The Ghost Train

Gather round, gents and I’ll tells ya a story.  I calls it, The Ghost Train!

This sounds like another goddamn thing I’ve heard before: haunted house where a phantom train roars by every morning at 3:00 AM, but there’s no tracks or anything.  People research it and discover a horrible derailing disaster in the 1800’s or something, right where their house stands today.  Am I close?

Not even in the same rail yard, bucko.  You wanta hear this or not?

Is your story true?

As true as every story I tell!  I’d swear it on me dear mum’s grave.

The mom that loaned you fifty bucks last month?  That mom?

Well, she does have a cemetery plot up at Mt.—

Jesus, just get on with it.  You know you will anyway.

Ahem.  As I was saying… The Ghost Train!  Along back in the 70’s, this dude I know bought some abandoned ranchland down in Texas.  It was a steal, 10,000 acres, a total bargain.  Came complete with a huge-ass house and a manicured back yard.  He took one look at that huge open space behind the house and beneath the dogwood trees and pronounced it Party Central.  And thus, it was… for awhile.  Me and my pal Yank would drive down and stay at the Ranch for the whole weekend, which by the time we got our asses up on Sunday morning we’d be so wasted we’d take turns holding the barf-bucket for the driver so we’d not be late for work on Monday.

Ah, those were the days.

Truly.  *Sniff*   But such fancy-free fun and reckless debauchery were soon to come to an end: one Thursday, the dude who ran the Ranch called us and said stay the fuck away for a few weeks at least; he’d call us back when it was safe, if ever.  Naturally we envisioned problems with the law, and wondered what the hell was going on, but we respected his wishes.  We could make our own fun for a few weeks.

10,000 acre ranch, drunken out-of-towners, probably illegal drugs and underage girls I’m guessing… what could possibly go wrong?

Indeed.  But you hadda been there to understand.  It was amazing.  The Romans only dreamed of some of the crap that happened there on a schedule.  But I digress.

The dude calls back?

Yep!  But it’s a whole fucking year later.  And he sounds scared.  And he says we’re to come up this weekend and he’ll explain everything.  Me and Yank look at each other and I can tell he’s scared as shit too, but we feel honored to be chosen for the invite… so we agree solemnly to go there and do whatever the dude asks of us.  Unless it’s something homosexual in which case—

I get it.  Moving along?

Right.  So that weekend it’s not just us: apparently the dude has called everyone who has ever visited.  That’s, like, 500 people at least.  And we’re all gathered in the bodacious backyard, sitting in the grass, waiting for the dude to do his fucking PowerPoint presentation or whatever.  Gradually the light fades; the lighting bugs come out, and that special quiet only a west-Texas resident knows settles over us like cool refreshing spearmint for the mind.  He’s making us wait, but that’s cool.  It’s kind of nice out there.

Earlier, you said something about a Ghost Train?  Remember that?

Patience, young one.  It’s coming.  Eventually the darkness falls completely and the backyard lights pop on, but only as a dim glow.  We see our dudely host making his way through the crowd of people silently, touching heads, clasping hands.  But he’s moving, as if he’s trying to time his speech with something beyond his control.  Yank and I nod to each other when we see him glance at his watch repeatedly.

The Ghost Train’s Coming!

Hush, you’ll ruin it.  So he stands before us, a few feet beyond the edge of his manicured back yard and knee-high in buffalo grass.  The crowd falls silent, and because of the special west-Texas prairie silence, we can here him clear as a bell all the way back to the house.  And this is what he said, “A year ago I experienced something here some of which you may choose to recognize as… supernatural.”  Murmurs ripped through the crowd but quieted instantly, as everyone wanted to hear him speak.  “That is why I asked you to stay away, while I performed research, to figure this thing out.  Tonight, I am ready to share the results of that research.  And perhaps, with a little luck, we’ll all experience together what I call The Ghost Train!”  He explained that records from the 1950’s detail a horrible derailment and crash right here at this very spot!

Told ya!  Jesus, I have heard this one before.

It’s not the same story.  I swear… just hang on.  So then he says that the spirit of that train awakens every night at exactly 8:09, roars past his house, and disappears into the distance – as it should have done on that terrible night so long ago.  Naturally, everyone glances at their watch and are shocked to discover that 8:09 is but a minute or two away!  At once, he stops talking and looks to his left, where a thundering rumble is building.  A rainstorm?  But no, it’s getting louder.

Ghost Train!  Ghost Train!  Ghost Train!

When the horn sounds everyone practically shits their pants!  You simply cannot imagine how that horn sounded: it shook your teeth, it played with frequencies that destroy the human soul.  It was Satan coming to kill us all riding something massive and mechanical.  There’s chaos as people jump to their feet, unsure where to run, all but paralyzed with fear.  Then, like a huge heaving metal mountain this godawful huge locomotive comes blasting from everyone’s right, shoots across the grass behind the dude, and disappears stage left into utter darkness.  Within seconds the train’s noise is nothing more than the thunkady-thunk of cars being pulled past at 70, 80 MPH.  Yank makes an observation as soon as it’s quiet enough to think: some of those train cars look pretty sleek and modern for something outta the 1950’s.  Not only that, didn’t they use steam instead of diesel?

What?  No Ghost Train?

Sure enough, they can see the dude sprawled in the grass and rolling around laughing at the hilarious prank he just pulled on 500+ people.  Turns out, the tracks had been there all along when he bought the place, but because of a rail strike, no trains had actually come through for the first 13 months.  Then one night he was shocked awake by the first of many scheduled trains roaring through his backyard.

That’s really lame.  I hate you.

No, wait… there’s more.  A few weeks later Yank and I heard there’d been some kind of accident at the dude’s Ranch.  A few phone calls, and we had the whole thing: some of those 500+ people there that night were indescribably badass thugs.  High-end gangster types.  They didn’t think the joke was very funny.  So they arranged to have the tracks, um, modified right at the point closest to he dude’s Ranch house.  At 10:09 that night, 95 carloads of everything you can possibly imagine being hauled on a train were dumped along a two mile stretch of track in the worst Texas rail disaster anyone can ever recall.  The house was obliterated.  Some of the cars held dangerous chemicals and burned for days. Nobody ever found the dude’s body.

That’s… even lamer.  I hate you more.

No, but see?  Knowing the dude the way Yank and I did, we figured sure as shit there would be a Ghost Train at that property, once all the traumatic psychic crap sorted itself out.  I figure we’ll check back on it once every coupla years and see if the dude someday delivers on his promise.

It still sucks.  Now I’m sad, and filled with hatred for you at the same time.  Tell me a better story… something uplifting or funny or something.

Sure.  I gots a million of ‘em, me boy, a million of ‘em.  Lemme tells ya about the Princess and the Pee…