Once upon a time (I have always wanted to start a story that way) there was a young girl that would spend her summers with her grandmother in the country. Her grandparents owned and ran a small county bait – grocery store at the entrance of a state-run park. She had a blast. Listening to all the old men gather around the potbellied wood stove telling each other their latest “the one that got away” story. The girl would help in the store; by the age of six she could make change for a $100.00-dollar bill. She helped plant what to her was the world’s largest garden. Go fishing with her grandfather. And even helped draw water from the well. The only chore she ever complained about was counting worms. She didn’t mind the red worms so much but she absolutely hated the night crawlers; those nasty little wigglers spit at you! But for her the best thing ever was watching the trains. The tracks couldn’t have been more than 30 feet from her grand-mothers home. At night they would gently rock the house as they sped by. During the day she would wave and watch as the passenger cars flew by, and she wondered where they were all heading. She imagined the thrilling sights that those lucky, happy people would get to see from there windows as they traveled through the world’s most exotic places. (to a 6-year-old anyplace could be reached by train) But her favorite was the circus train. It came through late every spring. It had to travel slowly because of the animals it carried. Once she even got to see an elephant’s trunk as it reached for the heavens through a skylight in its car. If the girl was lucky her grand-mother would take her out and let her wave as the passengers slowly went by. They would all smile and wave back, some never took notice of the small girl standing in the dark imagining the exciting world of a circus performer.
In the summer the passenger trains would stop and the porters would come into the store for ice. They were always supervised by the trains conductor. That is how the girl met her friend and favorite story teller. He was a short portly man with a warm smile. He loved to sit and tell stories he had heard over his 40-year employment with the rail road. And the girl was a most eager audience. She would soak up every tale with great enthusiasm. And torment her grandparents for days with the whimsical animated retelling of his stories. Their friendship continued for four years. The girl now 10 became as familiar to the staff of the old train as she was to her family. But the old conductor held a special place in her heart. He was her window to the world. And she was an eager stand in for the grand-children he rarely got to see. They would spend an hour twice a week sitting behind the counter, but always under her grandmother’s watchful eyes, as he told her of the places he had seen and the sometimes-mysterious characters that rode his train.
It was late in October, nearly Halloween, when the gently rocking as the train went by turned into what seemed a ground shaking explosion. A horrible squeal filled the air as the trains wheels skidded across the rails. Pictures fell off the walls. Windows rattled in their frames. And the house shook violently, until suddenly there was nothing but an eerie silence. Then she heard it, a faint whisper of a moan. Then another, and another, then screaming as the passengers of the train stumbled from the wreckage. The girls grandparents ran from their home and began to help pull victims from the twisted metal. But for every one person that they got out alive, they pulled out three more that had not made it through the wreck. The girl watched as police and emergency personnel arrived. The once quite little street was alive with lights and radio sounds. She was horrified as she watched the bodies were laid out in the front yard of her grand-parents’ home. She was mesmerized by all the twisted broken bodies. No matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t look away. Then she saw it, the one body she now realized that she had been looking for; the conductor. He had not made it, he was now just another nameless victim to those who were covering the dead with sheets. That’s when it hit her and she began to scream. But no one came to comfort her. She was but another scream in the night. Drowned out by those still trapped in the wreckage, or by those who had come to identify the bodies. The child slowly makes her way through the field of broken bodies and sits with her friend. Holding his hand and telling him stories until his family arrives to take him away.
That was nearly thirty years ago. The girl now lives in the house her grand-parents left her. And the trains don’t run the rails beside the house anymore. At least none that are of this world. But if you should be going by the old road in late summer. You can still here the rumble of the train as it goes along. Sometimes stopping to pick up a lost soul that had not found its way those many years ago. Or had simply not been willing to go because they had unfinished business. But always the girl sits on the porch and watches as the conductor slowly waves his lantern back and forth in greeting as the train disappears once again. But she knows that he will always return to say hello.
In the summer the passenger trains would stop and the porters would come into the store for ice. They were always supervised by the trains conductor. That is how the girl met her friend and favorite story teller. He was a short portly man with a warm smile. He loved to sit and tell stories he had heard over his 40-year employment with the rail road. And the girl was a most eager audience. She would soak up every tale with great enthusiasm. And torment her grandparents for days with the whimsical animated retelling of his stories. Their friendship continued for four years. The girl now 10 became as familiar to the staff of the old train as she was to her family. But the old conductor held a special place in her heart. He was her window to the world. And she was an eager stand in for the grand-children he rarely got to see. They would spend an hour twice a week sitting behind the counter, but always under her grandmother’s watchful eyes, as he told her of the places he had seen and the sometimes-mysterious characters that rode his train.
It was late in October, nearly Halloween, when the gently rocking as the train went by turned into what seemed a ground shaking explosion. A horrible squeal filled the air as the trains wheels skidded across the rails. Pictures fell off the walls. Windows rattled in their frames. And the house shook violently, until suddenly there was nothing but an eerie silence. Then she heard it, a faint whisper of a moan. Then another, and another, then screaming as the passengers of the train stumbled from the wreckage. The girls grandparents ran from their home and began to help pull victims from the twisted metal. But for every one person that they got out alive, they pulled out three more that had not made it through the wreck. The girl watched as police and emergency personnel arrived. The once quite little street was alive with lights and radio sounds. She was horrified as she watched the bodies were laid out in the front yard of her grand-parents’ home. She was mesmerized by all the twisted broken bodies. No matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t look away. Then she saw it, the one body she now realized that she had been looking for; the conductor. He had not made it, he was now just another nameless victim to those who were covering the dead with sheets. That’s when it hit her and she began to scream. But no one came to comfort her. She was but another scream in the night. Drowned out by those still trapped in the wreckage, or by those who had come to identify the bodies. The child slowly makes her way through the field of broken bodies and sits with her friend. Holding his hand and telling him stories until his family arrives to take him away.
That was nearly thirty years ago. The girl now lives in the house her grand-parents left her. And the trains don’t run the rails beside the house anymore. At least none that are of this world. But if you should be going by the old road in late summer. You can still here the rumble of the train as it goes along. Sometimes stopping to pick up a lost soul that had not found its way those many years ago. Or had simply not been willing to go because they had unfinished business. But always the girl sits on the porch and watches as the conductor slowly waves his lantern back and forth in greeting as the train disappears once again. But she knows that he will always return to say hello.