here and mine. How can I be the only one?”
“You’re not, boy. There have been others, and there will be others after you, like I said.”
“My mom just doesn’t pay attention to things, you know. I’m sure she hears it, too.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Judd. I just ask you not to step foot on that train.”
Judd turned on him. “Why? Why in God’s name would I get on this train?”
“I can’t tell you, boy. I wish I could. All I know is that the folks who come here claim to have been hearing a train just like yourself.
“And then just as I’m talking to them, as sure as I’m talking to you now, they tell me they hear it, and of course, I never do. From what I gather, it’s an old locomotive they see. They ask if I can see it, too, and I always says no, no I can’t. I wait by their side as this train supposedly comes to a stop. Then they just sort of reach out as if someone is holding a hand out to them... and then...”
“And then what?” Judd asked desperately.
Reggie shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just a crazy old man, remember?”
“You’re a crazy old something but you aren’t a man,” Judd said. “At least, I don’t think you are.”
“What do you think I am, boy?”
“I think you’re a vampire. Or, at least, you think you are.”
The old man chuckled and then, as if to prove the point, suddenly reached down through a gap in the floorboards, grabbed hold of something that squeaked in surprise, and hauled his hand out. Only his hand wasn’t empty. A little field mouse squirmed in it. Without missing a beat, he bit down on the creature’s back and promptly sucked it dry. He cast the lifeless body aside. Judd shuddered.
“Sorry. I was really hungry.” Reggie shrugged, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Judd felt sick. He knew he should run. This whole night was turning into all sorts of crazy fast. He had decided it was time to go home, when he heard something in the far distance. Something that made his heart flutter.
A train’s whistle.
“You hear something, boy?” asked Reggie, looking at him sharply.
“The train, I think. Actually, I’m sure of it. It’s coming.”
