Flinter's Hill Train Station and Janiey Lane the Suicidal Train
By Bloode Thomas
Flinter's Hill Station is a place that some days I call home. Out of work, out of a future, out of a whole damn world, this place is all I got. The people here died out long ago, I'm the only one left, well at least one of the living. It ain't a place you can shut your eyes and wish away the darkness. Nope, old Flinter's Hill ain't nothing like that. It's a damn old place, older than the surrounding town even. Flinter's Hill was here before we all jumped on the board the old train to civilisation, before we nestled and created a colony here. Flinter's shares house to a local cemetery and a big one at that. That there graveyard has been here longer then Flinter's even.
These trains going about the joint made enough noise to wake the dead. You go out way past the Sydney Rookwood Cemetery boundaries and follow the remnants of railway lines; you'll see the old dead station well enough. She ain't got much history cause no one wants to remember her and she's been renamed enough times for locals and history folk alike to never know her, but you follow those train lines, you'll see the old beauty. Of course she doesn't always appear on the lines, only occasionally she'll appear to those looking from the outside.
You see, right here at Flinter's Station, well we got ourselves a load of spooks. They ain't the usual type either; none of this occasional pop ups and wee bitty little orbs. Ain't none of that, Christ I wish there was some of that here. Nope, the ghosts at Flinter's, well... they ain't purely human, least not anymore. On top of that, they are angry spooks, angry angry spookies.
I seen em, I seen em every friggin' day especially before I go to sleep. There be a girl that walks along the platform, damn cow makes the biggest racket you could ever hear. This screaming, wailing constantly for hours at a time. She just endlessly paces up and down the platform, crying, crying, and crying out for something or someone.
Annoying as but ay' she be a beautiful girl, least she would be. I've made the mistake of looking into those black eyes before and I praise you be god right now, I'll never do that shit again. It ain't the terror that gets you, no way; you forget you're looking at a dead body. It's the emptiness that hits you, so hungry, so thirsty with an endless ache. She looks right at you and pulls you in and you ain't ever been so scared in your life.
These be mine ghost stories, be mine short ghost stories.
Some days I close my eyes, wish it all away and you can feel that weight on you. That human weight you've known all your life, like a honey you've met be laying on top of you giving you love, but you know you're alone. You're all on your lonesome with not a weapon, nor with barely a scrap of clean clothing and all you can do lay there. You know that if you open your eyes she'll be there, lying on top of you because you know it's her, it's her goddamn weight and she's just waiting, playing her own twisted waiting game to drive you crazy. You even try and open your eyes just even a whisper and BAM, she's got ya. I thought that after a year or two, I'd get used to her games but doubts are the devils tools and he's filling my heart and head with the lot of em.
She's only but one of the spooks, I call her Clara. A pretty name for a pretty girl eh?
Flinter's is a wreck and no one comes here any more. The trains all stopped, well, the real ones. You see these trains have been coming here so long, they do it on their own accord. Metal isn't supposed to think, it isn't supposed to have a spirit but these trains do. The No. 961-EF2 Train or as the folks here called her with affection - Janiey Lane the Wenches Train, well, that bitch still comes back. You ever have the time you can read about her on the grimy newspapers and rubbish strewn about this joint. You read about her crash, how she took out sixty seven people on the platform and demolished the one hundred and sixteen on board. Papers read the driver's brakes didn't respond at all, like the train didn't want to stop it demise.
Yet every night she's here, and you can see those people in the old world clothing. Dirty, ratted, excited yet scared to death they board her every night. She still has that beautiful grey, steel gleam on her, on her body and her wheels. Its only when you look at her now you get why they called her the Wenches Train, cause all the ladies would on board this beauty, all exclusively, all done up to the hilt with short skirts and high heels.
Janiey Lane the suicidal train more like it, she was just a descending axe taking the heads of those on board and executioner herself. You still see her here, you still hear her. Poor old Janiey Lane our suicidal train.
First you hear her horn in the night air, that blearing, saddening bleat that sounds like a machine crying with its rhythm. She gets closer to the platform and you see her beautiful eyes, those pink, pearly headlights all ablaze with colour. The people crowd onto her, all the ladies and the wenches. They talk; they giggle and laugh as she pulls up. The horn toots and she's off but something's wrong. She's crying like hell this time and she's not going to make it. Her wheels send sparks at all different angles as her crying becomes louder, her tooting becomes angrier.
You can she's not happy and she's not on the tracks properly. She's speeding up way too fast, too fast to be human error. She doesn't stop; she won't stop, not now. She lifts her wheels off the track on the exiting side of the platformand hits head on to. Half in and half out, she's nothing but a crumple of steel and iron. People are screaming everywhere as a section of the train station caves in but all the crying in the world won't do a thing. She keeps tooting, laboured breathes and bleats. Everyone around is too busy tending to the people, cause no one cares a damn about Janie Lane the Wenches Train. Those wenches don't care; they're too covered in blood to care. Janiey Lane our beautiful suicidal train cries herself to sleep as her oil seeps from her steel body and her wheels and doors work, they don't no more.
These be mine ghost stories, be mine short ghost stories.
Here at Flinter's Hill, we had another train. A man's train if there ever was one. Train No. 84620-ME, a huge iron beast with a coal burner, black from top to bottom, from wheel to window. The drivers and the passengers all had a name for him - Johnny Bane, the Lover's Train. He was taken off the tracks and put into the train graveyard not two weeks before Janiey Lane went off the rails.
Maybe that was the key to her sadness and her rage? Maybe she simply fell in love.
Aside from that Clara's still continuing her hide and seek and killing me all the slowly. The devil in the bowler hat is still laughing his head off and the wailing tracks, they're still wailing. Christ I hope I get some sleep tonight.
Welcome to Flinter's Hill Train Station, be careful on your journey.
This Short Story is created by Steen Olsson, Pen Name - Bloode Thomas.
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