The Howling Train by David Henson

A train whistled in the distance. Fumbling in the dark, John knocked over a half empty bottle on his bed stand. He flicked on the lamp, pulled off his tee shirt and was sopping up the puddle of beer when the train cried again. Now fully awake, he was hit by the fact the only railroad track in town was abandoned years ago. When he went to the window and raised it, he heard nothing but a cat hissing in the alley.

Two hours till clock-in. He stumbled to the refrigerator, twisted the cap off another bottle and chugged it to help him sleep. Not much of a drinker before Martha recently left him, he quickly felt the beer swirling his thoughts. Martha had told John there weren’t sparks any more. Sparks? John got enough of those at work — along with smoke, spatter and fumes belched at him from his arc welder. John had busted his hump for 15 years at the factory, as Martha had at Aiken’s Grocery. They’d tried to save for a nicer place, but could never get more than one nostril above water.

When his head hit the pillow, the train whistled again, so close this time he could hear a rumble. He finally nodded off and slept till the alarm clock nagged him from bed. He shuffled to the window and heard only birds and passing cars.

Bumping his truck over the tracks on the way to the plant, he was relieved to see the Exempt sign at the crossing, weeds hiding the ties roadside. He asked around at work, but no one else had heard a train. He hoped it was just a dream, that the railroad hadn’t reopened the line. Trains brought back horrible memories, including when he was a kid and had dared Stevie Simpson to hop a freight train crawling through town. Billy slipped when he jumped for the box car. Trying to pull his buddy clear, John almost fell under the wheels, too. He’d never told anyone, not even Martha, about the dare.

That afternoon after work, John was going to stop by Joe’s Blue Lounge, but thought better if it. He hadn’t been to Joe’s since a couple weeks ago when he’d told his foreman, Carl, he wasn’t feeling well, punched out early and went to the tavern around noon. Carl saw John there after the shift, said he’d cut him some slack “this time,” that he knew what it was like to have a good woman walk out on him.

John had assured Carl it would never happen again. Carl told John to be careful driving home.

#

The train began waking John up every night. He was so groggy at work, one day he neglected to replace the worn insulation on his stick electrode and suffered a nasty shock. He knew he had to do something so around two the next morning he got in his truck and headed toward the sound of the train.

He stopped on the first set of tracks he came to and lowered the window. The train seemed closer than it had from his house. He zig-zagged his way west, pausing at every crossing, each time the train whistle slightly louder. By the time he got to the tracks about a block from the grade school, he could hear the engine roaring and the steel wheels squealing. He pulled the truck off to the side of the road and climbed out. The noise was deafening, and he felt a breeze from the passing rail cars. “Where are you?” he shouted over the din. When a light came on in a nearby house, he hurried back to the truck and throttled away.

The next few nights, he tried to ignore the sound, buried his head in his pillow, gulped beer till he was so bloated he heard his stomach slosh as he tossed and turned. He knew he shouldn’t go back to the crossing near the school, but couldn’t stay away.

#

Again he stood at the track. Again the roar, the clatter and the breeze. But this time flashing lights. He ran to his truck and tried to drive off, but the squad car blocked his way. Another pulled in behind him.

One of the officers asked why John was at the crossing so late, said his truck had been seen here before. Her partner asked about the dent in the truck’s right front bumper. John told them he couldn’t sleep, was just getting some fresh air. The woman officer told him not to shout.

Back at the station house, a detective slid a photograph of a boy toward John. The child wore a ball cap backwards and looked to be about ten. John shrugged. The train whistled in the distance.

The detective asked John where he was at 3:30 p.m. the afternoon of October 12.

John said he must’ve been at work.

Will your boss verify that?

John hunched his shoulders again. The train whistle was louder.

What if we asked Joe if you were at The Lounge that afternoon? The afternoon Billy Campbell was walking along the tracks on his way home from school when a hit and run driver struck and killed him.

John shook his head, put his hands over his ears.

You clock in and out, don’t you, the detective said. What will we find when we check your punch card?

John felt the floor tremble, the room shake. The detective sipped his coffee. A blast from the train’s horn sent John diving under the table and gripping its legs. I did it, he cried. I hit that little boy. And I killed Stevie Simpson, too.

The detective jerked John to his feet and told him to write out a detailed confession. As John did, the room calmed, and the howl of the train receded in the distance.

—

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in or is upcoming in various journals including Theme of Absence, Moonpark Review, Gravel, Bull and Cross, Literally Stories, Riggwelter and Pithead Chapel. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8