Night Train

“The company sent me a train ticket and a retainer, but no explanation of why you need a Paranormal Investigator.” Peter grabbed the seat back as the train pulled out of the station. The conductor, Mr. Sniggle, standing opposite him barely wavered.

“Thought it best you see for yourself.” Sniggle pointed to the middle of the car.

A woman sat alone at a pair of facing seats with a table in between. She reminded Peter of a schoolmarm like one might see in old westerns. Her dark hair rolled up on the top of her head, a button-up blouse with a collar that covered her neck and skirt that covered her ankles completed the picture. Despite the darkness and the years of grime frosting the glass, her gaze remained fixed out the window.

“Unusual clothing. Going to a costume ball, maybe?”

The train jerked enough that Sniggle grabbed a seat back as well.

“She’s come on the Tuesday night train dressed like that for the last six weeks.”

“Unusual, but still.”

“It was her ticket that alerted me.” Sniggle held out a ticket stub. “This is the sixth one.”

Peter took the proffered piece of thick paper and examined it. The date caught his eye.

“Issued nearly one hundred years ago.” Peter examined the lady again. “Anything else?”

“The night train is usually pretty empty, like tonight. But a few times there’s been guys go try and to chat her up, you know.” Sniggle glanced in the lady’s direction. “Well, they all leave mighty quick and they all look like the devil’s chasing after them.”

Peter nodded. “Right, I guess I need to check her out.”

The conductor rubbed his chin and grinned.

“No, not that way…” Peter waged a finger at the conductor.

Peter stumbled his way to the center of the car. He sat down opposite the lady and placed his battered leather satchel on the table between them. The lady never moved her gaze from the window. An emerald aura that smelled of Brussel sprouts surrounded her. Peter shifted in his seat, he needed to take care when dealing with a source.

“Good evening. My name is Peter. Looks like we’re both headed south this evening. My first time. You?”

The lady did not react.

“Interesting outfit. Going to a party? I haven’t been to a costume ball in years.”

Her brown eyes pinned him to his seat like a mounted butterfly. Cold crept from the back of his neck and down his spine. An urge to flee overwhelmed him. Magic. Peter muttered a few words, and the sensation stopped. The lady’s eyes went wide and then she shifted back to looking out the window.

Peter considered more conversation, but he might not be able to ward off a second attack. Better, perhaps, to take on an unaggressive posture and observe. He rummaged in his briefcase and pulled out a battered copy of Nostradamus. He’d successfully worked out two of the prophecies, though the second translation cost him dearly. He sat back, rifled to a random page, and placed the book in a position that he could watch the lady over the top. He read the prophet’s verse.

From the human flock nine will be sent away,

Separated from judgment and counsel:

Their fate will be sealed on departure,

Kappa, Thita, Lambda the banished dead err.

Peter raised an eyebrow at the implication of the third line to his current commission. He wondered about the passenger count this evening.

Two stops later, the train jerked enough to cause the lady to grab the table and look in Peter’s direction.

“You read Nostradamus?” she said.

“More than read. I am working on the meaning of several of his prophecies.”

The lady shook her head. “That is a dangerous endeavor.”

“Hmm, yes, I know from hard experience. My name is Peter, by the way.” Peter held his breath.

“I’m Anna.” She smiled.

“Lodestone,” announced the conductor, “Next stop Lodestone.”

“This is my stop.” Anna stood and walked away.

Peter waited until she went out of sight, and the train came to a stop. He threw his book in the satchel, grabbed the handle, and chased after Anna.

“Be careful. The return train comes through in three hours.” Sniggle admonished as Peter rushed by.

Anna moved like a bird gliding through the clouds. Peter jogged to keep up. They left the tiny train station, little more than a rain cover, and headed down Lodestone’s main street. They passed boarded-up shops for the three blocks of ‘downtown.’ Dark, single-story houses lined the street for another four blocks. A half-moon supplied the only light. Despite the evening cold, sweat appeared on Peter’s brow. Maybe he should lose that thirty pounds Dr. Martin kept pestering him about.

The last building before the road led to empty fields was a small wooden church. Anna glided towards it and then off to the far side and out of sight. Peter pushed himself harder. As he rounded the corner of the church, he spotted her standing in the church cemetery. He pulled back behind the church and stuck his head around the corner to watch.

Anna faced away from him. She appeared to be singing, yet he heard nothing. A green mist flowed up from the ground and shrouded her feet in haze. The mist strengthened and roiled. Was it his imagination or was she shrinking? No, the mist sucked her, inch-by-inch, into the ground.

Peter ran towards Anna, but too late. Her head disappeared, followed by the green mist as he arrived on the scene. Peter rummaged through his briefcase and pulled out a small flashlight. The grave she’d stood on bore the name David Smythe. Peter searched the other gravestones, but the name Anna did not appear. He checked his watch and headed back to the train station. He hoped the engineer would see him and stop.

#

“What can I help you with today, Peter?” The librarian, Greta, greeted him with a big toothy smile while she straightened her white linen blouse. Peter knew Greta had a crush on him, so remained expressionless.

“I need to find out about the town Lodestone, south of here, about one hundred miles.”

“Ah yes. Curious name, given that they mined gold there. I believe it got that moniker from the deposits of magnetite in the area. Stuff plays havoc with compasses.”

Peter followed Greta upstairs to the older archives, but hesitated at the top. The library’s architect designed the upper floor out of glass blocks. Greta told him once that the design allowed more natural light through to the lower floor. Peter took a step out and swayed. The glass had a slightly greenish appearance. He imagined being sucked down by a ravenous mist from last night. His heart raced.

“Seriously, Peter. It’s perfectly safe.” Greta stared back at him with a mocking grin.

“Just admiring the design.” Peter took in a deep breath and moved ahead.

Peter found Greta halfway down the left stacks poking at folios of old newspapers.

“So, Lodestone only existed for about 10 years, till the gold ran out.” Greta pointed at a section of folios on the shelf. “Right about here. ‘The Weekly Herald’. Grab a few folios and bring them to the reading table.”

Four hours later, Peter straightened his back, eliciting a resounding crack in his neck. He’d read about the celebrations, dirty politics and crimes taking place in Lodestone over the ten years of its existence. There were plenty of death notices, some from natural causes and more than a few at the hands of a local resident. The name Anna never appeared.

Peter returned to an article about the fire at the local church and the call for donations to rebuild. One mine owner got great praise for donating some land just out of town. The article did not explain what was wrong with the first location. A curious omission.

#

Peter stepped off the afternoon train at the Lodestone station. An aging gentleman in paint splattered dungarees applied white wash to the waiting bench. He stopped and eyeballed Peter.

“Hello, my name’s Peter. Who might you be?”

“Micha.” The man spat on the platform.

“You live in Lodestone?”

Micha looked Peter up and down. “Nobody lives in Lodestone. The railroad only maintains this station to service the nearby farming communities. Don’t know why as farm folk all have cars or pickups to get them places.” Micha spat again and grinned. “Keeps me employed, so I can’t complain.”

“So, you wouldn’t know where the church that burned down was located? Maybe there’s a graveyard there?”

Micha spat again and made the sign of the cross. “Not a good idea, messing with gravesites in a place like this.”

Micha turned his back on Peter and went back to painting. Peter shrugged and headed off into town. Dried-up empty buildings stared out through glassless window frames. A single match would burn the place off the map.

Peter walked down to the churchyard. The old church leaned to the east. A covey of doves flew off as Peter approached. The graveyard that seemed so large and mysterious at night now looked like an untended garden, overgrown with wild wheat and thistles. Peter retraced his steps from the night before and studied the gravestones. He recognized a few names from ‘The Weekly Herald,’ a murder victim and the murderer, hanged and buried only a few feet from the person they’d killed. A dead end for them and now for Peter.

Peter rotated around through a full circle. The scrub land heading out of town did not look promising. The town comprised one main street and a second street back away from the station. Peter strode off to explore that second avenue.

Houses, not shops, lined the road. Years of dusty wind eroded any sign of their original color. Collapsing roofs covered battered gray walls. Peter paused at an empty lot with houses on both sides. The remains of a stone foundation peeked out from the dry weeds. Peter pushed his way through, then circumnavigated the wall.

He stumbled on a flat rock. “Damn.” The ground trembled and his vision shifted. The world changed. A tall, light-blue structure stood to his right. Tombstones half-filled a well-manicured lawn on his left. Peter suppressed his vertigo, walked over, and read the names.

His vision shifted again. The building disappeared. He stood in the middle of a field with fallen tombstones half buried and rendered unreadable by the ravages of wind and time.

Peter walked back to the depot. Micha had left. Peter checked the whitewash had dried, sat on the bench and pulled Nostradamus out of his bag. Maybe he’d get an inspiration during the next several hours.

#

The brakes squealed as the night train pulled into Lodestone station. Peter waited as Anna climbed down the steps the conductor had placed on the platform. She moved to one side to pass him. He shifted over to block her. They repeated their little dance twice more.

“Get out of my way. I have somewhere to be.”

A wave of magenta colored fear with the scent of rotting fish poured out of Anna’s eyes and swirled around Peter. He gulped and lifted an amulet that hung around his neck. “You need to listen to me.”

Anna stared at the amulet and growled. Peter winced as some of the fear she flung at him touched his skin. The onslaught broke off, and he fell forward a step. They stood nose-to-nose.

“You’re going to the wrong cemetery,” said Peter.

Anna wrinkled her brow and tried to move past him again.

“It’s the lodestone deposits.” Peter blocked her way. “They’re fouling up your sense of direction.”

Anna blinked. “Your name is Peter. How do I know that?”

“I can guide you to the right place,” said Peter

“What a kind gentleman you are. Not like some brutes on the train. Have you noticed how strangely they dress?”

“Come with me.” Peter offered his arm. “Perhaps you can tell me the purpose of your visit to Lodestone?”

“I live here.” Anna looked around. “Though it seems like the shop owners need to do some upkeep on their properties. Most shabby.”

“You’ve been visiting someone?”

“Yes, I attended the birth of my great-granddaughter. Promised myself to be around for that event.” Anna giggled. “Do I look that old to you? I certainly don’t feel that old.”

“You look barely old enough to have a child.”

Peter struggled to not get lost in Anna’s smile. “Here we are.”

“Are you sure?” Anna frowned as she scanned the area. “It’s just an empty lot.”

Peter steadied himself and mumbled a few words. The blue mist rose and swirled to form a small blue church. The steeple bell rang the hour.

“Ah. I see it now.” Anna let go of Peter’s arm. “I have to go. Perhaps you’ll come by for a visit sometime.”

Anna walked towards the graveyard. The blue mist swirled once more. Anna and the church faded away.

Peter touched the warm spot where Anna had held onto him during their short walk. A Nostradamus verse came to mind. Peter’s satchel rumbled. He opened it and a firefly of green light slipped out of his book and flew across the graveyard. The light hovered over a fallen gravestone, revealing the words ‘Annabelle Campbell,’ before it passed into the stone and out of sight.