AT FIRST I THOUGHT I WAS DREAMING. The clock on the night table read 3:20. And there it was again—a screech of metal wheels, the hoot of a whistle, the rush of something mighty passing by, and the distinctive rhythm of clickety-clack, clickety-clack that could mean only one thing—a train hurtling through the night. But there hadn’t been a train on Achill for eighty years.
Toby woke up too. “What the hell was that?” He threw the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The racket of a roaring train repeated at a volume that suggested it was close. I grabbed my robe and followed Toby to the kitchen, the side of the house from which the sounds were coming. We peered out the window. Outside, the grounds were enveloped in fog, through which black patches of sky were just visible. It was impossible to distinguish anything on the ground except for a green glow in the distance. I remembered there was a vacant field. I squinted, trying to penetrate the gloom. Gradually the greenish glow resolved into a row of shimmering figures floating in a haze and gliding above the ground seemingly without effort. The figures moved horizontally from right to left, as the sounds of the roaring train continued. A steam whistle hooted, and a pitiful moan of human pain drifted across the field.
“It’s the Ghost Train!” I wailed. “The old man at the tomb predicted it.”
Toby was having none of that. “Ghosts, my ass. It’s some jokers putting on a show, trying to scare us.”
“They’re doing a good job of it.”
“Those aren’t ghosts. They’re men. I’m going to get a closer look.”
“Ghosts or men, they’re not friendly to us. Leave them alone.”
“I’ll be careful. They’ll be expecting us to come out the front. I’ll use the back door and go around the house. Stay here.” Before I could stop him, Toby had grabbed a jacket and slipped out the back. Bending low, he kept the jacket over his head as he made his way toward the apparition in the misty field. In seconds, he had disappeared into the night.
A light flicked on in Mom and Dad’s cottage. They had been awakened by the noise too. I quickly pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and left by the back door. I scurried across the parking area to join Mom and Dad, banging on their patio door and calling out that it was me. Angie—apparently she was sleeping in tonight—let me into the living room. She pulled at my sweatshirt, like a child desperate for attention. “It’s the Ghost Train, just like Brian said! That means there’s going to be another death.” I tried calming her down and explained Toby’s view that the whole thing was a hoax. Dad appeared in his pj’s just as I was saying that Toby had gone out to confront the pranksters.
“This could be trouble,” said Dad. “I’m going out to help him.” He started for the bedroom to get his clothes.
“Jim, you stay right where you are,” Mom commanded. “We don’t need both of you in danger.”
“Toby knows how to take care of himself,” I said. “But I’ll go after him just to make sure he’s okay. You better stay inside, Dad.”
“Then take this,” said my father, handing me a baton-sized flashlight, suitable for double duty. “And don’t do anything foolish.”
“I won’t. No, don’t turn on the front light. That way they won’t be able to see me leave.” I slipped across the darkened threshold and stole across the parking area in front of the house. I headed in the direction of the greenish haze. But within a dozen paces, the mist congealed into fog, and the green light disappeared. The flashlight proved useless when I aimed it toward the ground. The beam reflected the opaque surface of the fog, creating a cottony glare. A moment later I stumbled over a clump of grass and went sprawling, and the flashlight flew from my hand. I patted the ground around me until I found it, then resumed my forward progress. I remembered the hedge only when I reached it. Exploring with an outstretched hand, I probed for an opening. I found a break eventually and pushed through it, into the field where the apparition had appeared.
The sounds of a train had faded away. I pushed on, looking for some sign of Toby. I was afraid to call his name, fearing that I might attract the unwanted attention of a ghost or a rascal. Suddenly my fear was realized: a lumbering shape emerged from the fog. The figure bore the outline of a man but had a pale, unearthly mien. Its face and groping, outstretched hands were no human color but a ghastly green, and in an instant my rational mind deserted me. I reverted to instinct and screamed, confronted as I was by a ghoulish spirit from beyond the grave. The creature rushed directly at me. I threw up my hand to ward off the charge, but that defense was ineffective. My palm slid across a clammy green cheek, and I hit the ground hard.
The next thing I knew, my head was cradled in Toby’s lap and he was stroking my forehead. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Fit as a broken fiddle.” It was meant to be a game reply, but lame was more like it. Gingerly, I rose to my feet. I tested them and was pleased to find they still worked, in a fashion. I looked around for the flashlight, but it was lost.
“Easy,” he said. “You took a bad tumble.”
“Toby, one of those things attacked me, and it wasn’t human. I saw it up close. It was green.”
“Uh-huh. Like your hand?”
I raised the appendage in question and was shocked to see a green palm glowing in the dark. “What the . . . ?”
“Phosphorous paint,” said Toby. “You must have brushed some off the guy who knocked you down. Makes you glow green in the dark. When I was a kid we got hold of a can of it one Halloween and scared the hell out of the neighborhood.”
“So they weren’t ghosts after all?” He shook his head. “But what about the train we heard? It sounded like it was right outside the cottage.”
“It probably was. Some joker playing a track of sound effects.”
“But I saw them too, the people sitting in a row, looking like they were on a moving train.”
“They were parading behind a hedge about waist-high, so you couldn’t see the lower half of their bodies. The fog and your imagination did the rest.”
“But why go to all that trouble?”
“To scare us off. Get back at the family of the developer. And have their fun. C’mon. Show’s over. It’s damp out here, and that cut needs cleaning.”
I don’t like being fussed over. Thank God, Toby didn’t try to commiserate while he was fetching bandages. Mom’s not a gusher either, but she’s mom enough to wince when she sees her child bleed. So we made a stop at our place to wash the scrape on my forehead. It wasn’t bad, but the head bleeds worse than other places, so I applied the offered Band-Aid. Then I fluffed my bangs so they hid the spot, and we went next door.
Dad opened the door before we knocked. He had been on alert since we left. How long had we been out there—five minutes, fifteen, more? Whatever it was, it was too long for my family. Dad hugged me to his chest. Mom grabbed Toby with one hand while she reached for me with the other. Pretty soon we were in a group hug, with Angie looking on.
Four o’clock in the morning is the reverse of teatime, but tea is what an Irish family does if they don’t do whiskey. The story took longer to tell than to happen, what with Angie’s excitement, Mom’s worries, and Dad’s practical questions. Like good reporters, we gave them a clear picture of the what and the where. But the who and the why were as foggy as the night. Someone wanted to frighten us, but why? To make us leave the island quickly? What good would that do, and for whom? Dad thought the escapade must have to do with his brother’s death: Bert’s killer got his friends to give us the spooks so that we would take off for the States. The guards would send Bert’s body back home, give up on a weak case, and leave Bert’s killer free.
Toby was looking up the way you do when you’re trying to remember something. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“That crowd yesterday at the butcher’s shop. Some of them might do something like this.”
Mom spoke, and I froze. I saw the witch face emerging. “I’m not surprised,” she said, looking at Dad through squinting eyes. “Bert’s tearing this island apart, even from the grave. This railway project is just one more of his selfish, rotten schemes. The man held nothing sacred—not nature, not community, not family.” Tears were welling in her eyes, but she was not breaking down. She was still fierce. “What a legacy!”
Dad rose and took his cup to the sink. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see his expression, and I didn’t need to. He was bereft, and Mom was making it worse. Maybe Dad wasn’t thinking that. Maybe it was just me. Thankfully, while I sat at the table thinking bad thoughts, Toby took the teacups to Dad and helped him wash up, while Angie took Mom’s hand and led her to bed.