by Otto Penzler
So that evening he gave Philander one of his best cigars, lit it for him jovially, and set out with him for the railroad tracks. He had had a few moments of ghastly fear that the old man might not accompany him, but there was no stopping him. He had in fact taken over Albert’s little walk, and called it his “constitutional.”
“This is the night, you know, that ghost train is said to appear,” said Albert cautiously.
“Friday, eh?”
“Yes, it was on Friday that the accident took place.”
“Funny thing—how methodical ghosts and suchlike can be, eh?”
Albert agreed, and then very subtly, according to plan, discredited the entire narrative, from beginning to end. It would not do to appear too gullible, when the old man knew very well he was not.
He had hoped they might be able to take up a stand at the edge of the woods, so that Philander might get the best possible view and the maximum shock at sight of that speeding spectre, but the old man insisted upon walking farther. Indeed, he ventured out upon the embankment, he walked along the tracks, he even crossed the trestle. This was not quite in accordance with Albert’s plans, but he had to yield to it; he followed his stepfather across the trestle, observing in some dismay that the hour must be close to nine.
Even as he thought this, the sound of a thin, wailing whistle burst upon his ears, and almost immediately thereafter came the rumble of the approaching train. Ahead of them the light of the locomotive swung around and bore down on them; it was the ghost train, rushing at them with the speed of light, it seemed, with a kind of demoniac violence wholly in keeping with the shattering end to which it was destined to come.
Even in the sudden paroxysm of fright that struck him, Albert did not forget to act natural; this was as he had planned it—to pretend he saw nothing; all he did was to step off the tracks to one side. Then he turned to look at his stepfather. What he saw filled him with complete dismay.
The old man stood in the middle of the right-of-way relighting his cigar. Not a hair of his head had turned, and his eyes were not closed. Yet he appeared to be gazing directly at the approaching train. Albert remembered with sickening chagrin that the agent had said many people could not see the train.
But if Philander Colley could not see the spectral train, he was nevertheless not immune. For at the moment that the phantom locomotive came into contact with the material person of the old man, Philander was knocked up and catapulted into the gully with terrific force, while the agent of his disaster went on its destined way, its lighted coaches streaming by, vanishing around the hill, and ending up, as before, in a horrific din of wreckage.
Albert had to take a minute or two to collect himself. Then he ran as best he could down the slope to where his stepfather lay.
Philander Colley was very thoroughly dead. He had been crushed and broken—just as if he had been struck by a locomotive! Albert did not give him a second thought; however, it had been done, Philander’s end had been accomplished. He set off at a rapid trot for the car to run into the village and summon help.
Unfortunately for Albert Colley, the villagers were wholly devoid of imagination. A ghost train, indeed! There was plenty of evidence from Wisconsin that Albert Colley and his stepfather had not got along at all well. And Albert was the old man’s only heir, too! An open and shut matter, in the opinion of the officials. If there were any such thing as a phantom train, why hadn’t Albert Colley said something about it before?
The agent could testify he had not. It was plain as a pikestaff that Albert had beaten up the old man and probably pushed him off the trestle. With commendable dispatch Albert Colley was arrested, tried, and hanged.
THE MIDNIGHT EL
Robert Weinberg
ONE OF THE WORLD’S foremost experts in the world of pulp magazines, science fiction, horror, and fantasy, Robert (Bob) Weinberg (1947–) was a successful bookseller in those fields for many years while writing and editing on a part-time basis. He sold his first story in 1967 and went on to write seventeen novels, the most popular being the trilogy Masquerade of the Red Death (1995/1996), and two short story collections. He created the character Sidney (Sid) Taine, known as “the psychic detective,” who appeared in the novel The Black Lodge (1991) and short stories collected in The Occult Detective (2005). The Marvel comic book series Nightside (2001), which Weinberg created and wrote, featured the further exploits of Taine.
Among Weinberg’s nonfiction books, the best known and most significant are The Weird Tales Story (1977), A Biographical Dictionary of Science Fiction and Fantasy Authors (1988), Horror of the 20th Century (2000), and, with Louis H. Gresh, The Science of James Bond (2006). He has edited more than 150 anthologies in the pulp, horror, science fiction, western, and mystery genres, often in collaboration with Stefan R. Dziemianowicz and/or Martin H. Greenberg. Among Weinberg’s numerous honors are two Bram Stoker Awards, two World Fantasy Awards, and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association.
“The Midnight El” was originally published in Return to the Twilight Zone, edited by Carol Serling (New York, DAW Books, 1994).
The Midnight El
ROBERT WEINBERG
COLD AND ALONE, Sidney Taine waited for the Midnight El. Collar pulled up close around his neck, he shivered as the frigid Chicago wind attacked his exposed skin. Not even the usual drunks haunted the outdoor subway platforms on nights like these. With temperatures hovering only a few degrees above zero, the stiff breeze off Lake Michigan plunged the wind chill factor to twenty below. Fall asleep outside in the darkness and you never woke up.
Taine hated the cold. Though he had lived in Chicago for more than a year, he had yet to adjust to the winter weather. Originally from San Francisco, he delighted his hometown friends when he groused that he never realized what the phrase “chilled to the bone” meant until he moved to the Windy City.
Six feet four inches tall, weighing a bit more than two hundred and thirty pounds, Taine resembled a professional football player. Yet he moved with the grace of a stalking tiger and, for his size, was incredibly light on his feet. A sly grin and dark, piercing eyes gave him a sardonic, slightly mysterious air. An image he strived hard to cultivate.
Like his father and grandfather before him, Taine worked as a private investigator. Though he had opened his office in Chicago only fourteen months ago, he was already well known throughout the city. Dubbed by one of the major urban newspapers as “The New-Age Detective,” Taine used both conventional techniques and occult means to solve his cases. While his unusual methods caused a few raised eyebrows, no one mocked his success rate. Specializing in missing-person investigations, Taine rarely failed to locate his quarry. He had his doubts, though, about tonight’s assignment.
Before leaving his office this evening, Taine had mixed, then drunk, an elixir with astonishing properties. According to the famous grimoire, The Key of Solomon, the potion enabled the user to see the spirits of the dead. Its effects only lasted till dawn. Which was more than enough time for Taine. If he failed tonight, there would be no second chance.
The detective glanced down at his watch for the hundredth time. The glowing hands indicated five minutes to twelve. According to local legends, it was nearly the hour for the Midnight El to start its run.
No one knew how or when the stories began. A dozen specialists in urban folklore supplied the detective with an equal number of fabled origins. One and all, they were of the opinion that the tales dated back to the first decades of the century, when the subway first debuted in Chicago.
A few old-timers, mostly retired railway conductors and engineers, claimed the Midnight El continued an even older tradition—the Phantom Train, sometimes called the Death’s Head Locomotive. Despite the disagreements, several elements remained constant in all the accounts.The Midnight El hit the tracks exactly at the stroke of twelve. Its passengers consisted of those who had died that day in Chicago. The train traversed the entire city, starting at the station closest to the most
deaths of the day, and working its way along from there.
Knowing that fact, Taine waited on a far south side platform. Earlier in the day, twelve people had died in a flash fire only blocks from this location. There was little question that this would be the subway’s first stop.
Slowly, the seconds ticked past. A harsh west wind wailed off the lake, like some dread banshee warning Taine of his peril. With it came the doleful chiming of a distant church bell striking the hour. Midnight—the end of one day, start of another.
The huge train came hurtling along the track rumbling like distant thunder. Emerging ghostlike out of thin air, dark and forbidding, blacker than the night, it lumbered into the station. Lights flashed red and yellow as it slowed to a stop. Taine caught a hurried vision inside a half-dozen cars as they rumbled past. Pale, vacant, dead faces stared out into the night. Riders from another city, or another day, he wasn’t sure which, and he had no desire to know. Young and old, black and white, men and women, all hungering for a glimpse of life.
Hissing loudly, double doors swung open on each car. A huge, shadowy figure clad in a conductor’s uniform emerged from midway along the train. In his right hand he held a massive silver pocket watch, hooked by a glittering chain to his vest. Impatiently, he stood there, waiting for new arrivals.
The conductor’s gaze swept the station, rested on Taine for a moment, then continued by. The ghost train and all its passengers were invisible to mortal eyes. There was no way for him to know that the man on the platform could actually see him. Nor suspect what Taine planned to do.
Once he had been a ferryman. The ancient Greeks knew him as Charon. To the Egyptians, he had been Anubis, the Opener of the Way. A hundred other cultures named him a hundred different ways. But always his task remained the same—transporting the newly dead to their final destination.
They came with the wind. Not there, then suddenly there. Each one stopped to face the conductor for an instant before being allowed to pass. The breath froze in Taine’s throat as he watched them file by. Those who had died that day.
His hands clenched into fists when he sighted three pajama-clad black children. The detective recognized the trio immediately. Today’s newspapers had been filled with all the grisly details of that sudden tenement fire that had resulted in their deaths. None of them had been over six years old.
Wordlessly, the last of the three turned. Lonely, mournful eyes stared deep into Taine’s for an instant. The detective remained motionless. If he reacted now, it might warn the conductor. An instant passed, and then the child and all the other passengers were gone. Disappeared into the Midnight El.
The conductor stepped back into the doorway. Raising one hand, he signaled to some unseen engineer to continue. Seeing his chance, Taine acted.
Moving incredibly fast for a man his size, the detective darted at, then around, the astonished doorman. Before the shadowy figure could react, Taine was past him and into the subway. Ignoring the restless dead on all sides, the detective headed for the front of the car.
“Come back here,” demanded the conductor, swinging aboard. Behind him, the doors thudded shut. An instant later, the car jerked forward as the engine came to life. Outside scenery blurred as the train gained speed. The floor shook with a gentle, rocking motion. The Midnight El was off to its next stop.
Taine relaxed, letting his pursuer catch up to him. Surprise had enabled him to board the ghostly train. Getting off might not prove so easy.
“You do not belong on the Midnight El, Mr. Taine,” said the conductor. He spoke calmly, without any trace of accent. Listening closely, Taine caught the barest hint of amusement in the phantom’s voice. “At least, not yet. Your time is not for years and years.”
“You know my name, and the instant of my death?” asked Taine, not the least bit intimidated by the imposing bulk of the other. Surrounded by shadows, the ticket taker towered over Taine by a head. His face, though human, appeared cut from weathered marble. Only his black, black eyes burned with life.
“Of course,” answered the conductor. His body swayed gracefully with every motion of the subway car. “Past, present, future mean nothing to me. One look at a man is all I need to review his entire life history, from the moment of his birth to the last breath he takes. It’s part of my job, supervising the Midnight El.”
“For what employer?” asked Taine, casually.
“Someday you’ll learn the answer,” replied the conductor, with a chuckle. “But it won’t matter much then.”
The phantom reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the silver pocket watch. “Thirteen minutes to the next stop. This train, unlike most, always runs on time. You shall exit there, Mr. Taine.”
“And if I choose not to,” said Taine.
The conductor frowned. “You must. I cannot harm you. Such action is strictly forbidden under the terms of my contract. However, I appeal to your sense of compassion. A living presence on this train upsets the other passengers. Think of the pain you are inflicting on them.”
Darkness gathered around the railroad man. He no longer looked so human. His black coal eyes burned into Taine’s with inhuman intensity. “Leave them to their rest, Mr. Taine. You do not belong here.”
“Nor does one other,” replied the detective.
The conductor sighed, his rock-hard features softening in sorrow. “I should have guessed. You came searching for Maria Hernandez. Why?”
“Her husband hired me. He read about my services in the newspapers. I’m the final resort for those who refuse to give up hope.
“Victor told me what little he knew. My knowledge of the occult filled in the blanks. Combined together, the facts led me here.”
“All trails end at the Midnight El,” declared the conductor solemnly. “Though I’m surprised that you realized that.”
“After examining the information, it was the only possible solution,” said Taine. “Maria disappeared two weeks ago. She vanished without a trace from an isolated underground subway platform exactly at midnight. No one else recognized the significance of the time.
“The police admitted they were completely baffled. The ticket seller remembered Maria taking the escalator down to the station a few minutes before twelve. A transit patrolman spoke to her afterward. He remembered looking up at the clock and noting the lateness of the hour. But when he looked around, the woman was no longer there. Somehow, she disappeared in the blink of an eye. Searching the tunnels for her body turned up nothing.”
Taine paused. “Victor Hernandez considered me his last and only chance. I promised him I would do my best. I never mentioned the Midnight El.”
“My thanks to you for that,” said the conductor, nodding his understanding. “Suicides cause me the greatest pain. Especially those who sacrifice themselves to join the one they love.”
“She meant a great deal to him,” said Taine. “They were only married a few months. It seemed quite unfair.”
“The world is unfair, Mr. Taine,” said the conductor, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Or so I have been told by many of my passengers. Again and again, for centuries beyond imagining.”
“She wasn’t dead,” said Taine. “If I don’t belong here, then neither does she.”
The conductor grimaced, his black eyes narrowing. He looked down at his great silver watch and shook his head. “There’s not enough time to explain,” he said. “Our schedule is too tight for long talks. Please understand my position.”
“The Greeks considered Charon the most honorable of the gods,” said Taine, sensing his host’s inner conflict. “Of course, that was thousands of years ago.”
“Spare me the dramatics,” said the conductor. A bitter smile crossed his lips. He nodded to himself, as if making an important decision. Slowly, ever so slowly, he twisted the stem on the top of his watch.
All motion ceased. The subway car no longer shook with motion. Outside, the blurred features of the city solidified into grotesque, odd shapes, faintly resembling the Chic
ago skyline.
Taine grunted in surprise. “You can stop time?”
“For a little while,” said the conductor. “Don’t forget, the Midnight El visits every station in the city and suburbs within the space of a single night. On a hot summer night in a violent city like this, we often need extra minutes for all the passengers. Thus my watch. Twisting a little more produces a timeless state.”
“The scenery?” asked Taine, not wanting to waste his questions, but compelled to ask by the alienness of the landscape.
“All things exist in time as well as space,” said the conductor. “Take away that fourth dimension and the other three seem twisted.”
The phantom turned and beckoned with his other hand. “Maria Hernandez. Attend me.”
A short, slender woman in her early twenties pushed her way forward through the ranks of the dead. Long brown hair, knotted in a single thick braid, dropped down her back almost to her waist. Wide, questioning eyes looked at the detective. Unlike all the others on the train, a spark of color still touched Maria’s cheeks. And her chest rose and fell with her every breath.
“Tell Mr. Taine how you missed the subway two weeks ago,” said the conductor. He glanced over at Taine, almost as if checking to make sure the detective was paying attention.
“There was a shortage in one of the drawers at closing time,” began Maria Hernandez, her voice calm, controlled. “My superior asked me to do a crosscheck. It was merely a mathematical error, but it took nearly twenty minutes to find. By then, I was ten minutes late for my train.”
She hesitated, as if remembering something particularly painful. “I was in a hurry to get home. It was our six-month anniversary. When I left that morning for the bank, my husband, Victor, promised me a big surprise when I returned. I loved surprises.”
