The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  I shook my head, if he expected me to be the plant expert because of my apothecary background, he was sorely mistaken. This was beyond my expertise. The plant was low to the ground and swallowed the light, creating a lush, velvety carpet that led over the rails and in the direction Nacto and I had taken that afternoon.

  We followed the vines. The growth led us to the Tate home.

  I pulled my seax from my belt and crept along with Nate. The walk was pleasant enough, smooth as we walked along this carpet of green, but it filled me with nameless dread. He led the way fearlessly, determined to protect me, pausing from time to time to sniff the air.

  We finally came upon a small building, though calling it a building would be generous. Clearly a building had once stood there, but all that remained was its foundation. The chimney had crumbled and broken, and it sagged to one side. A few timbers remained upright.

  There was a barn as well, and it had fared better. The shell of it remained but it had been gutted by the fire. Nate headed off to investigate.

  I moved in a small circle. The Tate family had been poor, but they had owned a wagon.. The wagon sat in need of new paint, but its wheels were in serviceable condition. They had clearly cared for and maintained their belongings. It was unlikely carelessness had caused their fire. Perhaps they left their hearth burning and a spark caused the fatal fire. That might explain the guilty chimney. Or an oil lamp fell over…But that just didn’t feel right. Nacto had said nine people burned here, the Tate family and possibly hired hands. Nine deaths. Surely, someone would have noticed a fire start. What had happened here?

  I walked the path from the remains of the house to the barn. The soft green ground was painfully beautiful in this place of death and loss.

  The dragon’s ruby in my pocket was heavy. I felt it so acutely I stumbled. A man lay before me, not a real man, a card to be sure, hoarding four pentacles. Far behind him was his home; he had traveled far from everything he knew. This was the Four of Pentacles but inverse. Greed. Materialism.

  I fell to my knees in the rubbery leaves, collapsing on the image of the man, shattering it. The ground should have been dry, parched by the fire. But it was cold and wet, slimy and so, so horrible. The fire was months ago, so the ground should have recovered. New life should have sprouted. Instead, a bubbly covering had formed, like algae on rocks, slick and spongy. My stomach suddenly lurched into my throat. Touching the earth disturbed it, breaking whatever spell had been cast upon the land, releasing a scent of evil and rot—the scent of death. It was days old, weeks old—the scent of decay—like a putrid, gangrenous limb.

  It came up in my hand like the leaves that enveloped the rails and crawled over our feet. I shook my hand violently to fling the gray-green coating off, it stung like nettles.

  Instead of a man of flesh and blood, there was a pile of bones laying in an untidy heap, thrown aside like a tangle of garbage. I had seen bones in finer shape outside a butcher’s shop. These had been dropped, and tossed carelessly about, reflecting in the moonlight in a way that nothing else here did. They were queer in this place of ash, gleaming white and so sad.

  I squatted down by the bones. He had been a large person, a man I would guess, by his height and the thickness. A hammer would have broken them upon impact, forming lines where they were crushed. These were cracked and splintered from so many places I could not tell from where the damage started, nor could I guess what caused it. Impossibly, it looked as if the bones shattered from the inside, they were splintered and bowed outward. It must have caused the man such pain. Growing up in the home of a healer, I have seen more horrific wounds than anyone should. I had never seen anything like this. I only hoped he had been dead when whatever caused his bones to erupt from within had struck him.

  The ground where he lay was depressed in a large ring. Something had stood there while the earth around it was scorched and the farm burned. The bones had been protected.

  I gagged, turning my head away to vomit. I could not wipe my mouth with my hand, I was covered in a thin, greasy layer of what I was certain was what was left of this poor man.

  Nate was still in the barn, searching out any signs of survivors. There would be none. This man had not been in the fire, his bones bore no marks of the fire. Those who had been in the fire were dead but charred, and I was not sure the fire was what killed them, either.

  I reached for his skull. I needed to look upon him. But I needed to not find dead, lifeless eyeballs or something equally disturbing staring back at me. I couldn’t explain why. I felt he deserved a witness to his end, his life, his death, something, anything. And I needed to have the strength not to look away.

  I let out a sob of relief, my throat still burning from sick. There was nothing so horrifying. I was almost disappointed I did not find the vacant, milky stare of dead, white eyes, the gray of brain, the red of blood and tissue and fresh injury. The skull had been broken, split across the front from temple to far cheek. The bone bulged. Something had been inside the bones fighting desperately to get out.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered to the skull. “I’m so sorry for whatever happened here.

  This person had been discarded like slaughtered cattle in a butchers-row. That a human being could be treated so, filled me with a choking sorrow.

  My hands were shaking. “These people were murdered.”

  The moment I said it I was struck by a dizzying sensation. Someone set a fish hook beneath my breastbone and jerked me off my feet. The world faded away to a sepia toned tintype and I was sucked into a world that was more real than the one I had been living in.

  I knelt again beside the bones and noticed the moment red-black sludge seeped into my knee as if the earth itself was surrendering up the remains of the dead man. With it, a shade crept up my body, cold at first then warmer as though I was sinking into a bath. I closed my eyes. I searched for something to anchor myself to. A hand; I grasped it tight.

  When I opened my eyes, I was kneeling in green grass. I was surrounded by several horses that nickered to one another, twitched their tails, and stamped their feet as they grazed with their soft velvety muzzles. Their riders, several men dressed for hard labor, were gathered around the small porch.

  One of them wore his brown hat pushed back on his crown as he scratched at his head, his dark red shirt was worn and stained—Mr. Massey. I immediately recognized his clothes. “You must understand, Mrs. Tate, the law just ain’t on your side,” he said, not unkindly.

  A woman sat shelling peas into a bowl. “It ain’t a matter of the railroad’s offer. It’s our home. We ain’t moving.” Her cream-colored dress was covered in tiny yellow and green flowers, faded from repeated washings. She paused and tucked a wisp of blond hair that had worked itself free of her braid behind her ear.

  “Oh, but you are.” The gathered men parted to allow one of their number to pass through. He was not a large man, but he exuded a cloud of fear among his followers.

  It is one thing to know someone is alive and to see their name in print, it is an entirely different matter to see that someone stand before you. My blood ran cold.

  “The railroad has authorized us to make their final offer,” Mr. Massey began.

  “Good, these meetings are getting tiring. My husband has told you time and time again, we ain’t interested.” She ripped peas open with tight, angry motions, tossing the pods into a rough wooden bucket, the peas into a ceramic bowl with a blue painted rim.

  “Missus Tate, you do not understand. This will be the final offer.” The icy tone set a chill racing through me. “You would be well advised to move, now.”

  “You heard her,” a deep voice admonished.

  Geiger turned. I could not mistake him for another man, though much about him had changed since last I saw him. He had traded the cap for a stylish brown bowler in bad need of a dusting. He wore brown leather gloves despite the warm day, and a gray tweed suit with a waistcoat beneath that was only a shade lighter. A stylish man would wear color of
some kind. He had a thick mustache, but his skin had become pock-marked and craggy as though a long-suffering illness had stolen his vitality and health. I had seen burns before; this was not the look of burns, this was the look of hard living. It was the look of permanent scowling and raw hatred.

  He was the man who made deals with demons, the man who created life from circuits and machines. Nate and I saw him burn in the factory beneath Mr. Sterling’s Factory. Geiger had cheated death itself.

  Geiger turned to the man who had spoken and was now making his way toward them from the field. It was the same look Geiger had given me. The center of this man’s attention was a horrible place to be. I very much doubted that had changed. I was also sure time had not mellowed Mr. Geiger at all.

  A tall, broad-shouldered farm hand made his way to them. His skin was the color of the perfect cup of hot tea before adding any milk. His clothes and cowboy hat were worn. “The Tates are not selling.”

  Another woman, dark like the man, was swapping dry laundry on the line for wet laundry in a basket. She watched the scene warily, moving slowly. Her green apron fluttered slightly as she moved, the wind determined to keep her from going unnoticed. She was beautiful, with proud, queenly features, her black hair caught up in a bright green scarf.

  Geiger rolled his mouth, tasting the words before nodding to himself. Finally, he smiled, a thin, unkind smile of fury. “Mr. Massey, round them up.”

  The riders moved stiffly, with pale faces and wide eyes. Mr. Massey grabbed his gun and jammed it into the dark-skinned man’s stomach. He froze mid-stride, his mouth hanging open in shock, the same look as the skull on the ground. I screwed my eyes closed trying to hold the vision, but it was fading. I saw both the man and his bones beneath. I saw the farm and the skeletal remains of the burned-out husk of the farm. The two images swam before my eyes, melded, fading into one another.

  Two of Geiger’s riders charged at the woman hanging the clothes on the line, took her by the arms, and dragged her to the porch.

  Mrs. Tate gasped. The man fought against Mr. Massey to get to her. One of the women screamed. The sound jolted me out of the vision.

  Screams. A woman? Yes, but also a child, high pitched and fearful. My pulse throbbed in my ears. I forced myself to look through the burned-out land, the skeletal frame of the farmhouse’s blackened timbers.

  Geiger stood, his arms folded, watching his riders pummel the farmhand between them. “Mr. Massey,” he finally warned, “If your boys kill him, I’ll have to use you instead.”

  Use him? Use him for what? I stared at the bones in my hand, at the skull, at my own vomit. Mr. Geiger murdered them all. I needed to know how. I needed to know what he did to this man. What would cause a man to burst from the inside out? I was sure it had to do with his demon, the creature I’d seen with the lupine bone skull and soulless eyes.

  Suddenly the ruby in my pocket was hot. A rush of energy flooded through me in a heady burst. I breathed out, and the remains of the farmhouse became whole again.

  Mr. Geiger let himself into the farmhouse. The hand I was holding twitched. For an instant it clenched, grasping at my own hand. I gasped and looked and the vision was lost to me. The skeletal hand had not moved. But I know I felt the life reaching out in despair. He needed a witness to his life. He deserved a witness to his death.

  More sharp screams, crying echoed in my ears.

  Geiger came from the farmhouse, his heavy boots clomping on the steps. “Burn it down, gentlemen. We are done here.”

  They did not argue. They pulled torches from their saddles and carefully lit them. There was no joy, no bloodlust in their actions. They were damned men, resigned that their master was the devil and whatever their motivation had been in the beginning, they dared not cross him now. They had thrown their lot in with him long ago.

  “You can’t!” I leapt to my feet. I knew I was missing something, but there were people here somewhere—Mrs. Tate, the woman, and I heard a child, at least one child—people didn’t just disappear. They were here! I stumbled.

  My breath caught in my throat. What had he done? I spun to catch him as he moved past, but he was already directing his men to unload a large boiler from a wagon.

  The riders grunted and struggled under the weight of it. I couldn’t shake the feeling I had seen something like it before.

  The farmhouse was quickly engulfed in flames, and beneath the hungry roar of flames tearing ravenously into dry timber I could hear sobbing, the pitiful cries of a child. I stepped forward and reached for Mr. Massey’s coat. It moved through my fingers. I could feel it, but I could not grasp it.

  Then I remembered, I was not there, I was a ghost, an apparition, out of my time. And, yet, I could smell the acrid scent of his tobacco and the stink of a man who was not overly concerned with washing. He moved through me.

  “Please, please don’t do this!” I leapt forward but there was nowhere for me to go. The harder I tried to move toward the farmhouse, the more it seemed to retreat. Mr. Massey turned his back on the scene. For a moment, I felt he looked right at me, and he recoiled as though surprised to be caught in this vile deed.

  “It answers my call” Mr. Geiger did not turn. “The beast calls me master. Remember that, or it will wear your skin.”

  But Mr. Massey was not looking at me. The little hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. All the breath fled from my lungs and I was dimly aware that aside from the fire’s hungry roar, the rest of the house had fallen silent as a tomb.

  I wheeled. The men could not see me, but Mr. Geiger’s monster could. Its soulless, cold orbs gleamed out from dark sockets. It stared at me, an amused expression on its fleshless skull. I stumbled backward.

  “All the sin and misery of the world calls to you,” Geiger said, his voice a deep, soft drone. “I will give you a form strong enough to live in this world that does not depend on the vices of man. I, alone, have that power.”

  Geiger’s men beat the farmhand until he was bloody, then shoved him into the little chamber. I turned from the monster to the boiler chamber. Someone had to do something, anything! Please!

  The monster looked at me, its head cocked to one side. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. It walked the way birds do, bobbing lightly as it moved. The mouth parted slightly and uttered a shriek that set my teeth on edge. It was both a challenge and an amused cry. We shared a terrible secret. We could see one another.

  It raised its canine muzzle to the sky, as if tasting misery, blood, and death in the air. Its head swiveled from the burning farm to Geiger to the giant boiler, then it started moving toward the boiler.

  I trembled, sweat snaking down my back.

  Geiger slid back a panel on the boiler, revealing vents and large circular windows. I had seen it before. It was a version of the boiler chamber from the laboratory beneath Sterling’s Factory, back in London, where Nate and I had first battled Geiger.

  It was also the boiler on the plans I had stolen from Mr. Cassatt’s office. Geiger tricked him into believing it was a new kind of locomotive. Nate and I were not fooled. We had suspected it was something monstrous.

  The farmhand beat his fists on the panel, screaming curses at Geiger and his riders. Then he saw the monster. The cry on his lips gurgled away. “I ain’t afraid of you, monster!” the man shrieked, punching the wall of the boiler again. His voice cracked.

  Mr. Geiger chewed on a sulfur match. “You will be.”

  The monster stood before the vents, panting slightly, tasting the air. Then it loomed like a giant black shadow, its skull grew dull, out of focus, like smoke. It flowed through the vents, seeping through the cracks and clouding the glass.

  The man’s screams pierced the night, high and thin. His fists frantically battered the glass. The boiler rocked manically from side to side, burying the heavy rim into the grass, then the mud, then fell silent.

  I whipped my head back.

  Geiger stared at the boiler. His dark eyes were wide and joyous with
the lust of a madman. “Open it.”

  Mr. Massey was pale.

  “I. Said. Open. It.” Every word was a separate command, sharply accented. Geiger closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Massey nodded and rushed past me. He threw back the bolts.

  The man within stumbled from the boiler and staggered forward. Then he straightened and squared his shoulders, suddenly very strong and confident. His dark eyes opened, but they were now pale as the full moon, glassy and white. His strong, wide nose lifted in the air and tasted it.

  “As I promised, a body free of the need of human vice.” Geiger grinned, oily and terrible as a viper.

  The world around me was on fire—a hot, angry fearsome roar; not merely a sound but a consuming growl that rattled me to the core. My ears throbbed, my eyes burned. It was the sound of my blood screaming through me, racing through my veins, leaving me weak and shaking like a raw, exposed nerve. I forced myself to open my eyes.

  Then the man beside me fell forward, shaking. His powerful frame contracted in jerky fits. I scrambled to him, at a loss for what to do. I knelt over him, cradled his head in my hand. At first, my hand seemed to slide through his hair and flesh, stopping at his skull. His dark and curly hair had been cropped close to his scalp. He was handsome with a strong, square jaw. Now he was curled up, hissing in agony, his eyes were orbs of cloudy ice, empty and soulless. A cold sweat broke out in beads across his face, and his teeth were clenched so hard I thought they might crack.

  I took his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. His eyes went wide and, within them, I could see The Tower. Lightning struck and tore the very place he stood from beneath him and sent him tumbling headfirst toward the earth far below. His very nature was changing, becoming chaotic.

  His hand punched through mine, striking the dirt. He gave a gurgle, struggled to exhale. He was drawing in air, ever-expanding, ever-pressing outward as though something within was fighting to get out, willing to do anything to get free.

  He clasped his free arm around his chest and a groan, sick and fevered, slipped past his lips. His frantic eyes searched my face. He was begging me for help as he struggled to keep himself together, even as something was tearing him apart.