by J. Thorn
I can’t do it. I can’t ride this alone.
The fake graffiti meticulously painted on the wooden doors read, “Keep Out.” As the bow of the boat released the door trip, Scott looked over his shoulder. The final ray of sun disappeared from the Candy House window as the gas lamps lit the deserted boulevards of Kennywood Amusement Park. He watched the doors swing back and forth, the rusty hinges serenading his final glimpses of buried regret.
The blackness engulfed him. He reached to his left and received a splinter in his palm before the rubber padding of the starboard side smacked off the inner canal track. Scott threw both hands in front of his face, clawing at spider webs he anticipated but could not see.
The first bend ended with a blinding red light. The black cape hanging from the plastic skeleton hid the rusted gears of the neck. The miner’s hat on the skull came equipped with a bug light that pierced Scott’s eyes, forcing him to cover his face with an arm. The pitched cackle made him shiver in the confined, humid ride. A pitchfork slammed into the bench in front of him, remaining for a second before the mechanical arm pulled it back to rest on the skeleton’s shoulder.
“They’re waiting for you, sonny, just as sure as the forty-niners are holdin’ their pans.”
The canal turned almost ninety degrees to the right, pitching Scott across the rowboat. His hand landed in the bottom of the boat, where the slimy water oozed between his fingers.
Scott reeled as the ride continued, heading towards the scene that frightened him more than anything else. He felt the irrational fear rising like bile into his throat.
Not the poker players. Please, not them.
The dealer’s eye sockets glowed with an unnatural red light, burning a broken filament inside a shattered bulb. A lizard slid down the jawbone and disappeared over the bare shoulder blade.
“Seven-card stud. Winner takes all.”
The other skeletons at the table rocked back on chair legs that had worn grooves in the wooden planks. They spent decades at the table, only to lose every hand. The skeleton to the left of the dealer lifted his arm to raise an empty mug, the bottom of which brushed past Scott’s nose.
Scott put his hands over his eyes, but the sound of the recorded laughter almost split his head. He struggled to decide whether it was worse to see the scenes or hear the shrill recordings.
The rowboat pitched again, and Scott scrambled as far back as possible. He would delay the inevitable, even if for a split second.
The canal opened into a cavernous room. Scott recognized the empty boats moving in the opposite direction, like horse buggies passing each other on a country road. His heart thumped inside his chest, begging to stop before the boat did.
Scott saw the tombstones in his mind before the boat swayed around the corner and sidled up to the desolate graveyard. The foam headstones gave off a fog that smelled like a dead animal. Several demons hung from the ceiling, flying back and forth on the ancient conveyor belt. The plaster smiles underneath stalactite fangs made Scott whimper.
The sound of crying puzzled him until he realized it was his own. The boat stopped, and a hand rose from the fake earth. Scott saw the dress, then he saw the Jesus Christ medallion, and then he screamed.
***
The empty rowboat pushed through the wooden exit doors and slumped in line with the rest. It rocked back and forth until the diseased water rested. The lights of the Haunted Hideaway faded with nightfall as the doors of the ride latched, holding souls hostage into the malignant winter.
An Amtrak ride from Chicago to New Orleans with a late-night reading of Stephen King inspired this tale of the rails. I managed to arrive at the station of the Crescent City the next day, but I cannot guarantee that the rest of the passengers did.
* * *
The Limited
“Did you see it?”
“Huh? C’mon, John, I’m trying to sleep.”
“There it goes again, right there.”
Samantha pushed the thin blanket from her face, peered across the seat, and looked out the window. The stale air irritated her throat. She grabbed her coat off the stained blue carpet and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“I don’t see anything.”
John reached up and smashed the button overhead, killing the light beam aimed at his chair. The train groaned over rough track. A barking cough punctuated the restless night. John grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of his, pulling the man’s head back. He winced, trying to ignore the flakes of dandruff stuck in the man’s sparse hair like dead insects impaled on a pinning block.
As John stepped into the aisle, the bright, noiseless burst of light caught his eye again. The flash illuminated the face of a young boy asleep on his mother’s shoulder. Nobody acknowledged the blinding tear in the solemn night.
He glanced at his watch, hitting three buttons before finding the one that turned the face of the cheap digital an electric blue. 3:17 a.m. The conductor approached from the rear car. His starched uniform held him upright through the shaky ride, and John watched his billed cap moving back and forth with the rhythm of the train. The man hit the button to slide the connecting door open when the window to John’s right exploded with light. He thought he heard a murmur from passengers to his left. The light extinguished in an instant, searing John’s vision and forcing his eyes to readjust to the lack of light in the car.
The conductor stood before John, his hands on his hips. He twirled a metallic hole punch, swinging it through the air like a cowboy from the Old West. John did not remember hearing the door slide open, and he stepped back from the man, stumbling towards Samantha’s lap.
“Ticket?”
John shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out an American Rail schedule, two nickels, and his ticket. The conductor leaned to the side, noticed that Samantha slept, and took the ticket from John. He slid John’s ticket into the wide jaw of the metal piranha and punched a hole in the shiny cardboard.
“Sir, you need to take your seat.”
“Why? I’m heading to the café car. I need a coffee.”
“Sir, that car is closed. We need you to sit down in your seat.”
John knew the conductors allowed coach riders to walk to the dining cars and café. He shook his head and took a step towards the rear of the car. The conductor blocked his step with effortless agility as the train rattled around a bend in the track.
“Sir, I’m not going to warn you again. You don’t want to go back there while the train moves through this section of track. American Rail cannot be responsible for your safety.”
“Thanks,” John paused, squinting to see the conductor’s nametag, "William. I’ll walk slowly, hold on to the guiderails, and all that stuff.”
William the Conductor sank into his uniform and turned to let John pass. His eyes glowed like fireflies in the heavy summer night. John glanced back at him as he moved down the aisle and towards the door of the next car. Samantha’s purse strap fell off the edge of the seat, and William moved it to one side as he passed. John shivered, shook his head, and reached for the button on the sliding door.
John stepped through the narrow doorway and onto the corrugated metal grate connecting the two cars. The wheels rattled over the track, and the humidity of the Mississippi delta smothered him. John stopped in a state of limbo. He glanced at the steel link connecting the two cars, inhaled, and lunged through the sliding door into the next passenger car.
He stood still, hands gripping the headrests of the first row of seats. The overhead lights came to life, forcing John to stumble and cover his eyes from the flare. When the colorful floaters cleared from his field of vision, John stared at empty seats. He saw magazines sprawled on the floor, a backpack with a red crayon underneath it, and an open cell phone complete with squawking voice emanating from the earpiece.
John scanned the rows again, shaking his head back and forth. He staggered forward, launched by a sudden swerve in the track. John laughed to himself, imagining all of the passengers crammed i
nto the tight restrooms on the lower berth.
The air became dense and John struggled to draw it into his lungs. He tasted bitterness on his tongue and heard a sound like scraping metal coming from beneath his feet. A bead of sweat broke on John’s forehead and his moist palms snatched at the top of the seats as he fumbled down the aisle.
He thought of Samantha and rushed back to the sliding door. John slammed the open button with his fist several times, but it did not obey. He cupped his hands on the oily plastic window and tried to find Samantha’s row. Black shadows fluttered through the car and coalesced at the door, blocking his vision. John hit the button again, beads of sweat dropping from his creased forehead. He stepped back and yelled into the shifting void of darkness.
“Samantha! Samantha, where are you?”
The shapes bounced through the car as if mocking his concern.
“Sam! What the fuck?”
“Calm down, she’s fine.”
The startling voice made John’s heart lurch in his chest. He spun to find William the Conductor walking down the aisle towards him. He held his shiny hole punch and checked the tickets hung above each rider’s seat. The phantom passengers reappeared, clutching backpacks, magazines, and cell phones. John shivered as if fending off a winter gust.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” he demanded, growling the words as if not wanting to alarm the others.
“Sir, you came into this car of your own free will. You couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to the conductor. There is nothing I can do for you now.” William’s eyes moved from John’s feet to his head as he spoke.
John looked past William to the other passengers in the car. They avoided his stare, looking at him through the reflection in the windows.
“Who are they?”
“Passengers. Like you, sir.” William the Conductor rolled his eyes and winked at a woman three rows back.
John tried his best to suppress an uncontrollable giggle, shoved his hand into his mouth, and bit into meaty flesh. Pain radiated through his wrist, and saliva dripped from the heel of his palm.
“I guess I’m not asleep, am I?”
William turned his head from side to side before winking at another passenger. John watched a silent explosion of light illuminate the silhouettes of trees in the distance.
“Where am I?”
“You’re on a train, sir. That’s an engine pulling passenger cars, been around since the 1800s?” William’s tone rose, punctuating the statement with derision. The corners of his upturned mouth revealed yellowing teeth and a gray tongue. In the bright light, John noticed William’s soiled and faded uniform. The conductor’s elbows poked through the thin fabric, and threads dangled from his fraying cap.
“Quit fucking with me, or I’ll have your ass. One call to the home office and you won’t think this is so funny.”
“Do you recognize the people on this train, sir?” William asked John the question, ignoring the threats to his livelihood.
John looked beyond William into the faces of the passengers on the car. They buried their heads, avoiding John’s eyes as best they could. The fluorescent lights under the bulkhead flickered on their empty faces. Color drained from John’s field of vision as if the world had changed to grayscale.
“They’re just people.”
William’s eyebrows raised into a formation of mock surprise. He mouthed “just people” to a woman brave enough to lift her head above the seat.
“Just people?” William asked John.
“Yeah, ordinary people, like you and me.”
William shook his head and wiped a tear from his eye in a failed attempt to suppress his laughter.
Motion to William’s right caught John’s attention. A boy sat on the edge of a seat with a copy of Mad Magazine on his lap. He wore his brown hair cropped across the forehead. Navy blue denim jeans hung to his ankles, cuffed up toward his knees. The boy’s white t-shirt clung to his thin, spindly frame.
“No, that’s impossible.”
“What is, sir?”
“That kid there, that kid is me.”
“How can that be, sir? You stand here in front of me, holding a conversation.”
John’s lungs hitched, and he did his best to catch his breath. He mumbled more to himself than to William the Conductor.
“Nine. The year that, the year that I found . . . ”
“Found what, sir?” William’s eyes burned red as he refused to unlock his gaze on John.
John knocked William aside and threw his body into the seat next to the young boy. The child looked up at him with wet eyes. With his finger, John traced a tear from the child’s cheek to his chin. The boy’s cold skin sent a chill through John’s heart.
“He punched our ticket. We must get off the train,” the boy said.
John leapt from the seat and ran towards the back of the car, away from his boy-self and William the Conductor.
“It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault. I did my best to protect my friend. Calling the police would not have changed anything. She was already dead. What difference would it have made?”
William’s hand grabbed the tip of his cap, and he tilted it towards John.
“I didn’t ask for this,” John said to William.
“Look in your hand, sir. You purchased the ticket—regulations require that I punch it.”
The train pitched to the side, tossing John against the window of the left aisle. He caught a glance of the terrain on the other side. Despite the night’s heavy curtain of darkness, John saw the land bathed in a red glow. The trees of the Tennessee valley fell through the earth, and dancing flames took their place. Pyramids of gleaming skulls rose from the red sand, with serpents slithering through fractures in the bone. John caught the scent of rotting eggs while the moaning winds caressed the aluminum frame of the passenger car.
The other passengers on the train stood and walked towards John. A dim recollection surfaced in his memory as he recognized the funeral fashions of a quarter-century past. Familiar faces washed over John before he could link them to a name. The swaying motions of the train did not alter the passengers’ slow, measured pace. They surrounded John, smiling at William the Conductor.
John bolted from the seat and slammed into the door leading to the next train. He pushed the button and felt the dry heat burn his face. The door slid open to reveal the retreating track, the last car hitched to the train. When he turned around, his young self stood before him.
He shoved John in the chest, catching him off balance as the train sped around a corner. As John fell through the air, waiting for the violent impact, he read the boy’s lips.
“Your ticket has been punched.”
###
Acknowledgements
Thank you, dear reader, for taking this journey with me. If you enjoyed the book please leave a review on Amazon. It can be brief (20 words) and written in a few minutes. Authors depend on reviews from readers like you. And if you really enjoy my work, send me an email at [email protected] and I will reply with a free copy of a J. Thorn title of your choosing.
In addition, visit http://www.authorgraph.com/authors/JThorn_ where I will personalize and autograph your digital book for free. Please do not hesitate to get in touch. I respond personally to every message. My phone number is 216.245.8476 or if you appreciate creativity on the dial pad, 216.24J.THRN. Seriously, that’s my phone number. Call and leave me a voicemail with your name and number and I promise to call you back. Did a scene in the book trouble you? Call me. Did you love the book and want to shower me with praise? Call me. Do you want advice on writing or publishing your own book? Call me. Do you want to order a large pepperoni with mushrooms and cheese? Can’t help you there. I want you to have the best reading experience possible because we all have limited time on this planet. If you weren’t completely satisfied with my book, or if you loved it, or if you simply want help; please call me. I would love to hear from you.
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Special thanks to Angela Addams for her support of this collection.
Other works from J. Thorn
* * *
If you enjoyed this title, you'll love J. Thorn's new twist on a classic theme. Find out why readers that enjoy the edgy horror of Stephen King are discovering The Hidden Evil.
Praise for The Hidden Evil Trilogy...
"Best one yet - chilling, horrific. There were aspects of this story that reminded me somewhat of The Shining...a sort of creeping horror that was very effective."
K. Sozaeva, Amazon Vine Voice, Top 500 Reviewer
"...grabs you by the throat and does not let go. Incredibly graphic it had me screwing my face up in horror at many of the scenes, yet eagerly clicking for the next page just to see what would happen next."
Bernadette Davies, Amazon reviewer
"...Preta's Realm is a fine example of character building done right. Mr. Thorn does an excellent job of crafting the characters and making sure that you can identify with them. He does a better job than some of the heavy hitters in the horror realm, actually."
Bryan Hall, Author of Containment Room Seven
Preta's Realm: The Haunting (Book 1 of The Hidden Evil Trilogy)
Drew works hard, pays his taxes, and loves his family. But when a visit from the spirit of his deceased grandfather coincides with the violent murder of two co-workers, Drew falls into a desperate spiral of delusion and betrayal until he finally faces the demons of the past, which threaten to drag him deeper into Preta's Realm.
