Hey, writers! Looking to write a ghost story? There are 5 ghostly posts on my Weird Wednesday blog, with writing prompts:
The Greenbrier Ghost: Testimony from Beyond the Grave
Poltergeists: Noisy Ghosts
The Amityville Horror: Infamous American Haunted House
The Haunted Rail: Ghost Trains
The Mysterious Ouija Board: Who Are You Talking To?
A prompt for Ghost Trains:
Memento Mori. Hauntings that replay tragedies are called residual hauntings. They’re like an old movie, where none of the actors are actually present in your living room, but you can watch them over and over. Grieving characters might be drawn to the scene of a train crash on its anniversary for a last glimpse of a loved one who died on the train. Or they might hear rumors of vanishing-hitchhiker passengers and hope they might recognize one. A character could even contact a necromancer (a person with the magical skill to summon the dead) to try to keep the hitchhiker from vanishing.
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Summary - Culdee Fell was a lifeless rock, until Godred fell down it.
-
The Mountain was never given much thought. Its snow-capped peak towered over the land in such a totally dominating way that the Islanders thought that not even God could have put it there. It was, as more than one man put it, “bigger than life, and older than sin.” It had always been there, and was about as lively as, well, as a rock.
Man often wondered if the rest of the world was alive. After all, so much was already; animals, plants, machines, and so on. It made a comforting amount of sense, to assume that one was not alone in their own world. Natural events, such as storms and floods, growth and bloom, were all attributed to some form of life. Gods created thunder, encouraged the plants to grow, and responded positively to prayers and sacrifices.
In some theologic structures, everything had a god, no matter how minor, while others simply believed that there was a spirit inside each and every thing ever put upon the earth.
On the Island, however, divinity was not something the Islanders put much stock in.
Yes, in some years, a rain dance may bring a good harvest, or a standing circle would appease the river spirits and prevent flood, but just as often, the harvests would fail or be lean, and the river would burst its banks anyways. To blame this to any number of gods, or just one for that matter, seemed almost foolish - what were they, humble farmers and fishers, doing to attract such attention?
Until the Catholic & Anglican churches came, many years later, the gods were relegated to idle gossip, the mental wanderings of the terminally superstitious. Orry, King of the Sudrians, slayer of the Manx, and Starstrider of legend, was closer to godly status than any rain shower or bad harvest.
So, as they lived their lives, The Mountain was never something that occupied their minds for very often, in the same way that one does not actively contemplate oxygen or gravity. It was merely there. It was never anything beyond that. It wasn't alive. It was never a god.
Much like divinity, early Islanders did not put much stock in the concept of “because it’s there.” The Island would produce many great warriors, men of industry, fishers, farmers, scientists, and vicars, but few explorers would come from those whose lineage stretched to the time before King Orry’s wars. The mountain, with its imposing snow cover, high winds, and enticingly easy-to-climb faces, would remain unexplored until the age of Queen Victoria.
When Man eventually came to The Mountain, Machine was soon behind him. A small line of narrow steel, the first of several, stretched towards the Mountain and the settlement at its base. Man soon found that the peak of the Mountain had never been surveyed, and charged forth with abandon, much to the bemusement of the Islanders.
Man returned, starry-eyed from the incredible sights He had seen. It must be shown to the world! He cried exuberantly. And we can charge for it!
Only after improvements had been made, of course.
It was not feasible, Man argued, to walk to the beauty of the summit. A better solution must be found, He said.
And so there was. Men, accompanied by animals, slowly trekked their way up the Mountain, a triple ribbon of shining steel in their wake. They reached the summit shortly after the turn of the new century, and introduced Engines to the uncaring, unfeeling, un-living Mountain.
The Engines were young, and brought with them all the foibles of the young - arrogance, cowardice, ignorance, blind courage. They rolled up and down that mountain with no care, no thought, no knowledge of the danger that the Mountain posed them. That the only thing keeping them in the land of the living was a sextet of metal-on-metal contact patches the size of a sixpence.
It was an ignorance that would last a scant month.
-
In years to come, the now-eldest of the Mountain Engines would lie, and say that Godred had survived his final trip down the mountain, and due to lack of funds, was parted out over the following years, giving his life for the others.
That lie was based on the idea that there was any Godred left to salvage.
-
Men said a short prayer - to whomever they thought was listening - and carted away what little remained. Godred watched them go.
He was aware, in a quite detached nature, that he was dead.
What do I do now? He asked himself, not sure of the answer.
He tried the sheds, drifting down the mountain and through the walls like… well… like a ghost. His fellow Engines were silent, sad, in some cases weeping. They couldn’t see him, and after a short while, he departed, feeling altogether worse about his situation.
He missed his passengers, and drifted about the platforms next.
But they were shut.
“CLOSED DUE TO UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT” read a sign posted on the station door.
It was unfortunate, he thought. And remained, hoping that one day the People would come back.
After half a season, it became clear that they might not. Godred felt sad, and slightly guilty. It was my fault, he thought, and he left the station with the first snow.
Despondent, he drifted up and down the mountain until the snow left, not sure of what to do with himself. Eventually, he came to rest at the top, near the summit station. The winds whipped and howled, but he paid it no notice for many days.
Eventually, the snow melted, and the clouds began to part each morning. He watched as the sun shined through him each morning like he wasn’t there. Each afternoon he drifted around the station, trying to remember what it felt like to be full of life.
One morning, before the dawn, he thought he heard a whistle, deep in the valley. The wind had grown especially cruel recently, making strange sounds as if punishing him for ignoring it, so he pushed it out of his mind.
Then it came again, much closer this time.
The sun rose over the mountain. Man and Engine alike said it was one of the most beautiful sights in all of God’s creation.
Godred didn’t care. To him, there was nothing more beautiful than seeing a workman’s train climbing up the mountain.
-
Just a few days later, the first passengers arrived at the top, and Godred nearly wept in joy. I hadn’t ruined it all! He cried, although nobody could hear him.
-
That night, as the last train left, and the sun slipped below the horizon, Godred felt at peace for the first time in his death. As darkness spread across the land below, he closed his eyes, and slowly began to descend, not down the mountain, but instead into the rock itself.
-
The mountain had no life of its own. It had never been alive, nor had it ever taken one. The first to die on its slope had been not Man, nor Beast, but Engine.
As the Engine descended through the rock, He understood.
The mountain was now a graveyard, of one.
And every graveyard needed a guardian.
Godred and The Mountain ceased to be separate, and instead became One.
-
Many decades later
Culdee and Catherine sat at the summit station, very shaken. Nobody else had noticed, as they ascended the Devil’s Back, the tremble in the rails. It wasn’t the wind, or a shake of the ground, but instead the rails very much giving way. They’d sounded the alarm (screamed it, really) and cleared the section in record time. Alaric and the workmen had come all the way up with the Truck, and they’d found that a rail had snapped completely in two.
“I don’t want to alarm you any further,” The permanent way foreman said over the radio. “But if you’d been a touch longer you’d probably have torn the gripper rail out of the sleepers and gone over.”
The driver, fireman, and guard all collectively thanked whatever god they held dear, but Engine and Coach knew better.
They had started tipping. The gripper rail had come off.
-
“What saved us?” He asked Catherine, as they sat outside the Summit station much later that night.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “We almost ended up like Godred…”
“Don’t remind me…” He didn’t particularly want to contemplate tumbling all the way down the Devil’s Back.
For a moment, all was silent, before a particularly strong gust of wind picked up, whipping its way past the two.
Don’t worry Culdee, Came a voice that seemed to be carried on the wind. I’ll keep you safe.
All the water in the Mountain Engine’s boiler might as well have flash-frozen to ice. “Please tell me you heard that.” He pleaded to Catherine.
“Yes.” The Coach’s voice was scarcely a whisper. “What-who- was that… him?”
“Godred?”
The wind seemed to laugh for a moment. “Yes. I’m here. Always.”
And then it was still once again.
Try as they might, Culdee and Catherine couldn’t help but believe what they heard.
And every night after that, before they went to sleep, they looked out at the mountain, and somehow knew that Godred would keep them safe.
To the north of Harlech in Merioneth, lies a little railway, the Uman and Dim. Once a branch line of God's Wonderful Railway itself, the line had been closed by a Doctor who had odd ideas on healing the country's rail lines. The Doctor had been tasked with fixing the railways by men who knew the price of everything, and the value of nothing. The solution he came up with was to simply remove lines till the railway worked.
The Uman and Din was one of the lines closed, but as normally happens in the world, the people the line served knew the line's value better than the directors in London. The line was bought for the town and with it six engines. These were not diesels or even electrics as one might guess today, but steam engines, proper Swindon ones at that. This is the story of how they gained their seventh.
One cold winter's night, the railway received a visitor. Eight large driving wheels propelled a shadow across the yard towards the shed. Tendrils of shadow whipped off of the engine's form.
'Scare them,' a quiet voice whispered within the giant's mind.
4702 chuckled lowly as she approached the shed. These engines looked so content and secure in this little shed. It was time to remind them how lucky they were to be saved from her fate. A glimpse of her fate would ensure they valued what they had been given.
"Quiet," came the quiet hiss just as 4702 was about to blast her whistle. She looked in surprise to see a 0-6-0 pannier tank of the 97xx class was awake and looking at her anxiously.
Before 4702 could reply, the tank engine spoke. "You're more than welcome to sleep here, we'd never turn another engine away, especially another Western, but please keep it down." She looked over to the Star class at the end of the shed. "Abbey only got back an hour ago and has to be up at daybreak. She needs her sleep."
4702 looked over the Star class. Even in sleep, exhaustion covered her features. The number 4061 on her cabside was faded and dull, as were the nameplates on her sides reading Glastonbury Abbey, but above her smokebox a lovingly polished nameplate reading Guinevere sat. She towered over the other engines in the shed.
The 97xx followed her gaze. "She's the strongest." She whispered quietly. "We help where we can, but she's the only one capable of far too many of the trains."
4702 surveyed the other engines, each bore exhaustion on their features heavily as they slept fitfully.
The 97xx looked no better, it was obvious she dearly wished to join her fleetmates in sleep. Painted across the side of her can the name Enid could just be made out.
'Wake them!' the whisper cackled.
4702 shoved the voice aside with all the strength her class was famed for.
"Tell me little one," 4702's voice was a mere whisper, yet it echoed around them, bouncing back again and again from odd angles, filling the air as thoroughly as a siren. "why do you not sleep with your shedmates?"
The tank engine looked down sadly, "Vandals keep trying to steal parts from the shed...sometimes from off us. It's my night to stand watch."
'Scare theeemmm' the whisper hissed.
The giant flicked her tendrils in agitation, "Not tonight little one." The little 97 tried to argue, but 4702 continued, "sleep. I will stand guard. Any vandal will find themselves sorely regretting the choices that led them here this night."
4702 shimmered in place, suddenly facing out from the shed. She rolled quietly back into the shed, a shadow brushing coldly across the 97's cheek. She was asleep before 4702 had stopped moving.
'Revenge,' the whisper hissed sullenly.
"Not tonight," the giant rumbled quietly. "These engines have earned their rest."
The whisper subsided mutinously.
4702 allowed it a moment before continuing, "It is just for the night, tomorrow we steam for London. Then you will have your fill."
The whisper rumbled happily.
"Besides," 4702's smile stretched far too wide, "the night is not over yet. Who knows what vandals might stumble upon tonight."
The whisper's cackle rang throughout her mind.
Author’s Note:
Hey guys! This new fic will be coming out every Tuesday until I either catch up with where I’ve written (currently 7 chapters are done). Normally I wait till I’ve finished a Fic, but I honestly have no idea how far this fic will go. It was supposed to be a one shot and I’ve written 7 chapters and I’m not done with the original concept.
Fun new idea for a Horror/mystery au in which some.. strange.. events begin happening in the subways of nimbasa city.. :)
At the start, its just minor anomalies on the subways at night when things are shut down. First just a ping of something on the tracks here and there. But any time its checked out, there's nothing.
Then a few people go missing. But, as alarming as it is, its not assumed to have any connection to the minor anomalies at all. People go missing, And the subways are crowded. As much as the nimbasa subway workers do their bets to keep traveling the subways safe, its impossible to keep every bad thing from happening. And thus, its inevitable that a few people might go missing down there. As horrible as it makes the Subway bosses and their depot agents feel when it happens.
Then people start saying they boarded trains that took them to the wrong platform. Or didnt stop at all for hours. Some say when they got on the train, it just refused to move. Or it did move, but when it came to a stop later, it was at the same platform as before.
But thats impossible! The main subway controls and tracking showed no signs of any trains malfunctioning, no indication that any had rode for hours, or arrived at the wrong platforms. All trains were accounted for! And none showed any signs of the things so many people were reporting.
Then the anomalies start to become more frequent.
Before it was only once a week. But now its nearly every other night.
Ghost Trains
There are many stories of sightings of ghost or phantom trains. They are not unique to just one country or region. These sightings all have taken on folklore status. Here are just a few well-known ghost train stories.
Stockholm, Sweden has a phantom subway train that is called the Silverpilen or Silver Arrow. So many stories are told that it has become an Urban Legend.
This phantom train is said to stop at random stations. It is seen either completely empty or with ghostly passengers inside. A warning is given never to board it or you will end up at Kymilinge, the station of the dead. This is a real subway station that is abandoned.
Actually, Silverpilen was a real experimental subway train. It was used in test runs during rush hour. People considered it an eerie sight for it had no graffiti or advertisements displayed. It was rarely used and was retired in 1996.
It has gained a frightening reputation and to this day it is said it haunts subway workers in abandoned tunnels.
The Canadian St. Louis Ghost Train better known as the St. Louis Light is seen along an old abandoned rail line that runs between Prince Albert and the small village community of St. Louis, Saskatchewan. Today all that remains of the tracks is a gravel road.
This phantom train has been seen for many generations. Its light appears at twilight or at night. It is always seen at a distance.
Two legends for the reason this light appears are:
It is actually the ghost of a man holding a lamp that was struck by a train and killed or the light seen is a phantom train.
In more recent years two students were able to duplicate this phenomenon. Their efforts discounted the sightings of this phantom train. They stated it was just a diffraction of distant vehicle lights. They won an award for their efforts.
But if this light was seen before the invention of cars, one has to wonder if this is the real reason. Here is a link to an article that mentions sightings of this ghost train.
In America, the most famous phantom train is seen on a regular basis. This ghost steam engine travels between Washington, D.C. and Springfield, Illinois, passing 180 cities each April. It is seen around the anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s death.
Lincoln is not seen but his flag draped coffin is seen guarded by ghostly Union soldiers.
This phantom train is seen emerging from a thick black fog towing several dark cars. It supposedly stops watches and clocks in the surrounding areas it passes. It is said that as it arrives people feel the air become heavier and colder.
This train it appears never reaches it final destination, Springfield.
In Ireland a famous phantom train sighting occurred along the line from Clones in the north to Armagh in the west. This line no longer runs.
In the summer of 1924, two men were sitting alone on a platform bench waiting for a train. When suddenly they heard several voices in the train station behind them. Besides hushed voices they heard a series of moans and groans.
Curious, one arose to peak into the station window. He was surprised to see a deserted room that held benches and a long table but no people.
As this man returned to the bench where his companion sat they both heard the sound of a train approaching the station. They moved to the tracks to look down the line in anticipation.
The sound of this approaching train became louder and louder. As it passed where they stood they heard a loud scream. They jumped back startled. They then heard a defeating train whistle blow.
Despite these sounds they never actually saw a train.
Minutes later when the signalman came out on the platform the two men questioned him. He had not heard the train go by.
He then told them that just the year before a man had jumped in front of a train. He had been brought into the station’s waiting room but he was seriously injured and nothing could be done for him. The signalman pointed to the long table inside and stated, “He died right there on that table.”
Hey, y’all, it’s Weird Wednesday! Where on some Wednesdays, I blog about weird stuff and give writing prompts.
Today: The Haunted Rail: Ghost Trains
“It is said that on that night, every year, all the train men that are on the road at a certain hour…hear and see and feel the spectre train rush by them. It sounds hollow and awful. Its lights are yellow, pale and funeral. Its train hands and passengers are sepulchral figures. … It even carries with it a whirl of wind as fast as trains do, but it is a cold, clammy, grave-like atmosphere, all its own. As it passes another train the shriek of its whistle and clang of its bell strike terror to the hearts of those that hear them.”
— “A Railroad Ghost Story” about the phantom funeral train of Abraham Lincoln, printed September 13, 1879 in the Rockland County Journal (New York)
When we’re talking about the haunting of mass transportation, whether it be plane, ship, bus, subway, or train, there are actually several varieties of legend. The first is the classic ghost vehicle, as described above: the train itself is a ghost, traveling on tracks still in use, or (more eerily) areas where tracks used to run. You can see and hear this train well enough to be terrified, but you can’t go on board. Usually these ghost trains are recreations of funeral trains or trains which crashed. Sometimes you get the crash itself reenacted, with the sounds of crunching metal and screaming passengers. The train may also be a death omen for anyone who sees it.
Check out the blog post for the whole story and some on-track writing prompts, such as:
Memento Mori. Hauntings that replay tragedies are called residual hauntings. They’re like an old movie, where none of the actors are actually present in your living room, but you can watch them over and over. Grieving characters might be drawn to the scene of a train crash on its anniversary for a last glimpse of a loved one who died on the train. Or they might hear rumors of vanishing-hitchhiker passengers and hope they might recognize one. A character could even contact a necromancer (a person with the magical skill to summon the dead) to try to keep the hitchhiker from vanishing.
DannyeChase.com ~ Ao3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers
