Edward Lee - The Black Train

“And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren’t any children staying there,” Sute presumed.

“Exactly.”

“And if you heard the voices of the children, you must’ve heard the dog as well.”

Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.

“The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”

“Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”

“No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls’ pet. Its name was Nergal.”

Nergie. Nergal. Collier sought a link to logic but could find none.

“Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name ‘Nergal’ is referent to a Mesopotamian demon. A devil of pestilence and perversion, though I don’t put much credence in that.”

Collier had to ask the next question right away. “Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”

“Yes.”

He’s lying. He’s jerking me around for fun.

“But of course someone else could’ve told you their names,” Sute added.

“No one did.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“I swear.”

Sute pointed to the box of paper. “Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.

CHAPTER TWO

DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST

“Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She’s described as dark-haired and mildly retarded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”

“I never said that I did see them,” Collier commented, feeling sick.

“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don’t mind. My impression is that you’re a very intuitive man…but your face is easy to read.”

“Great.”

“The girls’ ghosts are typically only heard inside, but they’re usually only seen outside. Where did you see them?”

Collier could only peer at the man. “You’re talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”

“Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler’s inn—the Gast House—is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner. A moment ago you were confident I’d be ‘laughing’ you out of here, but as you can see, I’m not laughing.”

Collier rubbed his brow. “Well. At least I don’t feel so idiotic now.”

“No reason to. You see, Mr. Collier, it’s pure human nature. Even for those who don’t admit it, human beings love a good ghost story.” Sute smiled. “The only problem is that some of them are true.”

Collier sighed in a strange relief.

“And some people are more susceptible than others—you for instance. But I’m most curious now. I take it you saw them outside the building somewhere?”

“In the woods,” Collier admitted. “There’s a creek. And the dog was there. But I was really drunk, so—”

“You doubted your perceptions—a normal reaction, I’d say.”

“But I guess the question I have to ask most”—Collier could refrain no more—“is…was the room I’m staying in either of the daughters’ bedroom?”

Sute nodded. “It was both of theirs.”

I knew it. “But at least they didn’t die there,” he said, relieved.

“I guess I should tell you now what I deliberately neglected to mention previously. Both Mary and Cricket’s dead bodies were found in that same room on May 3, 1862.”

Collier fumed. “You told me no one died there!”

“No one did. Gast murdered them on the property, on April thirtieth, then had some of his men transfer the bodies, to their beds.” A low chuckle. “Don’t fret. The bed you’re sleeping on isn’t one of them. The original beds were burned.”

Collier felt accosted now by sickness and confusion. “Why would Gast kill them somewhere else and then move their bodies to their beds? Where exactly did he kill them?”

Sute pointed again to the manuscript. “It’s the absolute worst part of the story, Mr. Collier. But you can read it there. Flip to the account in italics. It’s the marshal’s. But if you’re certain you want to do so…then, please, let me advise that you have a drink. Something stronger than beer.”

Collier slouched. It’s not even noon …“Sure.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

Sute lumbered up to the cabinet, while Collier’s eyes flicked down to the dusty manuscript. Several paragraphs down on page thirty-three, he found a transition heading: EXCERPTED FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF MATHIAS C. BRADEN, TOWN MARSHAL, MAY 3, 1862. But before he could begin, Sute brought him his drink. “Thanks,” Collier said after the first cool sip.

“Those papers there in your pocket,” Sute noted. “It looks like alkali rag.”

Collier had no idea what he meant.

“A lot of printing paper during the first part of the nineteenth century was part rag pulp mixed with wood fibers. An alkali-soda base was used in the process. It bears a distinctive appearance.”

“Oh, these, yeah.” Collier reached to his breast pocket and withdrew the checks he’d discovered in the desk. “I brought them to show you. I found a bunch of them at the inn. They look like paychecks—from Gast’s railroad company.”

Sute examined the ones Collier had brought. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Butler has one of these on display, doesn’t she?”

“Right.”

“And you say you found a lot of them?”

“Yeah—fifty, sixty, maybe. They were stashed in an old writing desk, probably overlooked all these decades.”

“I’m sure they were. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Butler to let me examine them all, for the various names.”

“Gast’s employees, you mean?”

“Exactly. To cross-reference them with the other sources in my archives.” He held one up. “See here, this man here? N.P. Poltrock. He was Gast’s chief of operations. And Beauregard Morris—the crew chief. These men probably killed themselves on May second or third. Gast himself was already dead by his own hand—on April thirtieth—but it may be that Morris and Poltrock forestalled their own suicides to finish up a few of Gast’s final requests, and to have a last hoorah in town. They both died in one of the parlors.”

Collier tried to fix a chronology. “Gast hanged himself on the last day of April—”

“After he murdered his wife, his maid, Taylor Cutton, and his children.”

The sickness continued to churn. “Do you know how the first two guys killed themselves? Morris, and the other guy?”

“It’s in the same account by the marshal.” Sute gestured the manuscript again. “Morris cut his own throat, and I believe Poltrock shot himself in the head.”

The awareness thumped in Collier’s blood like a slow heartbeat. He recalled his nightmare: he was a prostitute named Harriet. The guy who raped me…Wasn’t his name Morris? He remembered the dream all too vividly. Harriet never reclaimed the money he owed her. She’d seen his body in the parlor. With his throat cut.

I can’t tell Sute that, I just can’t!

“They look like paychecks…”

“The system was a little bit different back then—the workers were always paid in cash, often on the job site, but, yes, that’s essentially what these are. Once it’s endorsed it becomes a receipt for payment. I’m sure the company’s treasurer kept these to maintain an accurate accounting. That’s this man here—” Sute’s stout finger tapped the bottom of a check. “Windom Fecory.”