Ghost Train
Pitter pattering upon the hard ground outside; a light storm. Moisture speckled the windows inside and out, and Me, sitting amongst my remaining possessions. A chair, a table, some books. I was on the verge of death, healthy by any means in the year 2058. I lived in Small Box, ARIZONA of the USA, a small radiated neighborhood just outside our local war crater field and just west of the nearest church. Life was swell.
It was common knowledge these days as to what lay beyond one’s passing, but still not many people made an effort to examine their future in the Other Side. As the radiation of nuclear wars slowly killed whole continents, I and many others began to think a little more practically about death. There were ways discovered long ago of seeing beyond death, and I was as much a ghost in their world as they were in mine. I slipped out of our reality and into theirs long before my time to learn what news was viral, vital to me. I, who was being hunted by death, whom Reapers were quickly closing in on. Swaths of souls were being spirited away on the Ghost Train every second, and space there, despite the infinite growth of the Other Side, was sparse. There weren’t enough Reapers to catch all of the souls of the dying human race; of all of the immigrants moving from the realm of the living to that of the dead. Watching how things were going over there made me worried over here, and it wasn’t long before I discovered that I wouldn’t be receiving a ticket for the Ghost Train. For me and many others, our final destination would be Purgatory: the space between the Other Side and the living realm that the Ghost Train routinely crossed over to transport spirits. It was like Ellis Island except, with the amount of spirits trying to cross at once, no one would be getting past the immigration station. I had been keeping tabs on the paranormal for some time before deciding to make myself a permanent resident. I was planning to stow away on the ghost train to get to the Other Side.
It was going to be extremely difficult to get aboard unnoticed by the Reapers while breaking timeless laws. I began to erase all traces of my life, all papers and medical documents. Photos. If I left anything behind, the reapers could use it to discover me when I truly crossed over- that is, if they hadn’t already been watching me as I drew nearer to death. There wasn’t a single aspect of life I had left unchecked; I hadn’t even left a will. I grew to the old age of 29 without any major medical or psychological problems, and I was ready to kill myself.
So there I was. I looked about the apartment one last time before departing. The walls glistened, and the table, chairs and empty shelves all dripped with moisture. My clothing hung heavy and wet on my meek frame, clothing I had chosen weeks in advance for their flammability. The matches, dry and brittle as cheap matches are, were housed in a little cardboard matchbox; all chosen with care. In the moment, I took the matches out of the box, in favor of holding them in my hands. I couldn’t take chances leaving anything behind. Not even a handgun would do. The light tapping of the rain against my home's dust encrusted windows solidified the moment in my brain. This was happening; I was going to make it happen. I prayed to the historic God of a cultural religion that my choice was not in vain.
Wait. Wait. Matchbox. Gasoline. Suddenly, my world was on fire. Not a single trace remained of Christian Dubois, not a single article.
And I hadn’t felt a thing.
As soon as there was Christian Dubois, there wasn’t, and suddenly the flames that had engulfed the room were pierced with a bright and brilliant light. The light was white, and filled the room in such a way that resembled a world suddenly stiken by a snowstorm- a whiteout. And then it was gone.
When my vision cleared, the world around me was very much the same. What I was left with, conveniently, was a clear view of the entire town from the place where my house had been decimated by the fire that quickly engulfed it. The town was bathed in an odd sepia light, shifting as if being shone to me through water. All was quiet, and not a single living thing stirred. This was because not a single living thing was here. The silence was sudden and jarring, and was in stark contrast to the rain that had hammered the earth in the living realm. The sky was a deep black, a void that rippled as if, beyond its surface, there were secrets moving about. Things I’d much rather leave unknown than risk discovering.
That’s where the gods lived. Or, at least, what humans of the past had perceived to be gods. The creatures they glimpsed when they prayed in their churches, cathedrals and mosques. Unseen by the human eye, but whose presence can be felt in all layers of reality. They were proven real in the year 2042 by a scientist out of a largely developed city on the continent of Africa. I was familiar with this place, and with my form. Having spent many years walking in this world and learning its laws, I had no trouble getting where I needed to be for the second piece of my plan. Moving from place to place in this reality was like taking one step and suddenly arriving where you wanted to go. One moment I was standing in Small Box, and the next I was standing in the shadow of a large, looming train station that towered above me. Spirits flanked me on either side, jockeying for a position ahead of the rest. Some moved fast, some slow. Some not at all, as if they where still taking in their new surroundings, like me.
Distance was not the same here as it was in the realm of the living. Things moved according to different rules, and often were never in one place at a time. They existed everywhere and nowhere at once, manifesting wherever they are needed and called upon by the forced that pulled the universe. The train station was illuminated by a ghostly glow that crept through the cracks in its tall windows and the light from spirits further gone than others; whose souls shone through their human shells and lit the courtyard with a vast array of colors. In front of the building was a waterless fountain, a statue of a short woman cradling a clock perched on top. “Memento Mori!” Was inscribed in its base. She seemed to be deep in thought, one hand holding down the hour hand on the clock itself, stopping its movement. Freezing time, much like it felt to be here in this world. All things in this world were once a product of the living world, and the train station was no exception. A large and largely outdated sign hung lopsidedly above the incredulous double doors, simply reading “Marigon Station”.
Shaking off the sudden chilling feeling that overtook me, I moved towards the doors between me and the train itself. The inside of the station was brighter still than the courtyard outside. Even more incorporeal forms were knitted together within the building, and those who were illuminated were numerous enough to bathe the room in an ethereal light. As I looked about in awe of the bobbing lights around me, I spotted my destination.
In my studies of the Ghost Train, I’d found that it was very closed off from the outside. So closed off, in fact, that the doors on the train cars were completely unusable save for a single emergency hatch on the top of the baggage car. The hatch serves no purpose for the already deceased, and neither do the doors. Spirits who had been given a right of passage where allowed to pass through the walls of the train with ease. All others pounded on the steadfast walls of the train in anguish, some attempting to break windows and climb the walls. Unlike them, I knew about the emergency hatch, and knew that if I wouldnt be given access through the walls, I would have to use the back door.
Just as I began to move towards the back of the train, a strange noise rang out; or more aptly began to seep into the atmosphere. The double doors which were being held open by the evermoving crowd where suddenly abandoned by the figures there. A heavy darkness spilled into the room through the doors and cracks like waves lapping up onto a shore, rhythmically thrumming and dispersing throughout the room. The noise could be equally described as the absence of noise, as if it where the sound of sound itself being sucked out of the place, being siphoned to a single point.
Telltale signs that reapers had entered the train station.
Perhaps they were searching for me; perhaps not. Whether they intended to find me or not, my being here could spell my demise, Permanently. Suddenly my legs had a greater incentive to push through the crowd and run. A hush fell over the people as one of the reapers climbed atop a decrepit bench and addressed the crowd. Their voice was barely audible from my location, but the siphoning of the spirits whispers made it easier to hear their words. The voice that emanated forth from behind the mass of copper cloth encompassing their upper body was voluminous, akin to a congregation of all ages and genders speaking in imperfect unison. It was impossible to pick out a single voice in the mass, as every tone somehow managed to seem perfectly aligned with each other and yet absolutely chaotic in nature. I’d never had to witness it up close before. Most people who do do not exist to tell others about the experience.
“Those of you whom the Great Composition hath deemed rightful to pass on into the Other Side may remain. All those who are exempt access to the Other Side by decision of the Great Composition are to be lead out of this place. The Great Composition has told us so, and so it will be done.”
My heart stopped for the second time that day.
I had somehow in all my preparation forgot about the ritualistic cleansing of the train station by reapers. There was no way to tell when one would occur as time was fluid here, but I hadn't even prepared for the possibility that a cleansing would take place on the day of my departure. Ghosts began to part like the red sea, with some flowing into the train’s body and others sulking back into the courtyard. I was trapped in the middle of the sudden chaotic movement like a salmon attempting to swim upstream. The reapers, who I had counted to be relatively small in numbers, began to disperse throughout the remaining spirits. They attempted to corral the few that fought against the movement of the crowd. I pushed through the mass of spirits who flowed around and through me as if I were pushing my way upstream in the roaring rapids of a river. Feeling as if I could hear the reaper’s breathing in my ears, I made my way forward through the darkness that had settled into a fine layer across the floor. With the tail end of the train in sight, I refused to look back to see if any of the reapers had singled me out. I was so close to reaching the train. I had sacrificed everything to get to this point, and I wasn’t about to be turned away. Moving became easier when I broke through the mass that was leaving to the crowd who were boarding the train. They looked no different from the spirits who were denied access to the Other Side, and I wondered if the Great Composition who made such judgements had any rhyme or rhythm to their choices. Perhaps they simply pulled names and souls out of thin air, completely at random. I began to follow the flow, less worried about being caught now I was hidden in the throng of passengers. Finally looking back I saw that the reapers had focused on the leaving crowd, and where following them out into the courtyard. Only one stayed behind; assumptively to make sure their work was thorough and complete. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief as my hand touched down on the first rung of the ladder leading to the top of the baggage car. Before I began my climb, I glanced around the station one last time, both out of fear and relief. The mixed feelings I felt quickly melted, as fear overtook me.
In life, I held very fondly to the idea that sleep was for the dead. As soon as I was safe on the train, the gentle rocking of true passengers boarding from one of thousands of entrances lulled me into unconsciousness.
It felt good to finally rest despite how short a rest it had been.
Aroused briefly from sleep by a sudden bump on the tracks, I shifted my weight to my other side. Light shone on and through my face and woke me completely from the dream I had been pondering. It was not the sun, but a single hanging light fixture, visible partially through the cracks in the luggage I had piled to make a secret hiding space. I squinted up at it as it spun in my vision above me, as well as the rest of the car, which seemed to sway from side to side lazily. There was no point in sleeping anymore, I had already missed the trains departure. Lifting myself into a sitting position, I addressed and made accounted for my limbs. My body was merely a thin memory of itself, and seemed to fade in and out of being listlessly. Listening for the sound of footsteps, I moved some of the luggage of the car aside to let more light into my hideaway. The swinging, hanging bell light shone down on me, washing on and through me a hazy orange glow. The car was stacked to the rafters with the memories of it’s passengers on their way to another place. Some memories were being held in place loosely by strings of thoughts which glew like LED strips in the dimly lit compartment, while others floated freely about the space. There was also another light- bright, green and lively- coming from outside the windows. It seemed like we were slowly approaching it. Being dead was still quite shocking. I had hidden my soul in the memories of an elderly christian woman, and my dreams upon the train had been those of a lady who had lived a long and full life. They also disguised my spirit well enough against reapers that I could plan my escape into the Other Side without fear of being discovered. Leaning my back against one of many memories, I recalled the few moments before my departure on the Ghost Train.