Ghost Train

by Stephen Laws

  ‘No, you can’t . . .’ she said in a terrified protest. ‘You can’t. Not while I’m awake.’

  At the sound of her voice, the shrill piping and squeaking seemed to intensify, rising and swelling to a fever pitch. An angry, hysterical, hungry shrieking. She could see them now. They were pouring over the rim of the embankment and through the grass towards her in a writhing, twisting mass of fur and teeth.

  Martha stumbled on the rough gravel, dropping the can and looking frantically back along the embankment on either side. Oh, Jesus . . . The entire bank was swarming. There were millions of them. And she knew what they wanted.

  Martha turned and staggered across the railway tracks, arms flapping at her sides to maintain balance as she stepped over the steel rails. It wasn’t right! It couldn’t be right! But her fear was too real. She could not trick herself into believing that it was all just a bad dream. Her lungs were aching with the strain of her effort, the cold air biting deep into her chest.

  Oh my God, my God, my God . . .

  Behind her, she could hear the scuttling, rustling sound of thousands of small, clawed feet on the gravel beside the track. They had reached the line and Martha did not have to turn round to know that even now they were swarming over the railway track towards her. Sobbing in exhaustion and terror, she cleared the second railway line and saw the embankment and scrapyard on the other side. Her cry for help choked thickly in her throat as she stumbled against one of the railway lines and nearly fell.

  She was almost on the other side now. Only one more track to cross and she would be on the other embankment. Her eyes were streaming with tears, blurring her vision so that the shadows cast by the scrapyard sign on the grass verge seemed to be quivering and weaving before her. A jumble of movement; squirming, writhing and . . .

  No, no, no, no . . .

  They were on the other side, too. Wriggling and scampering in a dark, formless mass in the gully between the track and the embankment, as far as she could see. They made no attempt to pursue her but, in the darkness, she could see a multitude of small, restless, piercing pinpoints of light. All watching her with a keen and hungry intensity.

  Martha whirled around to see that the horde on the other side had swept over the first and second railway tracks towards her like a pulsating, black carpet. But they had stopped fifteen feet from where she stood in the centre of the third track and made no movement towards her.

  ‘You can’t . . .’ Martha began imploringly, her whispered voice swept away amidst the rustling and squealing. For an instant, she thought of grabbing a handful of gravel and throwing it at the undulating mass. But the frenzied pitch of their cries struck a chord of terror in her soul. She knew that she could not afford to anger them any further. She had killed too many of their number. And now, after all these years, they wanted revenge.

  There was only one thing left to do. Martha began to stagger back along the track towards the town centre, gasping a prayer that they would keep their distance.

  Please God . . . Please God . . .

  They were running along the track on both sides now, keeping pace with her as she ran. When she stopped momentarily to gasp for air, she could see that they had also stopped, squirming and climbing over each other in a frenzy. She started to move again, wondering in spite of her terror why they were keeping their distance. And then she heard the old, familiar noise again. Faintly at first, but growing stronger as she ran. The magic noise which pulsed in the rails. It was pulsing now through the railway lines on either side of her as she ran. Throbbing with invisible power like a heartbeat that only she could hear. And Martha knew that it was the power in the lines which kept her pursuers at bay. They could not . . . would not . . . cross over the lines. It was the old magic. It had returned to protect her.

  Sobbing with relief, she realised that if she followed the line it would bring her directly into the Central Station. Perhaps the ticket collector who had thrown her out of the station was still there. He would help her. From somewhere ahead in the darkness, a long way away, she could hear the long, mournful wailing of a train siren. It couldn’t be far now . . .

  But now the dark, wriggling hordes on either side of the tracks had split their ranks and were swarming furiously over the lines in front of her. Martha stumbled around as a multitude of sleek, furry bodies repeated the maneuver behind her. Trapped on the railway line and surrounded by the dark, squirming mass, she saw that her old magic had betrayed her. It had lied. It was their magic . . . not hers. And they had been herding her.

  The lonely drone which she had heard in the distance became a savage, ululating scream of malice when the train finally hit her . . .

  Four

  By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station, Paul’s irritation with Alan had turned to anger. When they boarded the train at Newcastle, Alan had sprawled on one of the double seats in the second-class compartment, leg hooked over the armrest, and had fallen asleep. He had stayed that way for most of the journey. When the train pulled into York, Paul had shaken him awake to ask if he wanted any coffee. Alan emerged sharply from his sleep, growling and telling him to piss off. Paul had tried to start a conversation but was faced with clipped, one-word answers. After a while, he stopped trying. Alan returned to his sleep, and Paul began to wonder why the hell he had suggested going down for the festival in the first place.

  Since Doncaster, when he had finally awoken again, Alan had sat and stared out of the window, his face set in an angry scowl. Paul found him too pathetic for words and had gone for a long walk down the corridor to the cafe car for a smoke and a can of beer. When he returned to his seat, Alan did not appear to have moved. He was in the same position, with the same look of thunder on his face, his eyes apparently fixed on a spot about three inches past the window. Paul began to read his newspaper from cover to cover for the second time.

  After what seemed to Paul the longest journey he had ever undertaken, the King’s Cross train began its rumbling entrance into the station. As the train slid past the first of the platforms, Paul stood up to retrieve the knapsacks from the overhead racks. The echoing din of the human traffic in the station drowned out an announcement on the speaker. Then suddenly Alan lashed out at him.

  ‘I can get my own knapsack!’

  Paul was amazed. ‘What the bloody hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Just leave it, that’s all!’ Alan tugged his knapsack from the rack and bundled out of his seat towards the door. Paul stood for a second watching the departing figure. Alan was certainly moody, but this was completely out of character! Shaking his head wearily, he retrieved his own knapsack and followed Alan, jumping through the door and down onto the platform. Alan had joined the milling throng heading for the ticket barrier without a backward glance. Paul hurried to catch him, almost colliding with a young woman and her child, cursing Diane for the stupid bloody effect she had on Alan.

  ‘Alan! For crying out loud! Hold on!’

  A rough line had formed at the ticket barrier and Paul found himself separated from Alan by half a dozen people.

  ‘Alan!’

  Paul watched as, without any acknowledgement, Alan proffered his ticket to the Indian ticket collector, waited for it to be clipped and then hurried on towards the exit. This was becoming ridiculous! Impatiently, Paul shoved his ticket into the Indian’s hand. For an instant, he lost sight of Alan in the crowd, then spotted­­­­­ him beside the station cafe.

  You stupid bastard! he thought angrily, and began to run after the hastily retreating figure.

  ‘Alan!’

  He grabbed for Alan’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt. Alan spun round and levelled the same look of hostility at him. Paul could see that he was trembling with rage, his lower lip quivering and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

  ‘Look, I don’t know if I said anything wrong last night about Diane. But I thought you’d
got over it. You said she wasn’t worth it . . .’

  For a moment, Paul thought that Alan was about to launch himself at him. The knapsack dropped to the ground from his shaking fingers. Alan took a step towards him.

  ‘Hell, man!’ Paul stood back, believing him now to be on the verge of some kind of fit. And then Alan whirled round and stalked into the cafe itself, leaving his knapsack where it lay on the ground. Dumbfounded, Paul watched as he marched quickly past the clustered tables to the serving counter, braced both hands on it and lowered his head. Paul followed him into the cafe; he could see that Alan’s shoulders were heaving, his body racked by sobs of frustrated rage. The clatter of cutlery and hubbub of conversation had suddenly died away as the cafe customers stopped to stare at the strange spectacle.

  Paul was directly behind Alan now. The poor sod was obviously having some kind of nervous breakdown. He reached out a comforting hand and placed it on Alan’s shoulder, at the same time moving round to one side, trying to look at his face.

  ‘Alan . . .’

  At first, in the flurry of movement, Paul thought that Alan had simply turned and struck him heavily on the side of the face. In outrage, he tried to yell abuse at him. But he could not speak. His voice was somehow choked off; thick with a warm and cloying substance which, instead of speech, resulted in a curious gargling sound. It was only when Paul moved his hands to his throat, felt the protruding handle of the table knife, and saw the jetting of scarlet over his hands that he realised what had happened.

  The cafe seemed filled with a high and distant screaming and Paul noticed in a curiously detached way that he was now kneeling before Alan. And then, as he looked up, it seemed that Alan was swinging like a pendulum before him. Crazily tilting from side to side, looming over him with huge white, trembling hands held stiffly at his sides like claws. There was blood on those hands. Just before the momentum of the pendulum tilted to the left, Paul could see that Alan had picked up another knife from the tray on the serving counter.

  ‘You can’t have her, you bastard! No one can have her!’

  As Alan drew the knife sharply across his own throat in a savage, parallel motion, a crimson wave dissolved everything from sight and Paul knew no more.

  Five

  Again, the swirling purple fog. Again, Mark felt as if he were floating in some unfathomable limbo. The rough block of stone swam into view as it always did, only to be obscured in turn by the strange ornamental bars. It vanished. And the crude miniature coffin containing its small, ragged doll glided through the purple fog, to be swallowed again by the billowing clouds. Then came the familiar feeling of a great pressure on his chest which began gradually to increase. Instantly, he knew what terrible form this dream was going to take. He could not breathe. His nostrils and mouth were clogged with mud and soil. Living things squirmed in his mouth and eye sockets. He tried to scream, knowing that he was buried alive; that there were tons of earth lying on top of him. But no sound would come. He was suffocating . . . he must be dead . . . dead and buried . . . and then the pressure was gone, the purple fog shrivelling wispily away. Of the two types of nightmare which Mark endured, he did not know which was worse: the dreams of forlorn countryside and lonely moorland with its standing stones and its strangely carved rock formations; or the other type of nightmare characterised by foul, suffocating blackness and the stench of the grave. In these dreams, he knew that he was underground.

  Now, the dream would take one of two directions. Mark might feel himself floating upwards, the pressure on his chest rapidly disappearing. The purple fog would dissipate and Mark would see that he was rising wraith-like through a station platform. Passengers bustled along, hurrying for trains and walking straight through him as if he were the dream, not they. He could hear the speaker, the din of station activity, the rumbling of trains. Mark had been to this station before. It was King’s Cross.

  But the other underground dreams were worse. Much worse. And Mark knew now that this was to be one such dream.

  At first, as he gasped for breath and fought desperately to awaken, there was only blackness. Then, he became aware of two blurs of light on either side of him. His vision focused, the scene shifted and he could see that the light came from two primitive torches fastened to either side of a chamber which had been hewn roughly out of the earth, soil banked high on either side and supported by crude wooden beams.

  He was in a burial chamber.

  And he knew that he would not remain alone for long.

  There was an aperture above him. The chamber was open to the sky, it was night and after a while he could see the pinpoints of stars. He could feel the rough ground beneath him but he was unable to move. Once again, something had taken command of his body and for hours he seemed to lie in the same position, the guttering light of the torches throwing rearing, looming shadows. He prayed that he would awaken before the dream got worse.

  Suddenly, Mark felt his head turned roughly to the left by the unseen force. He was lying on one of several beds of chalk and, beyond him, he could see a ragged aperture leading into blackness. Now, he could hear the sounds of shambling footsteps and a strange, guttural, brutal chanting. He tried again to will himself awake but could only watch as a procession of hunched, fur-clad figures advanced into the burial chamber. They seemed unaware of his presence as they shambled around the chalk beds, their chanting not unlike that of the druids in Mark’s other dreams. Their hair was unkempt and straggling, broad and slanting foreheads protruding over wild and deep-set eyes; their paint-streaked faces framed by wide, prominent jawbones. Mark knew that his dream was taking place many thousands of years before the druids.

  No! I don’t want to see! Let me wake up!

  The singing continued as the primitive men filled the chamber, forming a circle around the chalk beds.

  God, let me wake up!

  The chanting ceased as the last of their number entered the chamber. From somewhere in their midst came a guttural command and the crowd sat down quickly on the chamber floor. A cloud of chalk dust swirled over Mark, momentarily blinding him. When it had settled, he could see that a horribly familiar figure had entered. The man was naked but his entire body had been painted with blue woad, and dark, lank hair straggled over his shoulders down to his waist. With great reverence, he carried in both hands a roughly hewn limestone block. Mark recognised it immediately as the same block of stone which prefaced every one of his dreams. A low rumbling issued from the rough-hewn entrance behind the Blue Man; the opening had been sealed by a large stone. The Blue Man moved to the chalk bed beside Mark, lifting the limestone block up towards the aperture and the glittering stars above. Silently, the other wild men watched as he sat, placing the stone reverently before him. The Blue Man began to stare intently at the stone.

  The purple mists swept over Mark again. He could still feel the ground beneath him and now became aware of a strange vibration, distant at first, which seemed to issue from the depths of the earth itself. It was a booming, thundering noise gradually intensifying into a surging, horrifying impulse of unknown power. The mists cleared and, with a feeling of sinking despair, he saw that he was still lying in the burial chamber. The scene remained the same: the silent sitting figures, the Blue Man, the guttering torchlight, the stars and the block of stone. The surging sound beneath him had gone. But Mark knew what was to happen next and found himself empowered to stare at the limestone block. Even now, it was beginning to glow with an ever-increasing pulse of blue light which seemed to emanate from within. The Blue Man was smiling now as he raised his hands in the air.

  No! I . . . must . . . wake . . . up!

  The pulsing blue light suffused the chamber, highlighting brutal, terrified faces. The Blue Man reached forward to touch the stone with both hands, and Mark could see that it appeared to have no effect on him; the stone was not hot. For a long while, he remained in that position, and then, slowly and stiffly, he stood up
. Mark did not want to look at his face but the invisible force which controlled him forced him to do so. Underlit by the pulsing blue stone, the features were scarcely human, demonic and grimacing. A wild blue light reflected from eyes that were somehow too wide, and saliva dripped from lips that were drawn back from jagged teeth. The Blue Man stepped forward.

  The men sitting nearest to him flinched away, but still held themselves in terror-stricken obedience. The Blue Man chuckled; a hideous, echoing sound in the sepulchral chamber. The man directly before him began to babble desperately in an unknown tongue, eyes tightly shut. The Blue Man leaned down and touched him on the head.

  The man ceased to babble. His eyes, now glazed, stared vacantly ahead.

  The Blue Man picked his way among the other men, slowly and deliberately, as if searching. Suddenly, he wheeled and touched a thick-set man on the shoulder. The man’s head slumped forwards.

  The Blue Man threw back his head exultantly and grimaced at the aperture above him. He shrieked, a long, ululating, animal howl. Again, Mark heard the sounds of the great stone being moved from the entrance. Quickly, and with obvious relief, the men in the chamber scrambled to their feet and began to file out silently. The Blue Man remained frozen, his gaze directed upwards to the sky. The two men who had been selected by their High Priest stayed seated, eyes glazed.