The Ghost and the Railway

By A.C. Hutchinson

John Shawcross, a man in his sixties who has recently been given the devastating news that he has cancer, falls down a hidden crevice in the woods, sustaining crippling injuries. There he lies waiting for a rescue he fears will never come. But the fall and the cancer that grows within him are only small fractions of his life’s sad, but often heart-warming, story.

In 1959, when John is just ten years old, he witnesses his best friend being struck and killed by a steam train on the local railway line. As time goes by, and he grows from a boy into a man, The Railway’s mysterious and sinister origins are revealed. Through love lost and found, and tragedy and joy, John discovers secrets, some from beyond the grave, that have profound consequences on his entire life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.C. Hutchinson
• Release date: Sep 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310515224

A.C. Hutchinson

A.C. Hutchinson is a British novelist and short story author of horror, fantasy and supernatural thrillers. In the past he has worked as a freelance music journalist and has also written for the local press. Since the late nineties his services have been employed by the publishing industry in such sectors as sport and entertainment. He is also a keen rock music fan and has played guitar in various local bands.Born in Kingston-upon-Hull in the county of East Yorkshire, he moved to North Lincolnshire in 2011 to be with his then future wife, Lindsay. He has four children and two stepchildren.

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THE GHOST AND THE RAILWAY

By A.C. Hutchinson

Copyright 2015 A.C. Hutchinson

Published by Moonlight Cottage Publishing

www.achutchinson.com

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission of the copyright owner.

09

Table of Contents

The Ghost and the Railway

Also by A.C. Hutchinson

Author’s Note

Social Media Links

For my wife, Lindsay, for enduring the seemingly endless tapping of the keyboard and my distant mind.

PRESENT DAY

John Shawcross had cancer. He'd had just a short few hours to digest the news, but the stark realisation of what it meant was beginning to dawn on his old-man's brain.

It was late September 2014 and an Indian summer held the brash hands of autumn firmly at bay. John was driving to one of his favourite beauty spots with the future, and the past, firmly in his mind. His dog, Ed, a black-furred mongrel with the concave stomach of a whippet, was sitting on the passenger seat.

Although the day was young, it was a September morning August would've been proud of. John opened the car's front windows to their maximum and, despite the gloom that filled his head, smiled against the gust of warm air that blew in. Ed seemed to appreciate the airflow too, whilst panting like a steam train, with his long tongue flapping from one side of his open mouth.

We'll be there soon, Ed, John reassured his passenger. Then you can breathe all the air you want.

John watched his home town of Wold Dale disappear in the rear-view mirror. It was a place that had made him ill. A place full of monsters.

The road in front wound its way towards the tree-coated hills of Wold View: his destination.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the edge of the woods. John pulled the car into the small road which led into the depths of the forest. To the right was a car park, already heaving with cars. He continued onwards, knowing that a few miles up the road waited a quiet place rarely visited by tourists and walkers. Rarely visited by anyone, he thought.

The road continued to wind and climb. Overhanging trees blocked out most of the sunlight, but a few rays made it through, making the road look like a magical landscape from a fairy tale.

It was cooler too, giving his sweaty back much-needed relief from the heat. Ed sniffed the air and whined, sensing that they were close. John patted the dog. Ed wagged his tail in reply.

The car's small engine struggled up the last bit of hill. John saw his turning on the left, concealed from view to the unknowing eye. He turned the car into the dirt track. It was rarely used. Trees and bushes scraped at his windows as his car bumped along the track. Ed was shaking on the passenger seat, wary of the car's jaunty movements.

Eventually John found his usual parking place. He pulled the car between two thick-trunked trees and killed the engine. Ed wagged his tail enthusiastically, waiting for the car door to be opened. John grabbed the rucksack from the back seat and then, putting Ed out of his misery, opened the car door. The dog leapt for freedom, using John's groin as a springboard. Umph, John uttered. He should have been used to it by now, as Ed did the same every time.

John was slower to vacate the car. His back and joints creaked as he stood, making him envy the dog's youth even more. Ed had already urinated up two trees and was currently sniffing the ground like a pig looking for truffles.

John locked the car and heaved the rucksack onto his back.

Come on, Ed, he said, beginning the walk up through the forest.

Ed followed, but with so many trees to sniff and scents to chase, he often drifted deeper into the forest. John didn't mind; he knew Ed wouldn't stray far.

John took a deep intake of breath through his nose, smelling the sweet pine trees that occupied this part of the forest. Their tall trunks stretched skyward to where their branches formed a light-defeating canopy.

John followed the old path, anticipating the view that would behold him on reaching the summit of this particular hill. From the top one could see for miles. Having seen it on many occasions, he knew it to be both breathtaking and humbling.

To his right he could hear the slow trickle of water as it seeped through limestone. A greater roar came from somewhere in the distance as the trickles congregated and plunged together into one of the many crevices.

He decided to deviate from his usual route. Instead of following the path to the top of the hill, he veered to his right with the intention of reaching a different viewing point. Maybe the view will be even better, he thought. It was hard to imagine that it could be, but it would at least offer him a slightly different vantage to the one he was used to.

The trees were sparser in this part of the forest; the canopy of branches above thinner allowing through precious sunlight. As a consequence, the forest floor was awash with green, as opposed to the bare, hard mud of the thicker forest he had climbed up through. Nettles, brambles, thistles, and all manner of weeds grew in abundance.

As he walked, the path slowly became overcome by the dark green foliage that up until now had only surrounded him. A few paces further and the weeds were waist-high. John trudged on. He could still feel the remnants of the path beneath his shoes, but the resistance of the greenery felt like he was walking through water. Bramble thorns clawed at his jeans and vines wrapped around his feet, doing their utmost to trip him up.

He heard rustling in the undergrowth to his left. Ed appeared and then plunged back under, like a dolphin leaping through the sea. John smiled when occasionally he saw Ed's tail wagging enthusiastically amongst the weeds.

The sound of rushing water was louder now. As John took another step through the tangle of growth, his brain pressed an internal button. Had that button been on a control panel, it would have been bright red with the words 'EMERGENCY STOP' written above it in bold text. The pressing of that button, however, was too late for his right foot, which had planted itself on what it thought to be the crumbling remains of the path, requesting the full weight of his body. His foot disappeared downwards. He lurched forward, falling towards nettles, anticipating their stings. He tried to reach out with his hands, to cushion his fall, but with his thumbs tucked into the straps of his rucksack, they were slow to react. His head disappeared through the weeds and found a rock, which hit him square on the forehead. Pain erupted. Then he was falling, feet first, into whatever hole he had stumbled upon.

It was narrow. His back was stripped of skin as jagged rocks rubbed against it like a cheese grater. He lifted his arms to protect his head, forcing his elbows to bear the brunt of the rock face in front of him. Pain pulsed like a warning beacon. All this was insignificant to the pain he felt when his legs hit the floor. His right leg gave way immediately; he knew he had broken it. His left fared little better. The final insult came as the back of his head hit a rock, sending stars dancing in his vision. He looked up at the line of daylight at the top of the crevice, where over it perched Ed, barking down at him repetitively. Then the day grew dark as he passed out.

JULY 1959

John ran as fast as he could up through the woods. He was eager to beat his brother who ran next to him. At ten years old, John was a good runner, but his brother, three years John's senior, had the leg muscles of a teenage boy at his disposal.

Slow down before you get to the top, his mum, Martha Shawcross, shouted from far behind.

Somewhere to John's right, hidden in the weeds, lay a deep crevice. It would be another fifty-five years before he would discover just how deep that crevice was.

On this day, John reached the top of the hill safely, albeit second to his brother. Roy turned to his younger sibling and said: Beat you, Maggot! Maggot was the affectionate term Roy used when referring to John. Where it had come from, neither of them knew.

Their mother arrived some time later, panting hard, but smiling. Isn't it beautiful? Martha said, staring at the immaculate blue horizon.

It was beautiful. Even at ten years old, John could appreciate its unique beauty. Below, a valley wide and deep was lit perfectly by the summer sunshine. A patchwork of green fields, bordered by darker lines of jagged bushes, stretched from where John was standing to the next hill like a man-made quilt. He imagined he was a fighter pilot, swooping low into the valley. A steam train chugged its way into view, billowing clouds of white steam into the air. In his mind, he flew close to it, imagining the delighted faces of the children as they saw the Spitfire flying so low.

Shall we eat our sandwiches here? his mother said, wrenching him out of his daydream. It was a rhetorical question; his mother was already opening the lunchbox.

John perched himself on a rock and allowed the sun to warm his skin.

It's another beautiful day, she said as she handed John an egg sandwich, made as he liked it, with white bread. What a beautiful summer we're having this year.

I think Dad should come next year, Roy said.

Your dad's not one for days out, Martha said. You know that.

It was true. Their mother seldom took them out, as money was tight, but on the days she did, whether it be here or the beach, their father would prefer to stay at home. He would choose to sit and read a book or fix something, anything that was more intellectually stimulating then a day out with his family.

My mother used to bring me here too, Martha said. Bless her soul. The steam train had disappeared from view, leaving a scattering of white clouds in its wake. Maybe you two will bring your children here one day.

Yuck! I'm not having children, Roy said. I'm going to be a pop star, just like Elvis.

John didn't believe Roy would ever be like Elvis Presley, but he admired his brother for having a dream. John had more modest aspirations; he wanted a good job and a house near his mother. If he had a family of his own, he promised himself that he would spend more time with his own children than his father did with him.

Can we go on a steam train one day, Mum, to the seaside? John said.

We'll see, Johnny. Eat your sandwich.

John knew it hurt his mother not to be able to afford things. In turn, that hurt him too.

It's okay, I like it here, John said. And he did, but he so wanted to ride that train.

Eat your sandwiches, you two, his mother said. Then we'll go for a walk.

***

It's taken, not took, his father, Charles Shawcross, said using a posh, condescending tone of voice which John hated. "You have taken the tomatoes round to Miss Arnold. You haven't took them round."

"I have taken them round, John said, rolling his eyes when he thought his father wasn't looking. She said thank you, and that she'll have some more eggs for us during the week."

Okay then. That's your chores done for now. You can go play.

John ran out of the back door with a broad smile spread across his face. He heard his father bawl SLOW DOWN, but John was out the door, running down the passageway between his house and next door. John could hear, echoing off the walls, the sound his footfall made. It was a gloriously loud sound.

He ran out of the passageway into the street. The sun of the endless summer warmed his bare legs. He ran and ran, the pent-up energy inside him fuelling his feet, his legs and the smile on his face. He pretended he was the steam train he had seen yesterday, charging through the valley.

He ran past a line of terraced houses. A woman with rollers in her hair gave him a funny look as she beat a doormat with a brush. Clouds of dust choked the air all around her. Onwards he ran, the beginnings of breathlessness in his chest.

He rounded the corner, seeing his friend's house at the end of the block. He pulled himself to a stop by the gate, making a screeching sound in the back of his throat that mimicked the sound of a car making an emergency stop.

He threw open the front gate enthusiastically; it hit the brick wall bordering the garden and made a loud thud. His friend’s mother opened the front door seconds later, with a look of despair on her stern face.

What have I told you kids about that gate? the rotund woman said in a raised voice. It will fall off its hinges, and Ernie has enough odd jobs to attend to.

Sorry, Mrs Bainbridge, John said in his best look-how-sweet-I-am voice. Is Stanley playing out?

Mrs Bainbridge turned and bawled up the stairs for her son. Moments later the bulky figure of Stanley charged down the stairs with a look of intention on his face. Stanley Bainbridge was the same age as John but was perhaps three stones heavier.

Hi, Johnny Boy, Stanley said, slipping past his mother who remained in the doorway, hands on hips.

Don't go getting into any trouble, Mrs Bainbridge shouted after her son. And be back before tea! The last bit she shouted with increased volume, as John and Stanley exited the front gate and began their walk down the street towards a place they liked to call The Den.

Glad you called for me, Stanley said. Was getting bored.

Me too! John said. Finished my morning chores early today.

John thought there was no better way to spend a sunny summer's afternoon than with his best friend, Stanley. They shared the same enthusiasm for their free time. An afternoon – and a sunny one at that – spent using their fertile imaginations was a happy one indeed.

A short walk up the road, and a turn to the right, led them to The Den. As the houses made way to trees and shrubs, John felt like he was walking into a wilderness. Perhaps that was the appeal of this place. It was their little piece of utopia, squashed into a square of green, in between houses and factories. The only reminder of civilisation was the occasional piece of rubble beneath their feet, remnants of the buildings that once stood here, before the bombs fell during the war.

A mound of trees, coloured the deepest green, looked like rolling hills to John's eyes. The subtle rustling of leaves blowing gently in the breeze masked the sounds from the nearby factory, adding to the feeling of tranquillity.

They made their way under the trees, pushing through stubborn undergrowth. A spider's web clung to John's face; he brushed it away the best he could, but he felt the tickle of the persistent silky strands in his hair refusing to let go.

They arrived at the tree they liked to climb, its branches conveniently positioned like steps. Without discussing it, they began to climb. John felt like he was king of the jungle, as his legs and arms coordinated to scale the branches. He wouldn't let his rational mind remind him that it was an easy tree to climb, and that he was just a mere child and not some castaway from Lord of the Flies.

Once at the top, he perched his backside on the crux of two branches. It was uncomfortable, but this was his usual seat where he could cast his eye over the surrounding area. Even at this height, the houses that surrounded them remained hidden from view by taller poplar trees and a grand old oak.

Where did you go yesterday? Stanley said.

Wold View, John replied. No further information was required; Wold View was as familiar to Stanley (and anyone else who lived locally) as his own square of garden.

Haven't been up there in ages, Stanley said in a despondent tone. John was well aware of how lucky he was to have a mother who would take him places. Apart from their yearly holiday to the coast, Stanley never really went anywhere.

We saw the steam train, John said, with enthusiasm.

Yeah! It's not the same from a distance, though; you need to be up close.

John longed to feel the steam on his face, the chug of the pistons in his ears, and the thunder of the engine's tremendous weight shaking the ground beneath his feet.

We should go and see it! John said, loud enough to disturb a bird sitting in the branches above; it flew off with a disgruntled squawk. Up close!

When?

Now!

Now? Stanley sounded like John had suggested the impossible.

Yeah! Why not? It'll be an adventure. If we set off now we could be there by mid-afternoon.

But—

But nothing. What are we going to do all afternoon otherwise?

Stanley appeared to be thinking it over; he was silent, eyes wide, the slow-moving cogs of his brain turning behind his eyes. Finally, those eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a cheesy grin. Let's do it!

They both slid down the tree, a perfectly rehearsed routine that saw them land on the hard mud in just a matter of seconds.

What we gonna eat? Stanley said.

We'll only be gone a few hours, Stan, John said, amused.

But we should have food. All good adventurers have food.

We'll pick brambles. There'll be loads on the way.

Sounds good. Like foraging.

***

The sun was blazing as they made their way through fields of golden corn. In the distance, the bells of the nearby church chimed twelve times.

Twelve o'clock already! Stanley said. We've been walking for over an hour.

Stanley sounded weary, and John knew there would be further whinges on the journey home.

Not too much further now, John said, reassuring Stanley that the end was in sight.

It's so hot. We should have brought water. Can't believe I didn't think to bring water. We could die out here.

No one's going to die, Stan. We'll pick some more brambles; they'll quench your thirst.

John was thirsty too. The day was so hot. Up above, the deep blue sky was imposing. A couple of wispy, pure white clouds dared to tarnish its perfection; they hung in the sky, powerless to move with the absence of wind.

To his right, the land rose to a hill – Wold View.

The railway line must be around here somewhere, John said. If we just keep walking . . .

There should be brambles by the track.

Do you ever give up thinking about your stomach, Stan?

Yeah! When I'm asleep. No, that's not true, I dream of food too.

They both laughed. During their distraction they approached the edge of the field and walked through a strip of tall grass. They stopped sharply as they found themselves at the stony verge of the railway line.

We're here! John said, as much to himself as Stanley.

Finally!

John looked up the double track in both directions. In the distance, to the left and right, mirages warped the air, but no train.

Guess we'll just have to wait, John said.

For how long? Stanley sounded worried. I can't be late home.

John stepped forwards onto the stony rise. Apparently you can tell when a train is coming by listening to the track. It vibrates or something. John knelt down. A sharp stone pressed into his knee. He ignored it and instead stooped his head low, laying his ear on the cold steel. He listened intently, but heard nothing.

He turned to Stanley; a look of anticipation adorned his friend's face.

Well? You hear anything? Stanley said.

Nothing at all. Perhaps I'm doing it wrong.

Stanley's face dropped into a tired frown.

We'll just have to wait, John said. This line's busy. On a day like this, plenty of people will want to go to the coast. There's bound to be a train soon.

John sat down on the stony ground at the edge of the track, determined to see a steam train at close quarters before turning back. He watched as Stanley, playing on the railway line, kicked up dirt.

How long do you think it took them to lay this track? Stanley said.

Dunno. Years?

Wonder how long it will be here. I bet, in twenty years time, we'll all be travelling in flying cars.

You read too many comics, Stanley.

Stanley continued to kick his feet into the stones along the track. Dust rose in clouds. John could taste dry chalk on his tongue. Stanley then got down on his hands and knees between the two dark steel rails of the nearest track. He began to dig in between the sleepers with his hands, like a rabbit making its burrow.

What are you doing? John enquired.

Digging a hole under the track. You wanna help?

Too hot for that.

Imagine if I could dig a hole so deep that I could crawl into it. Then I'd be underneath the train as it passes over.

Think that would take you a whole week.

Stanley continued to dig with increasing enthusiasm. John was just glad that his friend had found something other than his stomach to occupy his mind.

Something then diverted John's attention. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a subtle change in the landscape. A plume of white smoke pumped into the air; the black engine beneath it masked only by the distortion of the sun's heat.

John rose to his feet and shielded his eyes against the sun.

Look, Stanley said, still digging his hole. I can get my whole foot inside.

John didn't look; he was focused only on the approaching steam engine.

It's coming, Stanley! John said, quietly at first. Then, louder: Stanley, it's coming!

John! Stanley said, his voice full of urgency. John!

What, Stanley? Come on, off the track.

I can't! My foot's stuck!

John knew by the panicked look in Stanley's wide eyes that he wasn't joking. Nevertheless, John played dumb. Stop messing around. Come on, get off the track.

I can't! I can't!

Stanley was close to tears; wetness glistened in his eyes.

John strode over to his friend; the sound of the approaching train now audible. Stanley was sitting on his haunches. His right foot was below ground. With his left foot, he pushed against the railway line, trying to free himself.

John fell to his knees and grasped Stanley's ankle. He pulled, convinced the foot would come free, but it didn't! It was wedged. Stuck fast.

Shit!

Can you take your shoe off? John said, his voice calm considering the circumstances.

No! Stanley said. He was now crying. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped at the wet with his filthy hands, smearing black dirt across his cheekbones. He then stole a look over his shoulder at the approaching steam engine; this sent him into panic. His arms flapped, his one available leg kicked, he shouted loudly, but it was all counterproductive.

John looked up the track too. The train was approaching fast. How far away? A mile? Less? John had never been very good with distances, but he guessed they had about a minute until the train would be upon them. Stanley would be safe, though, he told himself. I’ll free his leg. I have to. There is no other conceivable outcome. Is there?

John grabbed Stanley's ankle again, and heaved. He wasn't bothered about being gentle. He wasn't bothered if he twisted Stanley's ankle. Hell, he wasn't bothered if Stanley's leg snapped in two. All he wanted was to get his friend out of the path of the oncoming train.

A whistle came loud and urgent. The train driver had seen them and was telling them in no uncertain terms to get off the track. John guessed it was a regular occurrence to see children playing on the line; maybe those children, looking for excitement, would play chicken with the approaching train. But those thrill-seekers would jump out of the way at the last possible moment. Stanley didn't have that option.

Stanley's foot wasn't budging, and no amount of tugging and pulling was going to change that. But John wasn't about to admit defeat. If Stanley was staying where he was then the steam train would have to stop.

John got to his feet and began waving his arms frantically. He ran towards the oncoming train, shouting stop! as he went.

The train was dangerously close, almost upon them.

There was a screech of brakes, but the train was travelling too fast. John knew it wouldn't stop in time.

As it approached, John felt dwarfed by the black beast of an engine. The only colour on its front was a blood-red strip of metal behind the two front buffers. Above that, on the front of its black tank, in white lettering, were the numbers 2034. Dirty-white smoke poured from its funnel in plumes, rising into the sky in bursts to the chugging sound of its pistons working hard. The driver, he noticed, was now hanging out of the door, waving his own arms in a similar frantic fashion.

Here's your steam train, John. You wanted to see it up close, now here it is!

John's mind took charge, overriding any heroic idea he had of staying on the track. At the last possible moment he jumped out of the way, landing face down on the stony ground. Behind him, the steam train and its carriages rattled along the railway line, the sound of its breaks still screeching as they struggled to halt the great mass of steel.

John scrambled to his feet and ran towards Stanley. His friend was still sitting in the middle of the track, his foot still wedged. On his friend's face was a look of glum acceptance. Seconds later, the train hit.

John watched. Hands on head. Helpless.

His friend was gone, underneath the turning wheels.

The train's breaks let out a final high-pitched squeal as they brought the metal beast to a halt. Steam shot out into John's face. He held a hand up to shield himself. The driver was descending the ladder from the cab. John saw this only in his peripheral vision. His eyes were focused intently on the spot under the train where Stanley had been sitting. As the steam cleared, John's eyes grew wide. Stanley's leg remained where it had been, with the foot end stuck in the hole he had made. The rest of his body was nowhere to be seen.

John fell to his knees and screamed.

AUGUST 1959

John was lying in bed reading The Hobbit, by an author called J.R.R Tolkien. It transported him away to a magical otherworld, far away from the one he lived in. As he followed the story of Bilbo Baggins and his wizard friend, Gandalf, he could forget the troubles of his own world, and that horrible event of six weeks ago.

Occasionally, whilst reading other books, his mind would drift off to unsavoury events, and he would find himself having to reread sentences, and often whole paragraphs. With The Hobbit there was no invitation for those distracting thoughts.

Perhaps that was why it was such a shock for John to see Stanley sitting at the end of his bed. You may argue that seeing the apparition of a dead friend would be a blood-curdling shock under any circumstances, but the added element of surprise when one was comfortably lost in a 'good read' was additionally terrifying for John.

John dropped his book. He kicked himself backwards towards the headboard, trying to achieve as much distance between himself and the ghastly, yet strangely welcoming, figure that sat on the end of his bed.

Please don't shout, Johnny Boy. It talks! The ghostly thing talks! If you tell your parents you've seen your dead best friend sitting on your bed, they'll think there's something wrong with you. The ghostly thing not only looks like Stanley, but it sounds like him too!

John opened his mouth to shout, scream, yell. Hell, any sort of noise would've been good, but nothing came out. He was cold with fear. Breathing heavily. His face must have showed how terrified he was. The ghost of Stanley looked concerned.

Johnny. What happened on that day, it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you.

John wanted to talk, to tell the thing that looked like Stanley that it was, indeed, all Johnny Boy's fault. To tell the thing that if it wasn't