Sadie struggles through neon and noise, mascara streaks down pale cheeks as she presses past frat boys in Mixolydian madness. Collin slings drinks at the shouting crowds. Scruffy blond hair hangs over glass blue eyes, charismatic as ever. He sees the jet-black hair and the tears. Not tonight, he thinks, sliding her a shot that she violently returns. Whiskey streams down his face. Her final words, lost in the clamor.
She wakes restrained on the sweat-stained bed. Mouth, a soundless, soulless scream. Pressure crushes her breath. Icy fingers press on eyes caked with tears. Fear, amorphous, as is time. Stars wink in and out, a searing brightness, then, nothing.
Jobs are difficult, especially for naïve transplants like Will. With his savings spent, Will heads out, frustrated and journal in hand, in search of a quiet place to get a drink.
A familiar song lures him into a dingy dive. “What’s your poison?” She pauses for a beat. “If you don’t know what you’re drinking, go find a daiquiri bar; they’re everywhere.”
“Give the kid a break,” a voice calls from the corner. Will offers a mumbled thanks. “Get him a Chartreuse on me,” Collin says.
Ash looks from Collin to the kid. The flickering lights flash off his pale skin and jet-black hair. “He looks like…” She stops, glad Collin is acting like his old self.
They chat until dawn.
“Trains are gone. Time to go,” Collin says. “Don’t forget four o’clock. We need help. I’ll hook you up.”
Will is there at four. His first day was a disaster. Collin flicks his Zippo and lights a Camel. “Don’t stress. I’ve had worse. Drinks on me.”
Will’s anxiety fades. Introductions made, drinks poured until he loses track of shots and names. He retreats, genuflecting on the urine-filled floor, contemplating something about trains.
Collin slouches against the service-entry door, his shaggy hair hiding sleep-deprived eyes. He flicks the butt and smashes it.
“What happened last night? You ghosted me.”
Memories try to surface. “Did I?” They flicker and fade. “I don’t even know how I got home.”
Collin sees the confusion and embraces Will, shuffling him through the door. “If you gotta ditch, just give me a heads up. There’s some weird shit that goes on here.” Will nods, head swimming. “I got your back...”
Nights blur into weeks and weeks into months; time loses focus as a year approaches. Will’s nightmares have been getting more frequent, more tangible. His journal is always handy, ready to note any mention of curses, hauntings, or trains. His book of secrets grows.
He is on the balcony, awake again, his skin clammy, the worst nightmare yet. Hands tremble to remember. Sadie? He lights a clove and tries to piece together the puzzle.
The nightmares start once you cross the tracks… the town was built on slaves and sin, plagues and death… the whole town is fucking haunted… no, just that block where all those slaves were flayed… if you die your soul haunts the tracks forever… it happens to everyone if you stay too long…
Will shuffles past bins overflowing with stale beer and maggots gorging on rotting remains. Walking with a purpose, walking to find answers to the riddles.
A dull clacking echoes through the fog. Termites swarm the single light casting shadows on the rusted boxcars layered with graffitied hieroglyphs.
They lumber forward, screech, halt, reverse. Will stares, entranced, as the pattern repeats, an endless rhythmic fugue.
A heavy chill embraces him, the discarnate form from the dream.
Panic surfaces… it fades as glimpses of predawn light reach him. The train reverses, stops, departs. Will retreats, failing to find rest in the sun-soaked hours.
Daylight fades. Sleep takes him.
He wakes restrained on the sweat-stained bed. Mouth open, a soundless, soulless scream. The weight crushing his breath. Icy forms press down on eyes caked closed with tears. Fear, amorphous, tangible… A searing brightness, then, a voice, Sadie...
He crashes from bed, fingers fumble on laces. Stumbling, searching for tips, keys and cloves, in need of company, and a drink.
Winding through the lamplit cobbled streets, he passes muffled jukeboxes that sing through cracks at after-hours bars. Collin is easy enough to find, haunting his favorite stool, greasy shot glass next to a half-empty pint. “You look like shit.”
Will’s hands comb through matted black hair, tangling in the knots above his shoulders.
Ash spies him, moves away from a flirting tourist, grabbing the Chartreuse, she pours a double. “You look like shit. This one’s on me.” Collin laughs as glasses clink and crash and the jukebox repeats.
He drinks, studying his reflection in the smoke-stained mirror, unable to focus on the eldritch aura hovering behind. She pours another round, giving Collin a look. Will fumbles a Djarum from the pack, hands too shaky to light it. Collin is quick with his Zippo and Will inhales the rich clove taste. He stares at faces reflected in anonymity, oblivion. Collin raises his glass. Cheers, tap, drink. “What the fuck happened?”
“It was just a nightmare.” Will tenses.
“The fuck it was!” Collin catches Ash’s eye and looks down at the bruises forming on Will’s arms.
“Who’s Sadie?” Will asks.
Collin stumbles, shocked, and eyes Ash. “I gotta piss. Then we’re gonna talk.”
Will stares, eyes drawn to the tenebrous reflection, as Ash drifts back, trying to flirt a few more tips from the dregs before closing. Collin dodges drunks, eyes dilated from a fresh line.
The clamor of the bar crescendos to silence as he crashes into Will. “I never told you about Sadie.” Will shakes his head. “She died a year ago tonight.”
“Things started getting worse.” He lights a Camel as Ash inches closer. “She wasn’t always open about stuff.” The bar slowly empties. Ash locks the doors, flips off the lights, and pours a drink.
“I started crashing at her place. Things were good… until they weren’t. The nightmares kept getting worse.”
Will tries not to interrupt. “How long did she live there?”
Collin, confused by the question, replies, “Almost a year. The lease was about up, and we were talking about getting a place across the tracks.”
“I had to work. I told her we’d talk later. We had our first and last fight.” Collin pauses, glass halfway to his mouth. “She was asleep when I got there. I went to the balcony for a smoke.”
“She screamed.” His voice drones as he sinks into the memory. “Her cat was yowling, clawing at the walls. I ran.”
“She was limp but stiff. I don’t know how to explain it.” He shakes his head. Ash pours them another, her gaze drawn to her own arms, knowing what’s next. “I watched bruises surface on her arms, tears stream through her clenched eyes. I couldn’t lift her. I couldn’t wake her…”
Ash wavers in the hazy twilight, polishing a glass that will never be clean, dreading this night, the anniversary. She pours another shot for Collin and water for Will. “I’m gonna step outside for some fresh air,” Collin says.
Ash slides next to Will. “Your turn to take care of him.” A demand, a plea?
He sips the water as she rolls up her sleeves, showing him bruises hidden beneath cleverly inked tattoos.
“How long have you been here?”
He nods. “Almost a year.”
She gazes at her reflection in the mirror, the dark aura fainter than before. “You need to get out, get across the tracks.” They sit in burdened silence.
“Shit! Where’s Collin?” Ash slams open the door, and he is nowhere to be seen.
“Where?” Will jumps. Adrenaline sobers him. He knows. The Tracks.
Stygian gloom surrounds him. Trains repeat an endless industrial loop, screech, crash, reverse… His teeth chatter to the rhythmic fugue. Skin prickles. Melodies from Locrian denizens flirt in his periphery. He trembles. Sadie?
Run, he thinks. No, there it is again... Run!
“Run!” Will’s voice breaks the cacophony as shadows coalesce, disperse, multiply, restrain…
Will crashes into Collin, hauling him toward the tracks, infernal claws at their heels.
It’s fast. Better time it right… Screech, Crash. “Now!” Will screams. His fingers tighten on the ladder, pulling Collin between the cars.
Blood mingles with sweat. “Come on,” he says, pulling hard on the lowest rung. They topple from the coupler, crashing to the gravel on the other side of the tracks. An Aeolian cacophony grates off the thundering cars.
Collin falls back on the cat-scarred sofa. Will shuffles to the fridge. Neither speaks. They sip warm beer, too numb to move. Collin sinks deeper into the sofa, eyes too heavy to fight. “I can’t believe we made it.”
Adrenaline courses through hands caked with gravel and blood. I’m in bad shape. His mouth tastes of copper and stale beer. He grabs Collin’s Zippo and heads to the balcony for a smoke.
A scream! Zippo slips… fingers fumble… fists pound on the locked door… frantic… useless… Collin’s last words, an endless loop. I can’t believe we made it…
THE END