The Black Train

by Edward Lee

  II

  Lottie had dreamed she was being raped in the dirt by soldiers in gray uniforms. “Don’t bust her belly,” one of them laughed. In the dream, Lottie was very, very skinny but also very, very pregnant. “Keep the baby in the bitch ’fore we get her up the hill…”

  She’d been shorn of all her body hair in a strange barn full of boiling vats, and though she wasn’t sure, she thought she’d been naked for several months. Outside, the men took turns raping her on her hands and knees, while the rest of the prisoners were packed back into the wagon. “Give that bastard baby some Tennessee jism to swaller!” one guffawed, hoisting up his trousers. “Ain’t gonna be no milk waitin’ fer him when he comes out!”

  The soldiers all laughed. When they were done, they squashed her back into the evil-smelling wagon with the dozens of others. Lottie could see through the slats that the wagon was taking them up a winding path, to a great smoking hill.

  The sound that throbbed from the wagon was a crush of children’s sobs and desperate prayers. Lottie looked down at herself and saw that she was little more than a skin-covered skeleton but with a big, tight stomach sticking out; she could feel the rape-baby kicking in horror from within. Many of the other women there looked identical to her, but the worst sights were the children, who looked like smaller versions of herself, and some just as pregnant.

  The sound of rifle fire cracked down the hill. What was happening? In between volleys, she heard shouts, then more volleys. The distant rifles fired for a long time, then sputtered out.

  That’s when the wagon stopped.

  Lottie and the other prisoners were dragged out and forced into a line. They now stood before a compound formed by a great wooden fence, and spiring above the top of the fence was a brick-and-mortar structure that tapered to a tepee shape, at least forty feet high. Lottie knew this was a blast furnace, but she’d never seen one this big.

  “Don’t send these in yet,” a soldier barked. “We gotta let Mr. Gast’s men finish up…”

  Finish up what? And who was Mr. Gast? In the dream Lottie didn’t know…

  Next, a soldier who seemed to be in charge ordered, “Send a couple’a these ’un’s in to collect the boots’n clothes.” And then Lottie and several of the women less close to death were pushed through the fence gate by more soldiers with bayonets.

  Inside the compound, she could not comprehend what she saw. The base of the furnace had to have been a hundred feet wide, and into various vents shirtless black men shoveled coal. But in the compound’s open areas dozens and dozens of more black men lay moaning while their clothes and boots were pulled off by still more slaves. The heat was so hellish, Lottie almost lost consciousness.

  Baskets were shoved at Lottie and the others. “Collect it all up and pile it by the gate,” they were ordered.

  The floor of the compound was like a field of dying men—all black slaves. Lottie could see they’d been shot, and at the far wall stood several dozen white men with big rifles. They weren’t soldiers, though. They looked like rail workers.

  Lottie stalked between the fallen slaves and gathered up their clothes. At one point she noticed a well-dressed man in coattails looking on with the rail workers. Their eyes all seemed to have a yellow glaze.

  Someone shouted, “one’s got out! Don’t let him get away!” and then several soldiers ran to a window. Lottie got one glimpse outside as she hauled a basket: she saw a black man running in the distance, then—BAM!—a soldier on horseback dropped him with a pistol shot.

  When all the clothes had been gathered, Lottie helped transfer it all outside, where another wagon waited.

  That’s when she began to hear the screams.

  They didn’t sound human; they sounded like rough animals.

  Lottie and several of the other younger women were raped yet again by more soldiers. She wished she could die now, but she sensed that there was something here—something in the air—that wouldn’t let that happen.

  Then a solider grabbed her from behind. “Here’s some payback fer Fort Donelson,” he said, and then began to sodomize her. That’s when Lottie passed out.

  When she regained some facsimile of consciousness, she was back inside the compound, but she noticed that all of the fallen slaves were gone. Shrieks and chuckles fluttered about like birds. Then her head lolled to the other side. She stared for a moment and thought, I’m in hell…

  With pitchforks and bayoneted rifles, soldiers were feeding the other naked prisoners into the furnace. One young pregnant girl caught a pitchfork in the belly, was raised for all to see, then pushed back-first into one of the fiery openings. Several other soldiers skewered bloody babies with their bayonets, then heaved them in. When numb fingers touched her stomach…it wasn’t there anymore. That’s when Lottie noticed that her belly had been sliced open, the fetus pilfered and similarly incinerated.

  “Here comes the next load,” a voice called out. “Don’t forget that ’un there.”

  Steam, blasting heat, and a smell like cooked pork hung like fog about the compound. Two fingers popped Lottie’s eyeballs, then began to drag her by the sockets toward the furnace…

  That’s when she awoke in her bed, shivering in sweat. Had she screamed her way out of the nightmare? She thought she’d heard a shout from Jiff’s room, too.

  Yes, every now and then she had nightmares that were utterly horrific. She knew about the history of the town, and Harwood Gast, and she also had an idea what the power of suggestion was. “Everybody has bad dreams,” her mother had told her in the past. But the one Lottie had suffered through last night was positively the worst.

  She felt as though her entire body had been sucked by something vile; even her sweat felt evil. She showered desperately, scrubbing herself raw…

  “The hell’s wrong with you?” Jiff asked her later. She sat glum on her bed, still shaking a little.

  “Huh? Looks like someone shot yer dog, and you ain’t even got a dog.”

  Her eyes felt bloodshot when she peered at him. Bad dream, she mouthed to him.

  Jiff’s upbeat demeanor faltered when he read her lips. “Yeah, well, join the club. Last night I had me the worst of the bunch.”

  Lottie had no qualms about sitting naked before her brother. As gay as he was, why should she…just so long as he wasn’t horny and there were no pictures of handsome men around. It’s the house, she mouthed.

  “Huh?”

  The house. Sometimes I hate this HOUSE!

  “I know, Sister. Like Ma told us a long time ago. Everyone has bad dreams here sometimes. Always been that way, since…back then.” The low mood in the room felt dense as the summer humidity outside. “But check this out.” Jiff tried to change the temper; he whipped out a check. “J.G. laid a hunnert on me. Kinkiest trick yet, but, shee-it.”

  Lottie sat limp in a lotus position and shrugged.

  “You seen Mr. Collier this mornin’?”

  Lottie shook her head.

  “Still don’t know what to make’a him. Yesterday he’s drinkin’ it up in the Spike with half’a my tricks, and now Ma tells me he borrowed her truck to take Dominique on a date—”

  Lottie smirked.

  “Still don’t rightly know if he’s bi, queer, or straight.” Jiff chuckled. “A’course, he’s got another think comin’ with Dominique. Poor bastard’ll need knockout drops and a crowbar to get into her Holy Rollin’ panties.”

  Lottie errantly diddled her fingertips through the bedsheets. It’s my day off, she mouthed. What are you doin’ today?

  “Ma tolt me to weed the whole motherfuckin’ garden out back.” He popped a brow at her. “How’s about givin’ your brother a hand?”

  Sit on a gerbil, she mouthed.

  “Funny. Come on, I’ll give ya…ten bucks.”

  Eat a pile of corny shit, you homo whore!

  Jiff glared. “Yeah, yeah—hey, Lottie, don’t talk so loud. Someone might hear ya.” Jiff ripped out an uproarious laugh, slipped out of the room, and slammed
the door in her face.

  Fucker! Lottie thought.

  III

  “Thanks very much for making the time, Mr. Sute. I’ll be over in a half hour,” Collier said and hung up. His eyes swept the bedroom for a reason he couldn’t identify, and he quickly felt chilled, but the chill magnified when he looked at the bed and recalled not only the noxious nightmares he’d had on it, but the obscene hallucination last night. Nergie, he recalled the detestable mutt’s name.

  “Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier,” Jiff greeted the instant Collier stepped into the hall. “How’d that inline handle?” “Inline?” Collier asked, miffed.

  “My ma’s inline 235—her old Chevy pickup. She tolt me ya borrowed it. Bet there’s a million miles on that baby. Like to see them Japs do that with one’a their Toyoters.”

  “It ran great, Jiff.”

  “Anything I can help ya with?”

  “No, thanks. Right now I’m on my way to Mr. Sute’s—”

  Jiff looked at him weird.

  “—to look at one of his book manuscripts,” Collier finished. He’d mentioned Sute on purpose.

  “Oh, you mean one’a his books about Hardwood Gast.”

  “Right. Don’t really know why but I’m becoming intrigued by the whole town legend. I’ve even had a couple of nightmares about it.”

  Another weird look. “That so? Well, funny as it might seem, I’ve had a few myself and so’s my sister. It’s mainly just ’cos this house seems a lot creepier once ya hear all them stories.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Collier said. “But I’m still really fascinated. What do you know about Harwood Gast’s children?”

  “Aw, his kids? Nothin’.” But the question clearly knocked Jiff off center. “I don’t know that much about it. I gotta get started pullin’ weeds out back…but have a great day,” he finished and rushed off.

  Collier smiled at the reaction he’d come to expect by now.

  A leisurely walk took him back through town, which seemed to brim with more tourists than ever. Much spun through his head during the trek—the dreams, the mysteries of the Gast legend, his outrageous sexual ponderings—but most of the thoughts invariably returned to Dominique.

  God. What I wouldn’t give.

  She contradicted his most apparent motivation—lust, essentially—or could it be true that Sute’s cryptic impressions were more on the mark: that many folk who stayed at the inn experienced a rampant upsurge in libido? Can’t be true. Ridiculous, he thought, yet a few minutes later he found himself matching the address on the business card to the numbers on the transom of a handsome Federal-period row house right in the middle of Number 1 Street.

  “Come in, please,” the globose man greeted with a handshake. Sute wore, of all things, a crimson smoking jacket and white slacks. “Don’t mind the mess. I’m not known for my tidiness.”

  “Not many writers are,” Collier said, instantly looking around. “Fascinating place.” The living room was dusty and a bit unkempt but full of fine antiques, wall tapestries, and polished stone busts.

  “Upstairs is a bit nicer, and that’s where my manuscripts and sundries are.”

  Collier followed him up, wondering how many male prostitutes had done the same. Ahead of him, almost face-level, Sute’s backside left little play on either side of the stairwell.

  The upstairs was mostly master bedroom, plushly carpeted and walled with books. More stone busts on pedestals adorned the large room, along with sumptuous old oil paintings.

  “Would you care for a drink?” he asked, opening a wide liquor cabinet.

  “No, thanks. I’ve been doing a little too much of that lately, but feel free.”

  Sute poured himself something in a tiny snifter. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Collier laughed. “Of course not, it’s your place.” He quickly regretted his answer when Sute whipped out a big pipe and began packing it up. “On the phone, you inquired about Gast’s daughters—I guess I neglected to mention them when we had lunch.” After a few gaseous puffs he handed Collier an opened box full of paper. “Here’s one of my unpublished books, which details the children. But like most of this tale, it’s a very unpleasant one, so be forewarned. Page thirty-three.”

  “Are there any pictures of them, photo plates?” Collier asked, flipping through. “Didn’t you mention you had some old-style photos—ferrotypes, or whatever they were called?”

  Sute sat down in an oversize reading chair, toking the nauseatingly sweet pipe. “No photographs of the daughters are extant, I’m afraid. Just some daguerreotypes of Mrs. Gast.”

  “Isn’t that strange? Gast goes to that considerable expense to photograph his wife but not his children?”

  “Normally that would seem strange. But Gast didn’t like his daughters. They were very much mama’s girls; they took after Penelope exclusively, and this I mean in some regrettable ways.” Before Collier could ask for elaboration, Sute continued, “And it must also be said that Harwood Gast was very suspect of them.”

  “Suspect in what way?”

  Sute pursed his lips. “Gast suspected that neither girl was necessarily sired by his loins.”

  Collier nodded. “The element of promiscuity. I almost forgot.”

  Sute leaned back, puffing. “If I may, why an interest in Gast’s daughters?”

  Collier half laughed. “If I told you, Mr. Sute, you’d think that I was a California loony.”

  “Please. I’ve indulged you, haven’t I?”

  The man was right. I’m not gonna be here much longer anyway, so what difference does it make what he thinks? “All right. Since I’ve been staying at the inn I’ve been experiencing some…things…that I’m hard-pressed to explain.”

  “But I told you at lunch, so have many of the inn’s guests.”

  “Right, but, specifically? I’ll just go ahead and tell you. You can laugh me out of here, and I’d deserve it, but…”

  The mass of flesh that was Sute’s face creased from a smile. “I’m listening.”

  “There have been a few times when I swear I’ve heard children’s voices at the inn—two young girls.”

  “And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren’t any children staying there,” Sute presumed.

  “Exactly.”

  “And if you heard the voices of the children, you must’ve heard the dog as well.”

  Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.

  “The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”

  “Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”

  “No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls’ pet. Its name was Nergal.”

  Nergie. Nergal. Collier sought a link to logic but could find none.

  “Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name ‘Nergal’ is referent to a Mesopotamian demon. A devil of pestilence and perversion, though I don’t put much credence in that.”

  Collier had to ask the next question right away. “Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”

  “Yes.”

  He’s lying. He’s jerking me around for fun.

  “But of course someone else could’ve told you their names,” Sute added.

  “No one did.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “I swear.”

  Sute pointed to the box of paper. “Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST

  “Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She’s described as dark-haired and mildly retarded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes
thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”

  “I never said that I did see them,” Collier commented, feeling sick.

  “I’ll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don’t mind. My impression is that you’re a very intuitive man…but your face is easy to read.”

  “Great.”

  “The girls’ ghosts are typically only heard inside, but they’re usually only seen outside. Where did you see them?”

  Collier could only peer at the man. “You’re talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”

  “Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler’s inn—the Gast House—is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner. A moment ago you were confident I’d be ‘laughing’ you out of here, but as you can see, I’m not laughing.”

  Collier rubbed his brow. “Well. At least I don’t feel so idiotic now.”

  “No reason to. You see, Mr. Collier, it’s pure human nature. Even for those who don’t admit it, human beings love a good ghost story.” Sute smiled. “The only problem is that some of them are true.”

  Collier sighed in a strange relief.

  “And some people are more susceptible than others—you for instance. But I’m most curious now. I take it you saw them outside the building somewhere?”

  “In the woods,” Collier admitted. “There’s a creek. And the dog was there. But I was really drunk, so—”

  “You doubted your perceptions—a normal reaction, I’d say.”

  “But I guess the question I have to ask most”—Collier could refrain no more—“is…was the room I’m staying in either of the daughters’ bedroom?”

  Sute nodded. “It was both of theirs.”

  I knew it. “But at least they didn’t die there,” he said, relieved.

  “I guess I should tell you now what I deliberately neglected to mention previously. Both Mary and Cricket’s dead bodies were found in that same room on May 3, 1862.”

  Collier fumed. “You told me no one died there!”

  “No one did. Gast murdered them on the property, on April thirtieth, then had some of his men transfer the bodies, to their beds.” A low chuckle. “Don’t fret. The bed you’re sleeping on isn’t one of them. The original beds were burned.”