The Ghost Train

I waited on the bench at the train stop, surrounded by fog and darkness, a street lamp lighting me like a little yellow island in a vast dark sea. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do because I was dead. The vehicle on which I waited had no destination or schedule, for the Ghost Train runs itself.

It’s not so important how I died. After spending so much of my life obsessed with death, it was a relief to meet it. You’ll see soon. Nobody misses me, that’s for sure. I never married, my folks were long gone, and my beloved dog, Alfie, departed when I was a kid. 

I used to run away a lot. The streets were cold and lonely, but it beat being at home. Sometimes, I scrounged in dumpsters behind the burger place. One frigid winter night, I hit the jackpot: a pristinely wrapped double bacon cheeseburger. There weren’t even any bugs on it. A small Jack Russel terrier nipped at my ankles as I was about to bite down.

The dog had mismatched eyes—one green and the other blue—and ribs straining through its white coat. It pitifully licked its lips, transfixed on my burger. My stomach growled. I thought about shooing the dog away, but its kind eyes bent my heart.

I sat under my small box fort, split the burger, and offered it to the dog. He snatched it up and snuggled to my side instead of running off. We watched the snow pile on top of the surrounding roofs and streets, muffling the ambient noise of the city. Everything felt beautiful and serene, if only because I had made my first friend.

My mom wouldn’t allow dogs in the house, so Alfie and I spent our days wandering around the neighborhood. Sure, a Jack Russell wasn’t the best guard dog to dissuade the bullies from beating me, but he’d cheer me up when licking my tear-strewn face. We were two peas in a pod.

One day, we played fetch in the park until my arm was sore.

“C’mon boy, let’s get going,” I called.

I began to walk away, but Alfie nipped at my ankles and barked — playfully goading me into continuing our fun. Usually, it would work, but I was exhausted. I tried telling him “no,” but he wouldn’t cut it out.

Finally, I screamed, “Alfie, just leave me alone if you’re going to be such a goddamn nuisance!”

I knew I had wounded him. He ran off crying behind a nearby building as I chased him, spewing apologies. I turned a corner, and he disappeared from my sight.

Walking down the street, I felt rotten; my head hung low. In my distraction, I didn’t hear the dump truck careening over the frozen hill as I crossed the road. He hit the brakes, but it was too late. I would soon be waiting for the ghost train, much sooner than anticipated.

Then I heard Alfie’s bark. He was running towards me as fast as his little legs would carry him from the other side of the road. Thanks to his warning, I dove backward into a snowbank as the truck swerved towards my dog. I’ll never forget the sharp yelp as it struck him.

His tiny body shook in my arms. I screamed at the men in the truck to get a vet as hot salty tears streamed down my frozen red cheeks, knowing damn well it was too late to save him. When he finally stopped moving, I carried him to his favorite spot: an oak tree at the edge of a field in the park. I buried him and gave a grim funeral, only me and his memory in attendance.

I waited for Ghost Train for some time, hoping my ride would never come. That hope was lost when a golden light on the horizon ballooned from a pin prick into the glaring spotlight of a train. A sinister plume of smog billowed out of the smokestack. The train was slick and pitch black, with a large chrome skull on the grill. It chugged towards me with wicked speed before throwing on its brakes and skidding to a halt, sparks cascading from the sides of the wheels.

A towering skeleton in a conductor uniform swung out from the cabin, dangling to the side with one arm.

“Howdy,” he said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“The Conductor.”

“I thought the Ghost Train ran itself?”

“It does.”

“Oh.”

“Are you coming?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

I went to the first cabin, grasped the ornate chrome handle, and thrust it open. Inside was a raucous party. Everyone was dressed circa the 1920s—sequined flapper outfits, towers of champagne, cigars. Everyone was having a wonderful time, a true jubilee of friendship. I stepped up, but a hulking skeleton wearing a black tuxedo blocked my entrance.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“The Butler,” he said. “And you?”

“I’m –“

“– Wrong; you’re nobody,” the Butler said. “The cars are ordered according to the desirableness of the dead. You see, many people loved ole’ Fitz and gathered here for his eternal party.”

“Where do I go then?”

The Butler took a small scroll from his breast pocket. After unraveling the scroll for what seemed like forever, adjusting his glasses, and fingering the text with his bony finger, he stopped at the bottom of the paper.

“Ah, here you are,” he said. “Good lord, you were unlikeable, huh? You’re in the caboose.”

I turned and looked down the line of train cars extending well beyond the gloomy horizon’s curvature.

“That might take a while,” I said.

“Oh, fine,” the Butler sighed. He snapped his fingers, and I appeared at the end of the train. Inside, it was dusty and dingy, with a chilly draft. After dusting off one of the seats in a booth, I laid my head on the table and began to sob. I was doomed to ride the Ghost Train forever alone. 

Then I felt a nip at my ankle. There he was, blue and green eyes fixed on me, goofy and eager.

“Alfie!” I cried.

I picked up my pup and held him tightly, tousling and kissing his scruffy head. We sat down, and he wagged his tail and licked my face until I keeled over, giggling. The train pulled forward, and we cozied ourselves into a seat and admired the bleak landscape. There wasn’t much to see, but I was glad to be with my best friend again. Alfie got excited about any little landmark, barking as I pointed them out: a mountain, a ravine, even a great big oak tree at the edge of a vast field.

The door to the cabin slid open, and the Butler entered, carrying a stainless steel tray with a lid.

“My apologies for the delay, sirs,” he said. “Your dinner is served.”

Beneath the tray was a steaming double bacon cheeseburger, split evenly in two. Finally reunited, we ate our burgers and continued our game of “I Spy” as the Ghost Train chugged over the endless black landscape.