We arrived at the platform situated next to the roundhouse, but I hesitated to disembark and venture in. It looked like a large group of school children was heading into the building just then, and I didn’t want to get tangled up with them if I could avoid it. No, it was almost lunchtime. I would take the train one stop down and then walk back at my own pace…thinking all of this through. Hopefully by the time I got there, the group would be gone.
When I returned, the students were lined up and ready to exit the roundhouse. I still wanted to inhale more deeply of the fumes the train created than I was sure was good for me, asthma or no. Even after walking a distance away, I could still smell her glorious clouds of smoke.
I stumbled upon something I hadn’t noticed on the map, as preoccupied as I’d been when I looked it over. It was a model of the Stationmaster’s home, and the door was open.
I stepped inside and took note of the furnishings, every detail I could absorb, just in case it would come in handy if I found myself…
What the hell was I thinking? If I found myself on the other side of a wormhole, back in time and in an actual town called Wishing Cross?
Ridiculous. Impossible. Never going to happen.
I noted the dark hue of the bedroom walls just as one of the Park’s tour guides was explaining to her group that it was a surprise to find out people painted their houses in vivid colors long ago.
“Most of the lines required their Stationmasters to be married, family men,” she continued, and a woman in the tour group spoke up.
“Free labor for the railroad?”
“Exactly,” the tour guide replied. “Even the children would deliver small packages around town or to the General Store, which was usually within walking distance. The station was the hub of every community in those days. During the Civil War, the Stationmaster was also the one who took incoming and made all outgoing telegraph messages, so his job was very important. The Stationmaster was a prominent, respected member of any community.”
I moved through the house and out the back door. I could still hear the train whistle in the distance, and I thought again about what Seymour had said; the book wasn’t supposed to be on this side.
He seemed so clear and focused when he spoke of it, I had no doubt he was convinced of the truth in his words. Problem was, he still hadn’t convinced me.
I reached into my pocket and palmed the key he’d given me. I wondered if it would work. He swore it was a master key to open anything in the Park; I doubted such a thing could possibly exist.
My phone buzzed in my backpack, bringing me back for a moment to 2015, a setting my mind had already left behind while standing inside the Stationmaster’s house.
So pathetic a phone could only take text emails. No emoticons. My best friend used a little set of punctuation marks to make a frown face in her message.
Sorry to hear you won’t be in today, was looking forward to lunch. Hope to see you tomorrow. –L
I closed my phone and at last directed my boots the final part of the way, across the gravel and over to the entrance to the roundhouse.
The space itself was impressive with its operational turntable, which was being demonstrated as I entered. The size of the tools used on the engines was mind-blowing; I couldn’t imagine lifting anything so large and heavy, let alone actually making the wrenches work to loosen gigantic engine parts.
A man in full period costume greeted me. “Hello, and welcome to the Wishing Cross Heritage Railroad roundhouse.”
I paused to take a couple of photos with my phone. I knew they wouldn’t turn out pretty, but I wanted them anyway.
I directed my attention to the pit in the center of the roundhouse. It had no engine on the track above it. It must be the pit where they worked on the Aurelia Belle when she was in the shop, performing routine maintenance and such. Just as Seymour had said.
I only half listened as the man went through his spiel about the engines currently on display, including one with a full mock-up of a working cab so you could go and stand there and see what it looked like inside, take photos, all those tourist kinds of things.
In my head, an entirely different soundtrack was playing, and it had Seymour’s voice.
When you get to the roundhouse, pay attention to the center pit, he’d admonished, and made me write down. Aurelia Belle’s pit. Beneath it, just ahead of where they stop her when they pull her into the shop for the night, is where you’ll find the uneven cinderblocks in the floor. They wobble, just a little. The entrance to the tunnel is beneath them.
Suddenly, I noticed my pack vibrating against my back. I thought maybe it was my phone again, but then I remembered no, I’d stuffed it in my front pocket. Something in the bag was shaking.
A low hum emitted from it then, and I noticed people around me were beginning to stare.
“Sorry, alarm on my phone,” I lied, and I stepped to the back of the roundhouse, by the entrance. The farther away from the center of the house I got, the less the vibration, and I realized, thinking back on what Seymour had said, it could only be the book.
My heart leapt into my throat. Was it possible?
I set the bag down on the floor by a bench just inside the door for a moment, shook my head to try to clear it, and then moved closer again so I could listen to the man before me finish his presentation. When he asked for questions, I waited until the rest of the small groups within had wandered to the overhead platform to take photos before I leaned in to ask mine.
“So, there aren’t any hidden passageways in this place, are there? You know, for employees to use? Like they have in other theme parks?” I was beating around the bush, trying to circle inward.
He laughed, though it was a nervous sound. “No. We’re not like other theme parks.” He rolled his eyes, uttering the words with disgust. “We are a living historical monument. An educational beacon to people all over the country.”
“So you are,” I replied. Then I went for it. I leaned closer to him and whispered. “There aren’t any secret tunnels beneath the floor?”
“No, there aren’t,” he replied quickly, certain of himself. “That would make a great story, though, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, it would. Thanks.”
I pulled the guide map to the Park from my jacket pocket and unfolded it again. Looking it over, I realized something I hadn’t before. “You’re shutting down for the season soon?”
“Yes, we’ll spend a few weeks getting ready and then shut the place down entirely from late December to April.”
“A shame,” I replied. “I bet it’s pretty in winter.”
“It is, but it’s a nightmare to work here and horrible on the equipment.”
I nodded my thanks and moved on. I retrieved my backpack, slowly climbed the stairs up to the observation deck, and looked down. The man was busy giving his speech—the same one—to a new group of tourists who were all recording him with their smartphones and tablets.
I took in every detail of the roundhouse, and I had to admit, everything was still exactly the way Seymour had described it to me, even though he hadn’t officially worked there in two decades and hadn’t been well enough to make a casual visit to the Park in one.
What lay beneath the stained, sooty cinderblock floor? Why was the book vibrating when it got close to Aurelia Belle’s pit? Could it possibly conceal the way to reach a world I couldn’t begin to imagine?
CHAPTER FOUR
I SPENT the entire day wandering around Wishing Cross Historical Park, and I had the sore feet to prove it.
The Park was due to close at five o’clock. The sun would set soon after, and if I could just manage to stay out of sight, somehow, I could try Seymour’s key and see if it got me anywhere.
I waited until the woman in the nearby ticket booth was distracted and then waved my hand in front of the sensor at one of the turnstile exits, so it would appear I’d left the Park when they counted up the numbers at the end of the day.
I ducked behind the ne
arest building and kept moving…darting between groups of exhausted tour guides and historical re-enactors as they exited the Park and ended their workday.
It seemed to take forever until they were all gone. Seymour had told me night security was sparse in the Park these days due to cutbacks, especially during the days leading up to seasonal closing. I was counting on the fact he was right.
I navigated easily enough through the darkness with the flashlight I’d brought with me, and even as I was questioning my own sanity for the fifteenth time that day, I took the key Seymour had given me from my pocket and was soon using it to unlock the chains securing the door to the roundhouse.
Once inside, I found the metal ladder leading down to the working floor, where the tracks leading out and pits beneath were located. On the center track, just as predicted, rested glorious Aurelia Belle.
My heart raced. What the hell was I doing? It wasn’t technically breaking and entering. I had a key, but it wasn’t like I had any kind of authorization, either.
Just as I was about to jump down into the pit, I heard voices.
“Should we start on the Belle tonight?” one man asked, his overalls as filthy as his face while his huge halogen lantern illuminated both.
“Nah, after the holiday. She’s done for the season now, there’s no point,” his equally grungy companion replied. “They don’t want us working overtime, and I’m already close.”
“Well, all my kids are sick anyway. If I don’t get home quick my wife will have my head,” the first man said. “Hey, that’s weird,” he pointed to the door where I’d entered and as they turned their attention to the chains I’d locked from the inside, I switched off my light, jumped down into the pit, and hid in the locomotive’s shadow. “Look, the lock is wrong.”
“Probably Dave’s idea of a joke, just to rattle us,” the second man replied. “You know he’s always saying the house is haunted.”
“Well, I’ll fix it just in case,” the first man said. He undid the chains, and then both exited through that door.
They secured it from outside, and I panicked a little. Now I was locked in.
Then I realized I was getting ahead of myself. I’d find a way out when the time came. For now, I had a job to do, and hopefully this ‘honoring an old man’s wishes’ stuff would end quickly. I inspected the floor more closely and found there was nothing there at all but, well, floor.
I flicked my light back on and coughed as I inhaled more of that glorious—and dangerous—combined aroma of burnt oil, coal, and their byproducts. My hands were filthy now, just from lowering myself into the pit, and I set my light on the edge of the space above me, tilting it down so it shone on the cinderblocks beneath my boots. They felt solid, as they should. I grabbed a nearby rag and tried to clean my hands, but it was little use. I didn’t want to get anything on the book should I have to take it out, and then it occurred to me: the leather gloves Lila had given me for my birthday the week before were still in my jacket pockets. I’d handle the book with them if it came time to take it out.
I noticed my pack was beginning to vibrate against my back again. The low hum returned, and I shivered. Something was emanating from that book.
I took three long paces forward and wobbled upon the cinderblock there. It appeared uneven at the edges where it met those around it.
Another step, another loose block.
The book vibrated much harder, and I felt the thrumming envelop me, traveling down through my feet and into the floor.
Suddenly, the blocks were vibrating, too, and I saw a light shining from the cracks between them.
I bent down and struggled to lift the first heavy block out of its place, and then the next, then the next. With three of them out, I had just enough room to climb down, through the hole in the pit and into whatever lay beneath.
I had to take off my backpack to fit. I held it over my head in my hands as I dropped, having no idea how far I’d fall or what I’d land on.
I hit with a thud in the darkness and heard a noise it took me a moment to process.
The chugging, the wail and cry. The puffs of smoke. The wind, rustling in my ears. The same as when I stood on the platform at the Park entrance, waiting for the train…
“Alllllll aboard!” a voice cried, and I hurried to climb up out of the pit. I was about to have a hot locomotive coming in, right over the top of my head.
I scrambled onto the platform, trying to discern where the voice was coming from, but I saw no one.
All I saw was the Aurelia Belle, only behind her now she towed very old-fashioned, enclosed passenger cars.
“Last call! All aboard!” the voice cried again, and without thinking, I held tight to my backpack, climbed the steps and went inside.
The car was completely empty, and I sank down into an elaborate, upholstered chair in the pristine, beautiful space. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the leather gloves, covering the dirt on my hands before I removed the book from my backpack.
I gently withdrew it from the pillowcase and looked at it again. The exterior was unchanged, though it still hummed beneath my fingertips. My hands shook. I gripped it tighter.
I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and tried to tell myself I wasn’t just delusional as the ghost-voice was heard again as if speaking from the next car to mine:
“Now leaving the depot, Aurelia Belle, bound for the end of the line: Wishing Cross Station.”
I tried to focus on the first page of the book, but the text was still too faint for me to read. I found as the train began to chug onward and pick up speed that my eyelids grew heavy, impossible to keep open.
It didn’t feel like falling asleep, it felt more like passing out. I had an instant to tuck the book beneath my arm before I could do no more.
My world went black, and when I opened my eyes again I couldn’t believe what I saw.
CHAPTER FIVE
“END OF THE LINE!”
I startled as the voice called again, though I could find no person to go with it; not at first. “Wishing Cross Station! All passengers must disembark!”
The conductor opened the door and poked his head into the car. “This is your stop, son.”
“Yeah…I guess it is.” I quickly stuffed the book into my backpack, not taking time to wrap it up first. “Thank you, sir.”
He seemed to take no note of how strange my clothing was compared to his: jeans and a black turtleneck, brown bomber jacket, and beat up boots to match.
“Did you bring any bags?” the conductor asked.
“Just what I’m carrying.”
“Very good.” He watched as I slowly descended the stairs to the platform.
My eyes widened as I saw the station, just as I had imagined it might really be back in 1880.
“Welcome to Wishing Cross,” he added, saluting me casually. “Nowhere else out there quite like it. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.” I wandered away from him, casting a glance back at the Aurelia Belle. Steam rose in tendrils from the engine yet, and it still smelled like heaven to me.
Snow was falling fast, flying in all directions at once upon a fierce wind. I zipped up my jacket and stuck my hands in my pockets to try to fight the cold.
There were people moving about the station, but no one seemed to take much notice of me. Their clothing seemed to be historically accurate, at least if Professor Mann’s lectures on the era from last semester’s American History class were to be believed. Women wore elaborate walking suits with bustles and skirts to the ground; children were attired for everyday as if they were dressed up for Easter Sunday back home.
Back home, I thought. How far away was home, and would I ever get back now if I really had just traveled through time?
I looked around, searching for something to help me wrap my mind around the place I seemed to be in, but I couldn’t find it. Finally I spied a slate board nearby. I blinked several times to be certain I was reading it right. It indicated the date was De
cember 1, 1880.
This can’t be…
“Marigold!” A voice called from the distance, as a woman raised the curtain on the window of the ticket booth and began pounding on the glass. She leaned down and stuck her mouth up to the small opening in the bottom, shouting louder. “Marigold!”
A young woman, rushing past with a large basket in her hands, paused upon hearing the voice. “Yes, Helen?”
“Hurry up with the Christmas decorations. Once they’re all out of storage, I promised Jeremiah and Joseph they could help decorate the big tree.”
“I’m almost done, one more trip,” the girl said, and as I approached the booth to try to see if there were any way to ‘purchase’ a ticket to get back, she turned and headed straight at me.
We were about to collide when I held out my arms and just barely touched hers, just enough to stop her from plowing into me with what looked like an extremely fragile basket of ornaments and tree trimmings.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, not looking up at me right away. “Clumsy, stupid of me, as usual. My apologies, sir.”
“It’s all right, no harm done,” I assured her, and something in my tone caused her to look up at me now from beneath the brim of her simple, charming hat.
My stomach flipped. My heart seized. She looked like a portrait you’d see in a museum, or like she should be a statue; she was that beautiful. She laughed softly, apparently amused by the expression on my face. She shook her head a little in confusion as the woman, Helen, beat on the window of the ticket booth once more.
“Hurry up, Marigold!”
“Sorry, I have to go,” she said, then paused. “You seem to be new around here. I hope you’ll find everything you need.”
“I don’t plan on staying long, but thank you.”
“Oh, you have to stay awhile,” she said, furrowing her brow. “You just came in on the special, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did,” I said, worried that giving her information could somehow change the timeline.
Wishing Cross Station Page 3