Edward Lee - The Black Train

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No train has run on this railroad since the end of the Civil War-a railroad built by a servitor to perfect evil--and its rusted tracks run right behind the house. Justin Collier expects his respite in Gast, Tennessee, to be relaxing if not a bit dull, but he will find out soon enough that those same train tracks once led to a place worse than Hell. Join master of the macabre Edward Lee on a nightmare excursion of Civil War horror.
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WELCOME TO THE GAST HOUSE - A historical bed and breakfast or a monument to the obscene? Collier doesn't need to know the building's rich history: women raped to death for sport, slaves beheaded and threshed into the soil, and pregnant teenagers buried alive. Who or what could mitigate such horrors over 150 years ago? And what is the atrocious connection between the old railroad and the house? Each room hides a new, revolting secret. At night, he can smell the mansion's odors and hear its appalling whispers. Little girls giggle where there are no little girls, and out back, when Collier listens closely, he can hear the train's whistle and see the things chained up in its clattering prison cars. Little does he know, the mansion and the railroad aren't haunted by ghosts but an unspeakable carnality and a horror as palpable as excited human flesh. WELCOME TO A PLACE WORSE THAN HELL...

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Collier was quickly learning to frown and smile in amusement simultaneously. “Not warts, Jiff. Wort. Wort is beer before the yeast and hops have been added. After the solution ferments and is filtered of its excess proteins, it officially becomes beer.”

“Oh, yeah, well, now that I thunk of it, I’m pretty sure I knew that, and, yes, it’s a damn good thing she ain’t got warts. Not that I ever had ’em—you know, the sexual kind—” Jiff pronounced it “sax-shool.” “And I say it’s plain as barn paint she got a serious torch fer you.”

Collier’s unconfident eyes looked at him. “You…really think so, Jiff?”

Jiff’s head lolled back with a big shucksy grin. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. Her face was plumb all lit up like a pinball machine when you and her was talkin’ all that beer talk.” Then Jiff wheezed a chuckle, and elbowed Collier. “And—aw, shee-it—I can tell ya someone else who’s got a fierce likin’ for ya, but don’t ya dare say I said so—”

“Lottie,” Collier supposed.

“Aw, yeah, sure, but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that silly string bean. I mean my ma.”

Collier was duped. This guy’s telling me that his MOTHER is attracted to me? “Uh, really?” he said.

“And I gots to tell ya, there’s dudes twenty years younger asking my ma out all the dang time. Yeah, I know, she’s a bit raggy in the face but that’s some body on her, ain’t it?” And then another elbow jabbed Collier in the side.

Collier couldn’t imagine an appropriate response, so he just said, “Your mother’s very nice indeed, Jiff, and very attractive for her age.”

“Yeah, she is, and ya wanna know how I know she likes ya? Huh?”

“Uuuuuuum…sure.”

“It weren’t that she told me, now, but it’s ’cos whenever a single fella checks in that she’s got a twinkle for, she gives him room three. Your room.”

Collier’s brain chugged through preinebriation. What the hell? What could my room have to do with …“Oh, you mean because it’s better than the other rooms?”

“Naw, naw.” Jiff waved his hand. He elbowed Collier one more time and whispered, “It’s ’cos of the view. Bet she even told ya that, huh? That room three’s got the best view?”

“Actually, she did but—” The ridiculous conversation was growing more ridiculous. I guess the view from my balcony is pretty good but it’s nothing really special. “The view of the mountain? The garden?”

“Naw, naw,” Jiff wheezed in his own amusement. He slapped his knees. “I’m gonna leave ya in suspense, Mr. Collier.” A glance to the bar clock. “I best git my tail back to the house ’cos I still got some work to do.”

“Oh, well, let me drive you back.”

Another dismissive wave of hand. “Naw, naw, wouldn’t think of it. You stay here’n jaw with Dominique. It ain’t but a ten-minute walk and tell ya the truth I could use some fresh air ’cos I am more hammered than a hunnert-year-old fence post.” Jiff wobbled when he pushed his stool out. “But thanks again for treatin’ me, Mr. Collier. You really are a swell guy”—he winked—“and one I’d be proud to see datin’ my ma.”

I don’t believe it. This guy’s trying to set me up with his MOTHER. “Uh, yeah, Jiff, thanks for coming out.” He awkwardly shook Jiff’s hand and bid him a good night.

Yep. Strange damn day— the bar clock showed him it was only nine P.M.— and it’s not even over yet.

He turned on his stool just to people-watch but noticed Jiff walking the wrong way up the street. The inn’s in the opposite direction …But what did it matter? Probably bored shitless listening to Dominique and me talk beer facts. Still…

Collier got up and walked to the front window; Jiff took uneven strides to the corner and entered a door under a neon sign. Another bar, Collier realized. The one Jiff had mentioned earlier, where this man J.G. Sute frequented? But again Collier couldn’t imagine why he cared. Jiff was a hardworking and no doubt hard-drinking Southern rube; not the kind of guy to spend much time in a tourist spot like Cusher’s. Collier squinted through the glass. He thought he could barely make out the neon: THE RAILROAD SPIKE.

Dumbest name I ever heard for a bar …He turned back for his bar stool, hoping Dominique would return. I can’t wait to talk to her some more …In Collier’s business, he met few women he could relate to professionally. And she’s cute as hell …But then he felt as though fate had just hit him in the face with a pie when he got back to his seat and found Lottie sitting in the stool Jiff had just vacated.

I thought she had to do laundry!

He put on his best face. “Hi, Lottie.”

She gave him a big smile and waved.

“Finished your work early, I see.”

She wagged her head up and down. She’d pinned her hair back and changed into a shocking tight evening dress that was diaphanous black. Jesus, Collier thought. She looks like a slot queen on a casino boat. Redneck housemaids needn’t dress like this, but there was Collier again, supporting the stereotype. Why shouldn’t the poor girl go out to a bar? He struggled not to shake his head when he noted her shoes: black high heels several sizes too large. Collier thought of an adolescent trying on her mother’s shoes, to feel grown up.

But despite her petite frame, the rest of her was grown up, and the howlingly inappropriate dress spotlighted her body. Immediately, he noticed an absence of pantie lines…

A lot of dichotomies here, Collier pondered: Mrs. Butler, the equivalent of Raquel Welch’s physique circa 1980 topped by an old man’s head with a wig; Dominique, the beautiful European-trained brewmaster who only drinks one beer a day because she’s a Christian; and now Lottie, a racehorse bod who couldn’t talk and had a face that…wasn’t the prettiest. But after all the quirks that had already befallen Collier today, what else could he expect?

Lottie crossed her legs in the tight gown, a foot rocking. Collier gritted his teeth after one glance at the athletic legs, and a spark came to his groin when he imagined them entwined about his back. Oh, man …Next, his eyes flicked to her top and noticed the pert, braless breasts free behind the shiny black fabric, nipples erect. Then a glance to her face…

Absurd, excited, half-crazy eyes and a warped grin.

“Uh, would you like to something to eat?”

Grinning, she shook her head no.

“How about a beer?”

She wagged her head yes.

Collier ordered her a lager from the first barmaid. He felt obliged to engage in conversation with Lottie but of course he couldn’t do that, could he?

Please, Dominique. Finish checking the wort and get back here.

“Oh, you just missed Jiff,” he thought to mention.

She nodded and slugged a quarter of the beer in one gulp. The glass looked huge in her little hand.

“Looks like he went down the street to another bar.”

She put her hand to her mouth as if laughing. Her other hand slapped her bare knee.

“I…don’t get it.” He thought back. “Oh, do you know this local historian? J.G. Sute?”

Now she belly-laughed—silently, of course—but this time slapped Collier’s knee.

“I still don’t get it. What, is Mr. Sute a funny man?”

Another silent belly-howl, and her hand slid halfway up his thigh and squeezed.

The pig in Collier didn’t really mind her hand there, but… Not here! Dominique would be back, and he didn’t want her to witness this weirdo spectacle. Just as he contemplated a way to remove it, she slipped it higher, her thumb edging his crotch—

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