Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (92 page)

“I
didn’t mean to hurt you, honest,” he said.

Terry
shrugged and skipped away from the ride. She looked over her shoulder and
replied, “
They
say it’s the way it has to be. Have fun, Scotty!”

He
looked down to see the bottom of the boat under his feet. An oar stuck out
from each side, well short of the surface. Beads of green water rose
through the floorboards and swirled around his shoes, dampening the untied
laces with the smell of decay.

The
track underneath the shallow canal latched on to the gears fastened to the
bottom of the boat. It lurched forward, pitching Scott backwards. He
swung his arms in circles as though attempting to fly, and he dropped onto a
wooden bench, the one closest to the rear of the rowboat.

I
can’t do it. I can’t ride this alone.

The
fake graffiti meticulously painted on the wooden doors read, “Keep
Out.” As the bow of the boat released the door trip, Scott looked over his
shoulder. The final ray of sun disappeared from the Candy House window as
the gas lamps lit the deserted boulevards of Kennywood Amusement Park. He
watched the doors swing back and forth, the rusty hinges serenading his final
glimpses of buried regret.

The
blackness engulfed him. He reached to his left and received a splinter in
his palm before the rubber padding of the starboard side smacked off the inner
canal track. Scott threw both hands in front of his face, clawing at
spider webs he anticipated but could not see.

The
first bend ended with a blinding red light. The black cape hanging from
the plastic skeleton hid the rusted gears of the neck. The miner’s hat on
the skull came equipped with a bug light that pierced Scott’s eyes, forcing him
to cover his face with an arm. The pitched cackle made him shiver in the
confined, humid ride. A pitchfork slammed into the bench in front of him,
remaining for a second before the mechanical arm pulled it back to rest on the
skeleton’s shoulder.

“They’re
waiting for you, sonny, just as sure as the forty-niners are holdin’ their
pans.”

The
canal turned almost ninety degrees to the right, pitching Scott across the
rowboat. His hand landed in the bottom of the boat, where the slimy water
oozed between his fingers.

Scott
reeled as the ride continued, heading towards the scene that frightened him
more than anything else. He felt the irrational fear rising like bile into his
throat.

Not
the poker players. Please, not them.

The
dealer’s eye sockets glowed with an unnatural red light, burning a broken
filament inside a shattered bulb. A lizard slid down the jawbone and
disappeared over the bare shoulder blade.

“Seven-card
stud. Winner takes all.”

The
other skeletons at the table rocked back on chair legs that had worn grooves in
the wooden planks. They spent decades at the table, only to lose every
hand. The skeleton to the left of the dealer lifted his arm to raise an
empty mug, the bottom of which brushed past Scott’s nose.

Scott
put his hands over his eyes, but the sound of the recorded laughter almost
split his head. He struggled to decide whether it was worse to see the
scenes or hear the shrill recordings.

The
rowboat pitched again, and Scott scrambled as far back as possible. He
would delay the inevitable, even if for a split second.

The
canal opened into a cavernous room. Scott recognized the empty boats
moving in the opposite direction, like horse buggies passing each other on a
country road. His heart thumped inside his chest, begging to stop before
the boat did.

Scott
saw the tombstones in his mind before the boat swayed around the corner and
sidled up to the desolate graveyard. The foam headstones gave off a fog
that smelled like a dead animal. Several demons hung from the ceiling, flying
back and forth on the ancient conveyor belt. The plaster smiles underneath
stalactite fangs made Scott whimper.

The
sound of crying puzzled him until he realized it was his own. The boat
stopped, and a hand rose from the fake earth. Scott saw the dress, then he
saw the Jesus Christ medallion, and then he screamed.

***

The
empty rowboat pushed through the wooden exit doors and slumped in line with the
rest. It rocked back and forth until the diseased water rested. The
lights of the Haunted Hideaway faded with nightfall as the doors of the ride
latched, holding souls hostage into the malignant winter.

An Amtrak ride from Chicago to New Orleans with a late-night
reading of Stephen King inspired this tale of the rails. I managed to
arrive at the station of the Crescent City the next day, but I cannot guarantee
that the rest of the passengers did.

The Limited

“Did
you see it?”

“Huh? C’mon,
John, I’m trying to sleep.”

“There
it goes again, right there.”

Samantha
pushed the thin blanket from her face, peered across the seat, and looked out
the window. The stale air irritated her throat. She grabbed her coat
off the stained blue carpet and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I
don’t see anything.”

John
reached up and smashed the button overhead, killing the light beam aimed at his
chair. The train groaned over rough track. A barking cough punctuated
the restless night. John grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of his,
pulling the man’s head back. He winced, trying to ignore the flakes of
dandruff stuck in the man’s sparse hair like dead insects impaled on a pinning
block.

As
John stepped into the aisle, the bright, noiseless burst of light caught his
eye again. The flash illuminated the face of a young boy asleep on his
mother’s shoulder. Nobody acknowledged the blinding tear in the solemn
night.

He
glanced at his watch, hitting three buttons before finding the one that turned
the face of the cheap digital an electric blue. 3:17 a.m. The
conductor approached from the rear car. His starched uniform held him
upright through the shaky ride, and John watched his billed cap moving
back and forth with the rhythm of the train. The man hit the button to
slide the connecting door open when the window to John’s right exploded with
light. He thought he heard a murmur from passengers to his left. The
light extinguished in an instant, searing John’s vision and forcing his eyes to
readjust to the lack of light in the car.

The
conductor stood before John, his hands on his hips. He twirled a metallic
hole punch, swinging it through the air like a cowboy from the Old
West. John did not remember hearing the door slide open, and he stepped
back from the man, stumbling towards Samantha’s lap.

“Ticket?”

John
shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out an American Rail schedule, two
nickels, and his ticket. The conductor leaned to the side, noticed that
Samantha slept, and took the ticket from John. He slid John’s ticket into
the wide jaw of the metal piranha and punched a hole in the shiny cardboard.

“Sir,
you need to take your seat.”

“Why? I’m
heading to the café car. I need a coffee.”

“Sir,
that car is closed. We need you to sit down in your seat.”

John
knew the conductors allowed coach riders to walk to the dining cars and
café. He shook his head and took a step towards the rear of the
car. The conductor blocked his step with effortless agility as the train
rattled around a bend in the track.

“Sir,
I’m not going to warn you again. You don’t want to go back there while the
train moves through this section of track. American Rail cannot be
responsible for your safety.”

“Thanks,”
John paused, squinting to see the conductor’s nametag, "
William
. I’ll
walk slowly, hold on to the guiderails, and all that stuff.”

William
the Conductor sank into his uniform and turned to let John pass. His eyes
glowed like fireflies in the heavy summer night. John glanced back at him as
he moved down the aisle and towards the door of the next car. Samantha’s
purse strap fell off the edge of the seat, and William moved it to one side as
he passed. John shivered, shook his head, and reached for the button on
the sliding door.

John
stepped through the narrow doorway and onto the corrugated metal grate
connecting the two cars. The wheels rattled over the track, and the
humidity of the Mississippi delta smothered him. John stopped in a state
of limbo. He glanced at the steel link connecting the two cars, inhaled,
and lunged through the sliding door into the next passenger car.

He
stood still, hands gripping the headrests of the first row of seats. The
overhead lights came to life, forcing John to stumble and cover his eyes from
the flare. When the colorful floaters cleared from his field of vision,
John stared at empty seats. He saw magazines sprawled on the floor, a
backpack with a red crayon underneath it, and an open cell phone complete with
squawking voice emanating from the earpiece.

John
scanned the rows again, shaking his head back and forth. He staggered
forward, launched by a sudden swerve in the track. John laughed to
himself, imagining all of the passengers crammed into the tight restrooms on
the lower berth.

The
air became dense and John struggled to draw it into his lungs. He tasted bitterness
on his tongue and heard a sound like scraping metal coming from beneath his
feet. A bead of sweat broke on John’s forehead and his moist palms snatched at
the top of the seats as he fumbled down the aisle.

He
thought of Samantha and rushed back to the sliding door. John slammed the
open button with his fist several times, but it did not obey. He cupped
his hands on the oily plastic window and tried to find Samantha’s
row. Black shadows fluttered through the car and coalesced at the door,
blocking his vision. John hit the button again, beads of sweat dropping
from his creased forehead. He stepped back and yelled into the shifting
void of darkness.

“Samantha! Samantha,
where are you?”

The
shapes bounced through the car as if mocking his concern.

“Sam! What
the fuck?”

“Calm
down, she’s fine.”

The
startling voice made John’s heart lurch in his chest. He spun to find
William the Conductor walking down the aisle towards him. He held his
shiny hole punch and checked the tickets hung above each rider’s seat. The
phantom passengers reappeared, clutching backpacks, magazines, and cell
phones. John shivered as if fending off a winter gust.

“Tell
me what the fuck is going on,” he demanded, growling the words as if not
wanting to alarm the others.

“Sir,
you came into this car of your own free will. You couldn’t be bothered to
pay attention to the conductor. There is nothing I can do for you now.” William’s
eyes moved from John’s feet to his head as he spoke.

John
looked past William to the other passengers in the car. They avoided his stare,
looking at him through the reflection in the windows.

“Who
are they?”

“Passengers.
Like you, sir.” William the Conductor rolled his eyes and winked at a
woman three rows back.

John
tried his best to suppress an uncontrollable giggle, shoved his hand into his
mouth, and bit into meaty flesh. Pain radiated through his wrist, and
saliva dripped from the heel of his palm.

“I
guess I’m not asleep, am I?”

William
turned his head from side to side before winking at another
passenger. John watched a silent explosion of light illuminate the
silhouettes of trees in the distance.

“Where
am I?”

“You’re
on a train, sir. That’s an engine pulling passenger cars, been around
since the 1800s?” William’s tone rose, punctuating the statement with
derision. The corners of his upturned mouth revealed yellowing teeth and a
gray tongue. In the bright light, John noticed William’s soiled and faded
uniform. The conductor’s elbows poked through the thin fabric, and threads
dangled from his fraying cap.

“Quit
fucking with me, or I’ll have your ass. One call to the home office and
you won’t think this is so funny.”

“Do
you recognize the people on this train, sir?” William asked John the
question, ignoring the threats to his livelihood.

John
looked beyond William into the faces of the passengers on the car. They
buried their heads, avoiding John’s eyes as best they could. The
fluorescent lights under the bulkhead flickered on their empty faces. Color
drained from John’s field of vision as if the world had changed to grayscale.

“They’re
just people.”

William’s
eyebrows raised into a formation of mock surprise. He mouthed “just
people” to a woman brave enough to lift her head above the seat.

“Just
people?” William asked John.

“Yeah,
ordinary people, like you and me.”

William
shook his head and wiped a tear from his eye in a failed attempt to suppress
his laughter.

Motion
to William’s right caught John’s attention. A boy sat on the edge of a
seat with a copy of Mad Magazine on his lap. He wore his brown hair
cropped across the forehead. Navy blue denim jeans hung to his ankles,
cuffed up toward his knees. The boy’s white t-shirt clung to his thin,
spindly frame.

“No,
that’s impossible.”

“What
is, sir?”

“That
kid there, that kid is me.”

“How
can that be, sir? You stand here in front of me, holding a conversation.”

John’s
lungs hitched, and he did his best to catch his breath. He mumbled more to
himself than to William the Conductor.

“Nine. The
year that, the year that I found . . . ”

“Found
what, sir?” William’s eyes burned red as he refused to unlock his gaze on
John.

John
knocked William aside and threw his body into the seat next to the young
boy. The child looked up at him with wet eyes. With his finger, John
traced a tear from the child’s cheek to his chin. The boy’s cold skin sent
a chill through John’s heart.