“Uncle Gus lied to me, didn’t he, Whiskers?” The little girl’s voice was strained, uncertain. “See...” She hugged the cat closer. “Nothing’s down there, huh?”
And she yawned her mouth wide to show her friend that no rat-thing lived there. If one did, ole Whiskers would be sticking a paw inside to get it. But the cat didn’t react. Just blinked slitted green eyes at her.
“I knew it,” Janey said, vastly relieved. “If I just don’t believe it’s in there, then it isn’t.”
She slowly relaxed her tensed body muscles—and Whiskers, sensing a change, began to purr—a tiny, soothing motorized sound in the night.
Everything was all right now. No red-eyed creature existed in her tummy. Suddenly she felt exhausted. It was late, and she had school tomorrow.
Janey slid down under the covers and closed her eyes, releasing Whiskers, who padded to his usual spot on the bed.
She had a lot to tell her friends.
It was Thursday, a day Janey usually hated. Every other Thursday her mother went shopping and left her to have lunch with Uncle Gus in his big spooky house with the shutters closed tight against the sun and shadows filling every hallway.
But this Thursday would he all different, so Janey didn’t mind when her mother drove off and left her alone with her uncle. This time, she told herself, she wouldn’t be afraid. A giggle.
She might even have fun!
When Uncle Gus put Janey’s soup plate in front of her he asked her how she was feeling.
“Fine,” said Janey quietly, eyes down.
“Then you’ll be able to appreciate the soup.” He smiled, trying to look pleasant. “Its a special recipe. Try it.”
She spooned some into her mouth.
“How does it taste?”
“Kinda sour.”
Gus shook his head, trying some for himself. “Ummm... delicious.” He paused. “Know what’s in it?”
She shook her head.
He grinned, leaning toward her across the table. “It’s owl-eye soup. Made from the dead eyes of an owl. All mashed up fresh, just for you.”
She looked at him steadily. “You want me to upchuck, don’t you, Uncle Gus?”
“My goodness no, Janey.” There was oiled delight in his voice. “I just thought you’d like to know what you swallowed.”
Janey pushed her plate away. “I’m not going to be sick because I don’t believe you. And when you don’t believe in something then it’s not real.”
Gus scowled at her, finishing his soup.
Janey knew he planned to tell her another awful spook story after lunch, but she wasn’t upset about that. Because.
Because there wouldn’t be any after lunch for Uncle Gus.
It was time for her surprise.
“I got something to tell you, Uncle Gus.”
“So tell me.” His voice was sharp and ugly.
“All my friends at school know about the thing inside. We talked about it a lot and now we all believe in it. It has red eyes and it’s furry and it smells bad. And it’s got lots of very sharp teeth.”
“You bet it has,” Gus said, brightening at her words. “And it’s always hungry.”
“But guess what,” said Janey. “Surprise! It’s not inside me, Uncle Gus... it’s inside you!”
He glared at her. “That’s not funny, you little bitch. Don’t try to turn this around and pretend that—”
He stopped in mid-sentence, spoon clattering to the floor as he stood up abruptly. His face was flushed. He made strangling sounds.
“It wants out,” said Janey.
Gus doubled over the table, hands clawing at his stomach. “Call... call a... doctor!” he gasped.
“A doctor won’t help,” said Janey in satisfaction. “Nothing can stop it now.”
Janey followed him calmly, munching on an apple. She watched him stagger and fall in the doorway, rolling over on his back, eyes wild with panic.
She stood over him, looking down at her uncle’s stomach under the white shirt.
Something bulged there.
Gus screamed.
Late that night, alone in her room, Janey held Whiskers tight against her chest and whispered into her pet’s quivering ear. “Mommy’s been crying,” she told the cat. “She’s real upset about what happened to Uncle Gus. Are you upset, Whiskers?”
The cat yawned, revealing sharp white teeth.
“I didn’t think so. That’s because you didn’t like Uncle Gus any more than me, did you?”
She hugged him. “Wanta heara secret, Whiskers?”
The cat blinked lazily at her, beginning to purr.
“You know that mean ole Mr. Kruger at school... Well, guess what?” She smiled. “Me an’ the other kids are gonna talk to him tomorrow about something he’s got inside him.” Janey shuddered deliciously. “Something nasty!”
And she giggled.
00:14
LONELY TRAIN A’COMIN’
In April of 1982 I conducted a writing workshop at Ohio’s Bowling Green State University. As an example of narrative pace, I read this story aloud to my class. My intention was to propel the reader relentlessly forward, allowing the suspense to build, layer on layer, to a horrific climax.
“Lonely Train A’Comin’” may be the most truly frightening tale in this collection. I know it chilled me as I wrote it, and its haunting central image continues to reverberate in my mind.
Actually, it began in my subconscious—when I awoke one morning from a dream—about a lonely cowboy waiting at a deserted depot on the wind-whipped plains of Montana.
LONELY TRAIN A’COMIN’
Lonely train a’comin’
I can hear its cry
lonely train from nowhere
Takin’ me to die
—folk ballad fragment, circa 1881
At Bitterroot, Ventry waited.
Bone-cold, huddled on the narrow wooden bench against the paint-blistered wall of the depot, the collar of his fleece-lined coat turned up against the chill Montana winds blowing in from the Plains, he waited for the train. Beneath the wide brim of a work-blackened Stetson, sweat-stained along the headband, his eyes were intense, the gunmetal color of blued steel. Hard lines etched into the mahogany of his face spoke of deep-snow winters and glare-sun summers; his hands, inside heavy leather work gloves, were calloused and blunt-fingered from punishing decades of ranch work.
Autumn was dying, and the sky over Bitterroot was gray with the promise of winter. This would be the train’s last run before snow closed down the route. Ventry had calculated it with consummate patience and precision. He prided himself on his stubborn practicality, and he had earned a reputation among his fellow ranchers as a hard-headed realist.
Paul Ventry was never an emotional man. Even at his wife’s death he had remained stolid, rock-like in his grief. If it was Sarah’s time to die, then so be it. He had loved her, but she was gone and he was alone and that was fact. Ventry accepted. Sarah had wanted children, but things hadn’t worked out that way. So they had each other, and the ranch, and the open Montana sky—and that had been enough.
Amy’s death was not the same. Losing his sister had been wrong. He did not accept it. Which was why he was doing this, why he was here. In his view, he had no other choice.
He had been unable to pinpoint the trains exact arrival, but he was certain it would pass Bitterroot within a seven-day period. Thus, he had brought along enough food and water to last a week. His supplies were almost depleted now, but they could be stretched through two more days and nights if need be; Ventry was not worried.
The train would be here.
It was lonely at Bitterroot. The stationmaster’s office was boarded over, and bars covered the windows. The route into Ross Fork had been dropped from the rail schedule six months ago, and mainline trains bound for Lewistown no longer made the stop. Now the only trains that rattled past were desolate freights, dragging their endless rusted flatcars.
Ventry shifted the holstered axe
pressing against his thigh, and unzipping a side pocket on his coat, he took out the thumb-worn postcard. On the picture side, superimposed over a multicolored panoramic shot of a Plains sunset, was the standard Montana salutation:
GREETINGS FROM
THE BIG SKY COUNTRY!
And on the reverse, Amy’s last words. How many times had he read her hastily scrawled message, mailed from this depot almost a year ago to the day?
Dear Paulie,
I’ll write a long letter, I promise, when I get to Lewistown, but the train came early so I just have time, dear brother, to send you my love. And don’t you worry about your little kid sister because life for me is going to be super with my new job!
Luv and XXXXXXX,
Amy
And she had added a quick P.S. at the bottom of the card:
You should see this beautiful old train! Didn’t know they still ran steam locomotives like this one! Gotta rush—‘cuz it’s waiting for me!
Ventry’s mouth tightened, and he slipped the card hack into his coat, thinking about Amy’s smiling eyes, about how much a part of his life she’d been. Hell, she was a better sheep rancher than half the valley men on Big Moccasin! But, once grown, she’d wanted city life, a city job, a chance to meet city men.
“Just you watch me, Paulie,” she had told him, her face shining with excitement. “This lil’ ole job in Lewistown is only the beginning. The firm has a branch in Helena, and I’m sure I can get transferred there within a year. You’re gonna be real proud of your sis. I’ll make you proud!”
She’d never had the chance. She’d never reached Lewistown. Amy had stepped aboard the train... and vanished.
Yet people don’t vanish. It was a word Paul refused to accept. He had driven each bleak mile of the rail line from Bitterroot to Lewistown, combing every inch of terrain for a sign, a clue, a scrap of clothing. He’d spent two months along that route. And had found nothing.
Ventry posted a public reward for information leading to Amy’s whereabouts. Which is when Tom Hallendorf contacted him.
Hallendorf was a game warden stationed at King’s Hill Pass in the Lewis and Clark National Forest. He phoned Ventry, telling him about what he’d found near an abandoned spur track in the Little Belt range.
Bones. Human bones.
And a ripped, badly stained red leather purse.
The empty purse had belonged to Amy. Forensic evidence established the bones as part of her skeleton.
What had happened up there in those mountains?
The district sheriff, John Longbow, blamed it on a “weirdo.” A roving tramp.
“Dirt-plain obvious, Mr. Ventry,” the sheriff had said to him. “He killed her for what she had in the purse. You admit she was carryin’ several hundred in cash. Which is, begging your pardon, a damn fool thing to do!”
But that didn’t explain the picked bones.
“Lotta wild animals in the mountains,” the lawman had declared. “After this weirdo done ’er in he just left her layin there—and, well, probably a bear come onto er. Its happened before. We’ve found bones up in that area more than once. Lot of strange things in the Little Belt.” And the sheriff had grinned. “As a boy, with the tribe, I heard me stories that’d curl your hair. It’s wild country.”
The railroad authorities were adamant about the mystery train. “No steamers in these parts,” they told him. “Nobody runs ’em anymore.”
But Ventry was gut-certain that such a train existed, and that Amy had died on it. Someone had cold-bloodedly murdered his sister and dumped her body in the mountains.
He closed down the ranch, sold his stock, and devoted himself to finding out who that someone was.
He spent an entire month at the main library in Lewistown, poring through old newspaper files, copying names, dates, case details.
A pattern emerged. Ventry found that a sizable number of missing persons who had vanished in this area of the state over the past decade had been traveling by rail. And several of them had disappeared along the same basic route Amy had chosen.
Ventry confronted John Longbow with his research.
“An just who is this killer?” the sheriff asked.
“Whoever owns the steamer. Some freak rail buff. Rich enough to run his own private train, and crazy enough to kill the passengers who get on board.”
“Look, Mr. Ventry, how come nobody’s seen this fancy steam train of yours?”
“Because the rail disappearances have happened at night, at remote stations off the main lines. He never runs the train by daylight. Probably keeps it up in the mountains. Maybe in one of the old mine shafts. Uses off-line spur tracks. Comes rolling into a small depot like Bitterroot between the regular passenger trains and picks up whoever’s on the platform.”
The sheriff had grunted at this, his eyes tight on Paul Ventry’s face.
“And there’s a definite cycle to these disappearances.” Ventry continued. “According to what I’ve put together, the train makes its night runs at specific intervals. About a month apart, spring through fall. Then it’s hidden away in the Little Belt each winter when the old spur tracks are snowed over. I’ve done a lot of calculation on this, and I’m certain that the train makes its final run during the first week of November—which means you’ve still got time to stop it.”
The sheriff had studied Paul Ventry for a long, silent moment. Then he had sighed deeply. “That’s an interesting theory, Mr. Ventry, real interesting. But... its also about as wild and unproven as any I’ve heard—and I’ve heard me a few. Now, it’s absolute natural that you’re upset at your sister’s death, but you’ve let things get way out of whack. I figger you’d best go on back to your ranch and try an’ forget about poor little Amy. Put her out of your mind. She’s gone. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”
“We’ll see,” Ventry had said, a cutting edge to his voice. “We’ll see what I can do.”
Ventry’s plan was simple. Stop the train, board it, and kill the twisted son of a bitch who owned it. Put a .45 slug in his head. Blow his fucking brains out—and blow his train up with him!
I’ll put an end to this if no one else will, Ventry promised himself. And I’ve got the tools to do it.
He slipped the carefully wrapped gun rig from his knapsack, unfolded its oiled covering, and withdrew his grandfather’s long-barreled frontier Colt from its worn leather holster. The gun was a family treasure. Its bone handle was cracked and yellowed by the years, but the old Colt was still in perfect firing order. His granddaddy had worn this rig, had defended his mine on the Comstock against claim jumpers with this gun. It was fitting and proper that it be used on the man who’d killed Amy.
Night was settling over Bitterroot. The fiery orange disc of sun had dropped below the Little Belt Mountains, and the sky was gray slate along the horizon.
Time to strap on the gun. Time to get ready for the train.
It’s coming tonight! Lord God, I can feel it out there in the gathering dark, thrumming the rails. I can feel it in my blood and bones.
Well, then, come ahead, god damn you, whoever you are.
I’m ready for you.
Ten p.m. Eleven. Midnight.
It came at midnight.
Rushing toward Bitterroot, clattering in fierce-wheeled thunder, its black bulk sliding over the track in the ash-dark Montana night like an immense, segmented snake—with a single yellow eye probing the terrain ahead.
Ventry heard it long before he saw it. The rails sang and vibrated around him as he stood tall and resolute in mid-track, a three-cell silver flashlight in his right hand, his heavy sheepskin coat buttoned over the gun at his belt.
Have to flag it down. With the depot closed it won’t make a stop. No passengers. It’s looking for live game, and it doesn’t figure on finding any here at Bitterroot.
Surprise! I’m here. I’m alive. Like Amy. Like all the others. Man alone at night. Needs a ride. Climb aboard, pardner. Make yourself to home. Drink? Somethin’ to eat? Wha
t’s your pleasure?
My pleasure is your death—and the death of your freak train, mister!
That’s my pleasure.
It was in sight now, coming fast, slicing a bright round hole in the night—and its sweeping locomotive beam splashed Paul Ventry’s body with a pale luminescence.
The rancher swung his flash up, then down, in a high arc. Again. And again.
Stop, you bastard! Stop!
The train began slowing.
Sparks showered from the massive driving wheels as the train reduced speed. Slowing... slower... steel shrieking against steel. An easing of primal force.
It was almost upon him.
Like a great shining insect, the locomotive towered high and black over Ventry, its tall stack shutting out the stars. The rusted tip of the train’s thrusting metal cowcatcher gently nudged the toe of his right boot as the incredible night mammoth slid to a final grinding stop.
Now the train was utterly motionless, breathing its white steam into the cold dark, waiting for him as he had waited for it.
Ventry felt a surge of exultation fire his body He’d been right! It was here—and he was prepared to destroy it, to avenge his sister. It was his destiny. He felt no fear, only a cool and certain confidence in his ability to kill.
A movement at the corner of his eye. Someone was waving to him from the far end of the train, from the last coach, the trains only source of light. All of the other passenger cars were dark and blind-windowed; only the last car glowed hazy yellow.
Ventry eased around the breathing locomotive, his boots crunching loudly in the cindered gravel as he moved over the roadbed.
He glanced up at the locomotives high, double-windowed cabin, but the engineer was lost behind opaque, soot-colored glass. Ventry kept moving steadily forward, toward the distant figure, passing along the linked row of silent, lightless passenger cars. The train bore no markings; it was a uniform, unbroken black.
Things Beyond Midnight Page 16
