It was five hundred dark miles until we arrived at our next stop. People were already settling in with blankets and cushions. Some of them even planned on sleeping.

I walked the cars checking tickets before they got too involved. The sleeper cars were next. I tapped on the door and a hand would show me the appropriate number of tickets, except for Cabin 31. It was flung open by an old man who made a move toward where his pockets would have been had he been wearing pants.

“Where are my pants?” he asked. An old woman paused in her undressing to reach under a pile of clothes on the floor and hand him the tickets. I checked them and closed the door.

There are certain things that are not meant for mortal man to see.

That was one of them.

I finished my walk and sat at my desk in the closet they call the “Conductor's Office” I hadn't been there five minutes when a woman flung the door open.

“You the conductor?”

“Yes'm”

“I've lost Pooky”

“Pooky?”

“Yes, she's about eight pounds and wearing the cutest pink sweater.”

I looked at the woman again, taking in the once carefully coiffed hair, the expensive suit. the even more expensive implants. I made a bet with myself.

“She's a toy poodle,” I said.

“Of course.”

I owed myself about a million dollars. This was the biggest part of my job. Passengers were always losing things on the train; purses, wallets, their virginity.

Most things I could find, some not.

“Where did you last see her?”

“I left her with a man and his daughter in coach. He was wearing a black leather vest. I needed to get off at the last stop.” She sniffled a little. “I broke a nail, and I just couldn't find my manicure kit.”

“I see.” I send her back to her seat and headed for the dining car. A bit of cheese goes a long way to befriending vicious little dogs. Then I was off to coach. I found the big man in the leather vest. When I interrupted him he came off the seat at me. I pushed him back into it. He lunged again. I put my finger on his forehead and pushed him back. As he gathered himself for a third try I asked him a question.

“Do you know how fast this train is going?”

“Why should I care?”

“Because it has a lot to do with how painful it will be when I throw you off the train.”

“What do you want?”

“A woman left her poodle with you, she would like it back.”

“That vicious little critter chewed my vest. I sent my daughter to take it back.”

“When was that?”

“How should I know? It was before we left the station.”

“Where is she now?” He just shrugged.

“She's your daughter.”

“Only until I get her to her mother's. She's fourteen and can take care of herself.”

I found the daughter in the dining car holding a torn shirt with one hand and a coke with the other. I sat down across from her.

“Everyone else was doing it,” she said, “He didn't like it when I changed my mind.”

“What does he look like?”

“I left him in a fetal position, moaning.”

“Good girl,” She burst into tears, so I offered my handkerchief and waited.

“Aren't you going to lecture me or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I am looking for the poodle.”

“Pooky? Didn't they get her back to her owner?”

“Who's they?”

“An old couple. They acted like kids in love. You know, holding hands, bumping against each other. It was kind of cute. They were in cabin....” She paused in thought.

“Thirty-one,” I said and she nodded. “Thanks,” I stood up, “You stay here as long as you need.”

“The waiter told me I had to order something to sit here.”

“Usually you do, but tonight is different. If you do want something, just ask. It's on the house.”

I waved a signal at Frankie and he came over. I left her ordering enough to feed an army.

Back at cabin thirty-one I could hear high pitched barking mixed with other sounds. I knocked on the door and a moment later the old timer flung the door open.

“You've come for Pooky,” he said as he deftly caught the small dog that was leaping and snapping at him. “She's a nice dog, but I'm too old for a threesome.” He handed me the dog and I let Pooky smell the cheese in my hand. She quieted.

“We are running away from our kids,” he said, “They are going to be so angry.” He winked and closed the door.

The kid was right. It was kind of cute.

Pooky's mistress was delighted to see her. I left them making up and took myself back to my closet.

“Another victory,” I said to the picture of my wife that hung on the wall over the door.

Twenty years ago she had vanished from this very train. I never found her. I'm still looking, but some things can't be found.

I turned and watched the darkness pass outside the window.

It’s late, real late, and as we pull out of the station I realise I’m the only soul left on the train. The first winter squalls had hit and smell of bacon had been lingering over the city for days; all the good people stayed home on account of the weather, and all the bad people . . . ? Well, they probably knew what I knew and those that didn’t would have felt it in the air. If they were smart they’d be staying low. So it was just me alone on the train, watching the orange lights of the city fade in the rain-lashed window as we sped towards the indifferent suburbia beyond.

But I wasn’t alone for long.

I spot her on the platform and I can tell she’s trouble. We’re in the middle of nowhere, in the rain and the freezing wind, among the factories and warehouses that haven’t seen an honest worker in years. Of all the trains in the city she just has to catch mine.

She gets on, bringing the cold air with her, and she’s all angles and curves with her chocolate brown bob and her red leather coat and her umbrella, and even with the bruise marks on her cheek I can see she’s quite a piece. The logical part of me tells me to stay away, she’s bad news – but when did I ever listen to logic when it came to a pretty face?

I make my way down the carriage, rocking with the train’s sway, and she ignores me as I take the seat opposite hers. “A penny for your thoughts, sweetcheeks?” She doesn’t respond and keeps her gaze fixed on the graffiti-ridden derelicts flying past. A tear rolls down her cheek. “Ok, be like that, sugarpie, but I can see you’re upset and I’m gonna stay here and make sure you’re safe, ‘cause a girl like you shouldn’t be out on a night like tonight. You can trust me, I’m a cop,” I tell her, not "was a cop" . . .

She spins around like I just slapped her, and pins me against the wall with her wild green eyes. “Cop, huh?” She rolls up her sleeve to show me fresh burn marks on her milky-white arm. “So what you gonna do ‘bout that, big boy? You my night in shining armour, huh? ‘cause he’s gonna kill me for talking to you, understand that? I’m dead now, you hear?” She’s not shouting but the anger comes through loud and clear.

“Hey, I ain’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” I reach out and stroke her wet cheek. “Trust me, baby, I can get you out of this . . .”

But instead of gratitude, I get chaos as the doors fly open at the next stop and the girl starts screaming.

“Who you talking to, b***h?” Suddenly there’s knives and meatheads all around us and some greasy punk with a shaved head a nervous tic yanks the girl by her hair. I stand up, instinct telling me to start throwing punches but I gotta stall – two more stops and I’m certain I’ll have this kid’s ass on a plate.

I look down at my knuckles and pretend like I’m bored. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say.

“What’d you say?” he screams.

“Are you deaf? I said, leave her alone.”

“And what do you know, huh? What’re you gonna do?”

Another station passes and he pulls her hair tighter. And I’m not a gambling man, but I’m betting that driver's seen what’s going on through the security cameras, and I’m betting he’s already radioed through . . .

“You know,” I continue, still acting all disinterested, “an old friend of mine will be along soon and he’s got some powerful friends with him . . .”

“You better listen to him,” the girl screams, “he’s a cop!”

And the carriage comes alive. Two of the guys behind me grab me and the greasy punk’s put his fist into his girl’s head then puts his blade to my throat. He leans in, real close, and I can see the pinpoints in his wired blue eyes. “You know what I hate? Pigs. Know what I hate even more? Pigs moving in on my girl . . .”

The train stops. Out of the corner of my eye I see we’ve reached the station, but don’t hear the beep of the door releasing and I wait for the train to keep moving but it feels like we’re frozen in time and my heart’s racing.

And then it’s chaos again. Voices are shouting “Freeze!” and the guys around me scatter. Cops are waiting at every door, and it’s all handcuffs and sly kicks to the kidneys from there. But the punk’s not giving up. He‘s still got the knife at my throat and his face is so twisted in anger I think for a moment he really is gonna kill me.

Suddenly, the anger fades and the knife topples from his hand as he sinks away in front of me. I’m facing the girl and she's clutching her umbrella - now with the sharp metal tip covered in blood. We stare at each other over the noise and the mayhem and the bleeding body between us before two cops grab her from behind and drag her down the aisle to the doors, her green eyes pleading to me as they take her away.

Andrea sat in Kenneth McBride's office. She had already decided she didn't like him, and didn't like his organization.

“We need you to recover a valuable item for us. We understand you can see ghosts,” McBride started.

“ You know my reputation already. What is the job?”

“Some people stole a letter from us. We want it back.”

“And the ghosts?”

McBride leaned back in his chair. “There were three gang members. Two were murdered. The third disappeared.”

“You mean ran off?”

“They were all on a train – The trans-America express. There was nowhere to run off. We had agents on the train. They were tracking the gang down when he vanished.”

“So who did the murdering?”

“From the looks of it, the missing gang member. Apparently he did not want to share the loot. Your fee for this job will be ten thousand dollars, when the letter has been delivered to us.”

“You know what I charge for my work. That isn't even in the ballpark. Good-day.”

“OK,” replied McBride. “Make that 100 thousand upon return of the letter.”

“In that case, we have a deal. Where should I board the train?”

McBride slid a ticket across the desk. “When can you start?”

“I just did,” Andrea said as she took the ticket and left. On the way out she noticed two men watching her. She made sure she would recognize them if she ever saw them again.

“Girl, you need to have your head examined,” she thought as she left the building. She was getting nothing but bad premonitions about this one. Oh well, a job was a job.

The station was in a run-down state of disrepair, apparently this railroad had seen better days. The train eventually did pull up, around an hour late, and she boarded. She gave the conductor her ticket, and shifted into ghost hunting mode. The living started fading out, and the car soon appeared empty. She went into the next car, and there in the back was sitting a nervous little man. A woman took the seat next to him, and the train started off.

All of a sudden the man slumped over. The woman propped him up, took a letter from his vest, and left the car to the rear. There she dropped the letter on another man's lap who quickly covered it up, and she continued walking. She was soon grabbed from an open doorway and dragged into a small room. When Andrea looked in her throat had been cut. Since there was no one else in the room, a person still living must have done it.

She walked back to the front of the car and came across the body of the second man who had the letter. He had been shot. This was not good, the trail would be cold. Then she spotted the third ghost. He had a look of fear in his eyes, and quickly ducked outside the car. Either he fell off, or he found some way to hang off it. Seeing no one else around, Andrea started to shift modes, and then she spotted them. The two goons from McBride's office. They were standing at the spot where he disappeared.

That explained a lot. Andrea quickly made her way to the back of the car, and made use of a hook and rope she had brought with her to climb to the top of the car. She made her way forward on the roof, and spotted him. The third ghost was hanging by a hook used to drop off mail without stopping the train. Unfortunately for him, they were passing a station which was equipped with a tower for receiving the mail, and he was gaffed quite neatly below the chin. The train sounded its horn, and Andrea looked up to see an approaching tunnel through a mountain. She quickly used the hook and rope to lasso the last structure at the station – a watering tower. She swung around in a loop and landed roughly on the ground.

She walked back to the station, which was abandoned, and found the body still dangling. It had a leather pouch, which contained two letters – one sealed, one not. The unsealed one was an offer of ten thousand dollars to steal the letter signed by McBride. Now things made sense.

It was two days later when she showed up in McBride's office. He was sitting at his desk with a surprised look, when she dropped the letter in front of him.

“I believe you owe me some money.”

McBride nodded, and reached into a drawer pulling out the cash. Andrea noticed his right hand stayed below the desk, and she knew the reason why.

“Oh, and there is also this second letter. You had them all killed, didn't you?” Andrea asked.

McBride's eyes narrowed and his gun went off just as Andrea jumped on the desk and put her knife in his throat.

She wiped it off, and picked up the money shaking her head. “I'd love to know what was in that letter, but I am certain I don't want to pay the price for it,” she said to the ghosts as she let herself out.

The train was quiet, filled with the strange silence that only exists between midnight and dawn. The other passengers talked in hushed whispers or pretended to sleep. I studied their reflections in the darkened windows; I’d never met them before, but I knew their types. The older couple on the midnight run from New York to Washington, baby blanket carefully stored overhead, ready for their new grandchild. The salesman with his fashionable suit and worn sample case, slouched in his seat like a veteran rider, trying to catch some shut eye before hitting the neighborhoods and charming the housewives out of their egg money. And the dame.

There was one on every train. Sometimes I wondered if the company paid them to ride the rails, just to give the other passengers something to tell the folks back home. If so, then this one was earning her money tonight; she was every man’s dream and every mother’s nightmare. Her simple black dress and plain black hat should have blended into the background. Instead, the dark fabric hugged her curves, teasing the eye. The demure little hat perched jauntily on her blond hair, daring anybody to question its attitude.

The odd passenger out was seated near the middle of the car. At first glance, I pegged him as a successful businessman on his way to a convention. Good quality suit, Bulova watch and freshly shined shoes all screamed upper-middle class comfort. But something about his worn, leather briefcase caught my eye. He acted as if it were of the finest Italian leather, carefully placing it on the seat beside him, becoming agitated when the conductor offered to place it on the overhead rack. As the train rumbled through the Pennsylvania countryside, I watched as he fussed over it, touching it, checking it every few minutes as if to assure himself that it was still there.

The conductor had dimmed the lights as we’d pulled out of the city for the four-hour trip. We were somewhere south of Philly when we ran into the storm. Rain pounded the metal roof, merging with the sounds of the train and of rolling thunder, filling our ears. Sharp bolts of lightning lit up the blackened windows and provided eerie snapshots of the countryside, temporarily blinding us in the dim light of the car.

Lightning struck near the train, a clap of thunder marking its nearness. The lights flickered, then went out. More lightning flashed and I saw shapes moving about the car, mere shadows of motion. Then the lights returned, revealing everybody in their original seats.

Except the businessman.

He was slumped across his briefcase, an eight-inch dagger sticking out of his back. His precious briefcase was open, its papers carelessly scattered.

The older woman screamed, then buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. The salesman perked up, sensing a story for the housewives. The dame stared at the body with a detached curiosity, like she was observing an animal in a zoo.

Alerted by the old woman’s scream, the conductor rushed in. One look at the dagger turned his face a sickly shade of green. Without a word, he locked the door at the back of the car, then went through the door at the front and locked it behind him, sealing us inside. Five passengers and a dead body.

“Well, isn’t this an interesting development.” The salesman’s smooth, oily voice broke the silence. “Do you think we should cover him, or something?”

The older man looked at the body, then quickly away. “I’m not touching him.”

I glanced at the woman in black and was surprised to see her staring at the older couple. She watched them intently for a few minutes before turning to me. I don’t know what I expected to see in her eyes – fear, or possibly shock. Instead, I saw sadness – and a simmering rage.

She held eye contact for a few seconds, then deliberately looked at the rack overhead. I followed her gaze to the pink baby blanket.

The blanket that had been so carefully folded now looked like it had been shuffled and then refolded in a hurry. I looked again at the open briefcase and the scattered papers, wondering what the blanket might be hiding.

I was reaching for it when I heard a distinctive click.

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” said a cheerful, older voice.

I turned to see the old woman holding a very new gun, hammer cocked. Her husband reached up and took down the blanket, unfolding it to reveal a small notebook.

“Guess there’s no need to hide this,” he said.

“Why?” The lady in black’s voice was low and husky.

The older man laughed. “For the money, of course.”

I watched as the woman’s aged finger started to tighten on the trigger. I tensed, ready to make a move for the gun.

The train lurched and wheels squealed as the engineer threw the brake. Off balance, the woman tried to correct her aim but the bullet shattered the window behind me. I threw myself at her.

Before I could reach her, red blossomed on her white sweater. A look of shock, then fear, crossed her face. With an inarticulate cry, her husband launched himself at the dame.

A single bullet hole appeared in his forehead, stopping his charge.

The dame lowered her .38 revolver.

“His name was Albert,” she whispered.

People travel all the time, some never do anything but travel. Me, I ride trains. I don't just do it for fun either. I am highly trained for many risks of my job. I don't carry a badge or a gun, but they would make my job easier. Of course they would make any job easier.

The crew today:

Marci; don't let that gamin smile fool you. Turn your back for a second and she can cause more trouble than a bus load of Navy SEALS.

Victor; the mad genius of the bunch. Give him the right book and he's putty in your hands. The wrong one and he's off creating a weapon off mass destruction.

John; pay no attention to that baby face. He's a master manipulator. There's only one thing on his mind, and you don't give it to him, he raises Cain until you do.

We made it past security with no problems. I had bribed the trio to co-operate and I had all the paper work handy. The only issue came when we had found our seats. It was a perfect location – in the last car of the train so there was only one door. The conductor came by to check our tickets. He took one look at my bag and told me that it needed to go in the baggage car.

“No way,” I said, “I have all kinds of specialized equipment in here.” I unzipped the bag to let him see. “I don't think you're prepared to provide any of this at a moment's notice.”

“Alright,” he said, “But you keep things under control.”

“That's my job,” I said.

The rest of the passengers crowded into the car. The crew and I faced each other with my bag stuffed between us. A couple of folks looked like they were going to crowd in on us, but something warned them off. It might have been the stuffed lion covered with drool, or the naked Barbie getting tattooed.

Now I know what you're thinking. All this build up and she's just travelling with kids. Let me ask you. When was the last time you travelled with children? Now imagine that you are travelling with some one else's brats, and they don't like you.

It isn't my job to be liked. It is my job to deliver the kids with minimal damage to themselves or the people around them.

I felt the jolt that meant we had started. It was five hundred miles until I handed this threesome over to the people at the other end.

“I'm bored,” Marci said. She stuffed Goth Barbie into her backpack and looked around for something else to colour.

“Put the cap on the marker Marci.”

She shrugged and capped the marker. It went into her backpack and she brought out a game system.

“Just keep the volume down.”

She stuck her tongue out at me, but even I could barely hear the soundtrack.

“I've read all these books,” Victor said.

“Didn't you pack them?”

“Yes, but I've read them all,” he sighed, “They're dull.”

I unzipped my bag and dug around for a minute. I found the book I was looking for and handed it too him.

“Quantum Mechanics: The Graphic Novel!” he squealed, “Cool.”

Two down, one to go, but Johnny just burbled at me and blew a bubble.

Maybe this wasn't going to be so hard after all.

*****

“I need to go,” said Victor only minutes later.

“Bathroom is right there.” I pointed to the door across the way, another reason these were prime seats.

“OK,” he said, and walked over to the bathroom. “It says 'Out of Order'”

I stepped over and looked, sure enough there was the sign.

“I really need to go.” he said, while he held himself and did a little dance.

“OK, there's a bathroom at the other end of the car.” Victor just nodded and ran down the aisle. He opened the door and went in. Marci was still playing her game. I was just getting seated when I heard Victor yell from the other end of the car.

“My zipper's stuck!”

“Come here and I'll fix it.”

“Someone might see my underwear.”

I looked at Marci, she was still entranced by the game. I walked briskly to the other end of the car and won a brief wrestling match with Victor's zipper. His dance was getting frantic, so I shooed him into the bathroom and allowed myself a deep breath. Then I looked down to our seats, and I couldn't see Marci.

I ran back to our seats. There she was kneeling on the floor beside Johnny putting finishing touches on what looked like a dragon tattoo on his forehead.

“Give me the pen,” I said. I put my hand out. She glared at me.

“You know what will happen if you don't.”

“You're not my mother. You can't make me.”

I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket and let her see me dial the number. She handed me the pen.

“All of them.” She dug in her backpack and passed me the package of pens. I put them in the bag. Just then Johnny let out the most disgusting sound and laughed. I could smell it immediately.

“Eeewww,” Marci said.

I reached for my bag. This is why I get paid.

Outside the window, the fog envelops the scenery on the train station. Ghostly figures of people dressed in winter greys pass by, some waiting and some rushing toward the decelerating train. This is not his stop, but Phineas scans the platform, his eyes boring a hole through the white blanket.

Then he sees her. The woman he now focuses on walks briskly towards the cart that he is sitting in. She is wearing a tweed skirt with matching jacket and hat. Her blonde hair is just visible in her neck.

He folds his newspaper open and uses it as a screen, hiding from the approaching woman. He knows that she will get into the cart and sit across from him – as usual. He doesn’t want her to see his face until he is certain.

The woman enters his lonely carriage and sits down in the corner opposite to his. She smiles politely and takes a book from her handbag. He knows she isn’t really reading, but he’d instructed her to act casual. He moves his hand slowly and lets it come to rest on his duffle bag - feeling the outline of his knife always gives him assurance.

After a while the train lumbers into movement. Steam from the locomotive mixes with the mist, leaving the station in an almost complete whiteout.

The train picks up speed and soon the town is left far behind. In a while they’ll stop at the deserted station that is Phineas’s destination and, even if she doesn’t know, also that of his travelling companion.

Twenty minutes after departing from the bustling city station, the train comes to a gentle stop, sighing like a tired horse after a morning’s run. Phineas carefully gathers his luggage. He turns and faces the blonde, only now noticing that she is really beautiful. She looks up, her eyes doesn’t seem as glazed as his previous quarry’s.
He knows she will follow him onto the deserted station, like all her predecessors.

A minute later, Phineas disembarks and walks slowly to the end of the lonely platform. To his left are some buildings, one of witch he enters.

On queue, the woman also enters the small office and closes the door behind her. She will not acknowledge him or try to defend herself, even when he gets to work. In his mind’s eye he pictures a mouse, petrified as the Cobra slowly closes in. He opens the bag that he had brought in earlier and takes his large butcher’s knife from its sheath.
Slowly he approaches his prey and circles her with the patients of a hunter.

All woman are the same, all woman are prey.

Phineas had been a practitioner of deep hypnoses for his entire adult life, and some of his childhood. Although his theatre performances and psychiatric practise furnished him in most of his worldly needs, it only provided him with a stepping stone to feed his true hunger. Now he could nourish the monster inside.

… he lifts the knife.

Suddenly, with almost unnatural speed, the woman swirls away. Phineas is caught completely unawares; he's never even contemplated the possibility of this. She is supposed to be in a walking coma, induced by the words he had spoken to her over the telephone….

Before he can react, she draws a pistol from under her jacket and shoots him square in the chest. He stumbles to the floor. The woman casually drops the book she had been reading on the train. Her words are as cold as the bullet now lodged in his chest….

“You have killed for the last time. I hope you rot in heII.”

She walks out, leaving him to die alone. The last thing that he sees before his vision blurs is the book, lying next to him on the blood-splattered cement-floor. He can just make out the text on the front cover...

The mysteries of hypnosis
by Phineas Allenby

There was still enough time for a few more hours of April sunlight but it was getting colder by the minute. The 4:57 express was running late and Benefield James fully expected another blur of faceless silloughettes to scream by, just as the last one did without so much as a backwards glance from the familiar caboose trailing it's entourage. The track from which the expected train would come from rounded just enough of a lazy curve to provide both the awaited revelation and a last minute surprise where everyone both young and old, seated and standing would spring to life, grabbing their belongings in anticipation.

Benefield believed in using his own two feet and that any travel, with patience and time could be accomplished by the same amount of determination. However the long trip ahead was over an hour by train and the fare paid to the attendant would more than justify the avoidance of what he referred to as "a conflagration of both heel and sole". Before long, the clang of a familiar bell and the steadily decreasing thrust of pistons could be heard in the distance. A friendly yellow light, flickering with each revolution of distant wheels appeared from the peripheral tree line and grew larger as the black engine came closer into full view.

***************************
"You're 27 years old, Benefield", a haggard looking woman who looked years beyond her tattered apron quickly pulled the laundry from an equally worn clothes line. "Storms coming hurry now and help me get these baskets inside".

The man leaned down and grabbed the largest cache of unfolded clothing, pulling the brim of the wicker close under his chin.

"I can work at the hardware store" his voice bounced with his lanky walk on the uneven path.

The woman paused enough for a look of disagreement but she didn't say anything else and continued on slightly behind him. The time had come for her son, her only son to finally get a real occupation and earn a good pay to support the household. His father and father's father had done it and by darned he should follow in their footsteps.

"Mother, all of them died in the mines"

A silence, broken only by some distant thunder fell upon the pair as they walked the dirt path to the house. A barking dog could be heard from the next farm over and the faint glow of window lanterns could be seen across a bare cornfield that should have been planted months before. The farm looked worn and out of place without the familiar live stock. Old John has been dismissed long ago and had left for the coal-rich towns of Pennsylvania to make his living. Ben hadn't heard from John, a surrogate parent figure of sorts and he wondered what had become of him.

They reached a large and open porch which probably could have used some fresh paint.

"Things have changed" his mother dropped her basket onto the wooden boards of the covered porch and sat in her favorite chair. "Benny, you have to realize that this town is drowning in its own promises" she rocked back, holding the recline as if to accent her point. "They’re safer now, just remember that your father died years ago" she rocked forward again "Mines are safer now".

The wind grew bolder and a lonely, single and forgotten shirt fluttered against a bush that surrounded one of the old rusty poles holding up the clothes line. The old corn stalks from last season brushed together as if calling out the rusty plow to dig them back to the dusty soil. His mother continued to rock, and Benefield wondered if she looked at the farm the same way she did when her and his father had first bought the place. It was run down but it was still home. He often chided himself for being unable to keep it running the way pop had after he left for the coal fields. He hadn't wanted to leave but things, well, things just weren’t working out they way they had before. His mother kept the house and at least some of the adjoining property was rented out to pay the land taxes and keep up the maintenance.

"Things are safer now"....

***************************
The wind whipped cross-wise on the standing platform. A hat or two followed the draft with their owners following closely behind, taking heed of the great steaming giant announcing it's presence with a retort of the whistle. Benefield James was always first in line for everything, yet today he lagged behind and instead took in the last scenes from his home town.

The swaying trees; the jeering crowd.

The final paces to the rail-car steps; the drop of the floor and tightening noose.

I have been afraid of trains since I was a little girl. Even now as I sit here on this express, my palms are clammy and my throat feels dry. I cannot help but flashing back in my mind to the accident.

I opened my eyes, a child of ten, to what looked to be a war zone. Men and women, children younger than me all laying in this mangled coach car, cries pierced through the sound of an incessant sounding alarm. I searched for him. holding my neck up looking both ways, I could feel the blood pouring from my forehead and he was nowhere to be found. I tried to scream but nothing but a shrill soft squeal came from my mouth. I closed my eyes and fell into a dream.

I cannot help but stare at the man in the seat across from me. He holds his weight forward like he is going to tip out of his seat, his head is rested against the window and I watch as he stares out into the dark crystal sky. On the seat next to him a small manila envelope and a wooden trinket box carved with an elephant on its lid. The word “change” drawn out in red calligraphy on the envelope makes me curious. The engineer gets on the PA and says we are about to stop in the jersey station. I am getting tired and still have another 36 hours on this vessel, but my curiosity of the envelope keeps my mind racing and I seem to be gaining a bought of insomnia. I laid down spreading my legs up on the empty seat next to me and closed my eyes.

When I finally gained consciousness there was a man in a firefighters uniform pulling the steel train doors up and away from where they had been crushing the lower half of my body. He reached over and grabbed my face. “are you alright”? “hello, hello, can you hear me”? I tried with all the energy I could muster to speak but I was still in shock, I blinked my eyes to show him I could hear him. He smiled, and as he carefully pulled me up into his arms I felt the fear dissipate. He carried me out of the coach and I kept looking for my brother. I saw nothing but bodies laying in pools of blood, I saw the conductor running over bodies yelling to see if any of the passengers were still alive. The siren was still sounding and I could feel myself getting ready to pass out again.

I woke up to find we had already passed jersey and were almost nearing Albany. It was daylight and the sky was a concrete grey. The man across from me had not moved. I lay there staring at his face. He looked sad, confused, and alone. I had been contemplating for two days if I should say something to him. When we boarded the train together in Athens he told me to get rest, and everything would be fine when we reached Bathurst. That was two days ago and he has yet to say a word. How did he come to find me? Why was he taking me on this trip? What is in Bathurst? I have never been to new Brunswick, and I don’t understand why we have to go there. The scenery out the window was plain, boring, and lifeless. There was nothing of color and the only thing I could see was those big red letters. “Change”.

When I finally woke up a nurse was waving a small capsule full of the most awful smell in front of my nose, I shook my head and gave her an angry look. I could feel the bandages on my forehead and gained just enough strength to say, “what happened”. the woman replied, “please do not worry, you are going to be fine.” she asked me if I had been traveling alone and I told her my four year old brother was next to me. She got a strange look on her face and with that shot a needle into my IV. Instantly I fell back asleep.

We had finally reached Saint John when he finally said something. He told me to freshen up in the bathing car and gave me thirty cents for the shower. I held the change in my hand and he pointed forward as to show me that I needed to go through the doors ahead. I grabbed my hairbrush and went on my way. Though a sad looking man I couldn’t help but be intrigued by his mysterious demeanor. I wondered if he was thinking about me, or if he had some sort of task at hand. Was I his package to be delivered in Bathurst? I put my thirty cents into the machine and cold water spilled from the shower head. I closed my eyes and let the water run over my tired face.

The medicine finally wore off and I was able to open my eyes. I looked around the hospital room and all I could see was flowers everywhere, get well cards, stuffed animals, and on the food tray next to my bed lay a small manila envelope. On it written in red calligraphy ink was the word. “change”. I know I must be dreaming.

The train screeched into the station to a dizzying stop. Steam rolled onto the platform, brushing the dead leaves that lay on the cold, dark cement. I get aboard and glance around the train, no seats are free. People one thousand times more useless that I am are taking up my space. Space I need to be comfortable. Space that is rightfully mine. I pace down the aisle of the train car, glaring at each and every one of these useless beings. I slowly progressed towards the back of the train car, slowly passing the passengers as they made melancholy small talk about business and their meaningless families.
I leaned against the back of the train car, watching them. I met eyes with a young woman smoking a cigarette. Her cheekbones were harsh and her skin was soft looking. Her smooth blond hair billowed down her forehead in triumphant curls that dominated her face. She wore bright red lipstick and held her cigarette loosely between her forefinger and middle finger. She never broke eye contact. Her deep grey eyes penetrated me.
I stood, staring, for a long time. Rarely blinking, there was something off about this woman. She wasn’t giving me the look I received from women regularly. This look was different. This look had a meaning behind it. She wanted something from me. In a moment an honest glance went from honest to suspicious. I knew she was just another useless being occupying my space in this dreadful train car, but I didn’t know what was off about her. After all, these people seemed easy enough to read. For example, the 32 businessmen wearing near-identical pinstripe suits and fedoras were all off to a meeting. Their main objective was to please their boss and eventually get to treat someone as poorly as they are treated. Though, this woman, her story was out of eye’s view.
I thought deeply about approaching her, but that would arise suspicion. What would the other passengers think? They would believe I was some serial killer trying to claim my next victim. Or a stalker trying to get closer to my prey. No, I couldn’t be seen like that, not by the scum in this train. I would just keep staring. Imagining what she was hiding. She had to be hiding something. I kept running over what would happen if I approached her in my head. Nothing ended well. I decided to continue living in my mind. After all, my mind is the only place that is logical anymore. These people are nothing but imbeciles who are bent on slowly progressing through their futile careers.
Smoke crawled through the train car. All the men and women were laughing over stupid conversations while sucking on their cancer-sticks. They didn’t know that cigarettes killed them, and I hoped they never found out about it. I would continue to look this woman in the eyes until the train stopped. Never breaking eye contact. Never looking away. She intrigued me.

Five hundred miles to go.