Strange Ghosts Read online

  One of the men with a shotgun, a burly fellow with a double chin, cleared his throat. He had the kind of mean-ass stare that would have made children wet their pants. "Come back next weekend," he growled.

  "We really have no place to stay," Graber said. "The Inn is a mess."

  "Oh," I said, backing toward the door, deciding to see just how far their lack of hospitality would go. "Well . . . I've got a tent in my car. I'll just camp in the woods for the night."

  "This ain't no state park," the man with the shotgun snapped.

  I nodded. "Yeah, well, what the government doesn't know can't hurt them, right?" I waved, turning toward the door. "It's not too cold. I should be all right."

  "Wait a minute," Graber said, sighing.

  "John—" the man who was standing said.

  "It's all right, Larry," Graber said. He looked at me. "I do have a room you can stay in."

  "We shouldn't do this," the burly man with the shotgun said.

  "I won't be any trouble," I said. "Just a bed and some clean sheets is all I need."

  Others were starting to speak, and Graber held up his hand to silence them. "Go left on Bogs," he said, "through the town, and stay on it for five minutes. You'll see a yellow mailbox. There's a key under the Buddha statue."

  "John—" the burly man with the shotgun said.

  "Let it be, Fred," the tall man said. "You go on now, son. We're having a . . . . a town meeting here, that's all. Might be a couple of hours before John comes back."

  "Sure," I said. "Sorry to intrude." I nodded at Graber. "Thanks for making an exception."

  He nodded. Most of the men were frowning at me. I headed outside, feeling a little bad about lying to them. The moon was bright enough that I saw my shadow on the gravel. Getting into the Honda, I saw a crack appear in the blinds.

  I eased the car onto the main road. I was planning on heading to the motel when I felt the itch. It's the itch that every reporter feels when he senses a story. My first instinct was to ignore the feeling, which was what I usually did. But seeing the old guys back in the diner reminded me of Dad. He would have been about the same age. Dad had been so happy when I decided to follow him into journalism, and equally as disappointed when I told him I didn't think it was something I was cut out to do.

  "You won't guilt me into this," I said aloud.

  I drove a little farther, to the edge of town now, then remembered something he had said to me shortly before he died, and about six months before we stopped speaking to one another. He had discovered that I had been in Honolulu a year earlier when Senator Brown's daughter lost her legs to a shark on Waikiki Beach, and he wondered why I hadn't gotten the story. When I told them I had been on vacation, he had wrinkled his nose in that distinctive way that made me feel like used cat litter and said, "A good reporter is always on the job." In all my life, I could never remember Dad saying he was proud of me. Never once did he pat me on the back and say I was doing well. It was always, "You didn't get that ending right," or, "Is this really the truth of the story?"

  A good reporter is always on the job.

  "Shit," I said, and took a hard right into the parking lot next to the auto repair shop. There was some space behind the building, where my car would be out of sight from the main road, and that's where I parked. When my headlights fell on the dumpster, a black and white cat sprinted through the hole in the chain link fence.

  I walked briskly back to the diner, staying in the shadows. I circled around to the parking lot side, to the last window. Heart pounding, I cupped my ear against the cool glass. There was a conversation going on, one voice lapping right up against another, but I could only make a few words.

  " . . . train . . . last time . . . make sure of it . . ."

  " . . . why can't we . . . a few of us . . ."

  "No! The risk . . . "

  " . . . got to be this way . . . "

  " . . . easy for you . . ."

  " . . . we agreed . . . vote stands . . ."

  This went on for ten minutes, but I never could get a good sense of what they were talking about. Suddenly the voices stopped and I heard what sounded like chairs and tables scooting along the floor. The front door rattled, the bell rang, and I ducked behind the building. The shadows were so deep there it was like stepping into a black cloud. I banged my shin against a gas meter and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from making any sound. I massaged my leg, expecting any moment a cacophony of voices, a slapping of backs, a see you next time, Bill and Bob and Lou. But instead I heard only the crunching of feet on the gravel. Then this noise stopped, the door closed and then there was only the sound of the pines stirring in the breeze.

  I remained absolutely still.

  "You all ready?" one of them said. I recognized it as the voice of the tall one—Larry.

  There was a murmur of ascent.

  "All right, then," Larry said. "No sense waiting. Got good moon."

  I heard them walking on the gravel again, and then it changed to the duller sound of them walking on asphalt, the footfalls moving away. Cautiously, I peered around the corner and saw them walking down the center of the street, two or three abreast. Several had flashlights trained on the ground. I watched them as they walked to the edge of the town, and I wondered if this was some sort of ritual that concluded their meetings, a pleasure stroll before getting in their cars and going home to their wives. I expected them to turn and head back, but instead they kept walking, not along the curve of the road, but straight into the woods.

  Afraid they would reappear, I hesitated, then decided what the hell. I reached the woods perhaps a minute after them. Winded, my sweaty shirt sticking to my chest, I lingered there until my heart stopped pounding in my ears. A thick wall of ferns blocked my passage. I heard the crackle of twigs and dry leaves in the distance, and I plunged through the ferns.

  Moonlight breaking through the gaps in the trees allowed me to see a narrow trail, tall grass crowding the way. I was wondering if I might have lost them somehow when I heard a murmur of voices directly to my right, off the trail. I turned in their direction, having to force my way through a wall of prickly bushes whose branches scratched at my exposed face and neck like sharp fingernails, and then I was in the open again.

  The canopy of pine trees blocked most of the light, but I made my way by targeting the occasional spot of moonlight, one after another. I heard the voices, and this time they were louder and more distinct, so I slowed, careful to watch where I stepped. I came upon a dry creek bed a dozen feet across, pines crowding both sides like spectators at a parade. Leaning out into the open, I saw flashes of light up ahead, in what appeared to be the middle of the ravine.

  Watching the lights, I became aware of a peculiar shape up ahead, in the middle of a circular area that must have once been the pond that fed the creek. It was some type of house. As I approached, I saw a flat area out in front, a long, narrow deck. Then I saw the two dark bands stretching in front of the structure, and suddenly the shape made sense. It was a train station. The dark bands were train tracks—tracks that only extended as far as the edges of the creek bed.

  "Hold it right there, mister," a voice said behind me.

  I slipped forward into the ravine, and had to sit to stop from going down. When I turned, one of the old men from the diner was standing there, a bald, heavy-set fellow in overalls, a shotgun in the crook of his arm. I was relieved to see he wasn't pointing it at me.

  "Damn," he said, shaking his head. He had a slightly protruding forehead, his eyes lost in shadows. "Larry thought he heard something, but . . . What the hell are you doing up here?"

  I swallowed. "Well . . ."

  "Guess it don't matter now," he said. "Come on, head down there toward the others."

  "Look," I said, "I didn't mean anything. I'll just go. I'm—"

  "That ain't gonna happen now," he said. "Don't make me ask again."

  Frowning, he shifted the shotgun in his arms. I walked down into the ravine, him trailing behind. Th
e bottom of the creek bed was littered with rocks under the grass, and my foot came down painfully on them more than once. As we neared the other men, I saw them turn on the platform, heard the hollowness of their footsteps on the wood. When they shined their flashlights on me, I could only see them in silhouette. I stopped when I reached the train tracks—real train tracks, shiny and new.

  "You were right," the one behind me said.

  "Damn, son," Larry said. He was standing in the middle of the bunch.

  I wondered just how the hell I could get out of this situation. "Look, I . . . called my editor on my cell phone before I came up here. She knows where I am. I was just . . . just looking around, and—"

  "Calm down," Larry said. "We're not gonna hurt you. It's just unfortunate you're here, that's all."

  "He can't be here when the train comes!" It was the burly guy with the shotgun. Fred.

  "What do you want do want to do?" Larry snapped. "Shoot him?" When Fred didn't answer, he said, "None of us here are killers."

  "But the vote . . ." It was Graber, the Inn owner.

  "The vote is the same," Larry said.

  "But he might talk," someone else said, a man who hadn't spoken before. "People might come looking."

  Larry was silent a moment. "Well, we'll just have to trust he'll do the right thing. Come on up here, son. Train might be here at any moment, and there's something we need to tell you. Point your flashlights away from him, boys, so he can see."

  Train? Wondering just what kind of pack of loonies I was dealing with here, I stepped over the tracks and climbed onto the platform. With the flashlights directed away, I got a better look at the station in the moonlight, and I marveled at the craftsmanship. There was a ticket window, several benches, and a sign hanging from chains with shiny brass letters: "Stone Creek Station."

  "Did you guys build this?" I asked.

  "Yes," Larry said.

  "Why?"

  Before he could answer, a far-off whistle pierced the stillness. Everyone backed up, fanning out along the platform. I turned along with them, hearing other sounds now: the churning creek of wheels, the screech of brakes, the hiss of steam, getting louder. I expected a joke, a guy with a boom box maybe, but then I saw a black oval appear above the end of the tracks to my left.

  Thinking it was something in my eye, I blinked several times, but the spot didn't go away; instead, it grew in size, blotting out the forest behind it. A light appeared in the blackness. The screeching became deafening, the whistle came again, and then a shape emerged from the rift.

  I saw a headlight. Black chrome. A smokestack.

  A train.

  The steam-driven locomotive pulled to a stop in front of us, smoke rising from the stack, a single red passenger car in tow. A band of yellow lights extended along the top edge of the passenger car. The interior was lighted, and I saw the shadowy silhouettes of passengers, perhaps a dozen of them, sitting at the windows.

  At first, I thought perhaps the windows were tinted, but I realized with a cold chill that it wasn't so: I could clearly see the green-felt seats and the yellow walls; only the people were fuzzy to me, borderless, their distinctiveness washed out and grayed. It was as if each of them wore a black nylon netting stretched tight over their bodies.

  A door at the rear of the passenger car opened and these dark apparitions filed onto the platform. I backed away, but the others stood their ground. When the figures reached the group, each of them stopped in front of a different man.

  "Son?"

  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I knew the voice even before I turned and saw him—a lanky, sixty-year-old man with big hands and a full head of gray hair, his gold-rimmed bifocals low on his nose. He was dressed in a white, button-up shirt left open at the collar, red suspenders, and pleated brown slacks. It was what he usually wore, except sometimes the shirt was blue instead of white. He was wearing it the last time I saw him, when I told him to go to hell.

  My mouth went dry, and when I tried to speak, my throat constricted so that the word came out as more of a gasp.

  "Dad?" I said.

  Even in the moonlight, he seemed solid, as a real person should. He definitely didn't look like the apparitions that had emerged from the train; then I saw that there were no more apparitions. All of them had become real people, men and women alike, some old, some young, even a child or two among them. They were talking to the men from the diner.

  "How have you been doing?" Dad asked.

  "Fine," I said, swallowing.

  "And Anne?"

  I didn't answer. What was I supposed to say? We got divorced, Dad. She cheated on me and she had ever reason because I was never much of a husband. That what you wanted to hear? I learned from the best. You didn't teach me much, Dad, but you certainly taught me how to fail at being a decent human being.

  But I didn't want to ruin the moment. Something amazing was happening, and I didn't want to ruin it. I tried to bottle all the bitterness inside.

  "She's fine," I said.

  "Good, good, glad to hear it," he said, though he didn't sound like he cared all that much one way or the other. "What paper are you working for now?"

  The fear I'd felt seconds earlier was gone, replaced by a rising irritation. I didn't like the direction the conversation was going. It was falling into a familiar routine.

  "Various places," I said.

  "What paper?"

  "Did I say I was working for a paper?"

  "No reason to get angry."

  "I'm not angry," I said, though clearly I was. And then everything I'd been pushing down deep inside broke free. "What, you want to hear that I'm out of work? Well, it's true. I'm a bum. I was certainly never good at being a reporter, but you already knew that, didn't you? It probably makes you happy seeing how miserable I am now, doesn't it?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," he said stonily. "How could you think that of me?"

  I turned away. A mild sense of panic swelled up inside me. I didn't know what was happening, but I sensed that it was an opportunity that might never come again. Here was a chance to mend things, and I didn't want to squander it.

  "I'm sorry," I said, turning back to him. "I'm sorry about what happened, you know." My throat was tightening. It was hard to get out the words. "Really, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about not speaking to you. About not coming to the hospital. But you understand, don't you? I couldn't . . . I thought I was a failure in your eyes."

  "I only wanted you to live up to your potential," he said.

  I don't know what I expected him to say, but that certainly wasn't it. I opened my mouth to answer, then shook my head and laughed at the absurdity of it all, us repeating the same lines we had said dozens of times before, now, in this place. Wasn't this supposed to be one of those fairy tale moments when the father realizes how wrong he has been to the son, when he apologies and asks for forgiveness, when all past hurts are healed and all past wrongs are put to rest?

  "I don't believe you," I said. "You're dead, and you still won't change."

  "I only wanted the best for you," he said.

  "Why couldn't you just tell me you love me for who I am?"

  "You shouldn't need me to say such a thing. You should be stronger than that."

  It was then that I realized that no amount of hoping or expecting or wanting could get someone to be other than who they were. People may change or they may not, but they had to do it on their own. And once they were gone, even that possibility died, too. All you could do was come to terms with the memories—to accept the choices you made and make the best of them. For the first time, I also realized that I had been doing my best my whole life to fail as a journalist, because I had been sure I could never be as good as my father.

  The train whistle sounded.

  Dad was opening his mouth to say something else, but I didn't give him another chance to hurt me. I grabbed him and hugged him. I couldn't have said whether he felt like my father, because I couldn't remember the last time I hugged him,
but he felt as I imagined he would: thin and frail, a man who was much bigger in print than he was in real life.

  Then, as I turned to smile at him, his image faded and became shadow-like. My arms slipped through him as if he was made of air. I saw his head dip as he nodded at me, then he joined with the other apparitions filing toward the train. Some of the men around me were weeping. One by one, the shadow-things climbed aboard, slipping into their seats, a few waving hazy arms, a few pressing cloudy faces up to the glass. The engine churned to life, the wheels turned, and with a screech the train lurched forward and disappeared through the dark spot on the other side of the tracks.

  When it was gone, I turned, and there were all the men gathering around me. There was happiness. There was grief. I saw hope and despair. Life was complicated. I realized that death should be no different.

  "How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

  Larry, looking drained, stepped up to me. "I'll answer all of your questions," he said. "But first you got to promise you'll help us with something."

  "What's that?"

  He looked at his friends gathered around him, then back at me. A stiff breeze rifled through the trees, making the sign hanging above us creak.

  "Help us destroy this place," he said.

  * * * * *

  The next day, armed with cans of gasoline and a dozen fire extinguishers, we returned to Stone Creek Station. The place didn't seem so impressive in harsh light of a noonday sun. Within an hour, we had burned it to the ground.

  They told me they had woken ten years earlier, all with the same vision: to build the station in this specific place in the woods, and to be there on a full moon in November. Why the vision came to these particular men they didn't know, except, they figured, all of them had recently lost somebody important. Each of them saw that person when the train appeared. Every year, they had returned to the station, a few of them dying off along the way, until ten years had passed. Though they had been old men when they started, at least they had been living. Now they had spent their whole year waiting for the next time the train appeared.