Be afraid . . . Be very afraid.
—Tagline, The Fly, 1986
“THIS FOLKTALE IS known as ‘The Rutland Railroad Mystery’ to people in Vermont,” Seymour began. “But I prefer my own title. ‘The Snow Beast of Brattleboro.’ ”
Brainert sniffed. “Rather on the nose, isn’t it?”
“It’s a folktale,” Seymour returned. “You know, like ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood.’ A title like ‘A Story of Income Inequality and Redistribution’ wouldn’t be near as charming, now, would it?”
Brainert waved his hand. “Proceed.”
“Back in the 1850s, the Rutland and Burlington Railroad began running through the hamlet where Elroy Denton lived with his two sisters and widowed mother. Now, Elroy’s mother celebrated her birthday in early December, The day before, Elroy collected his salary at the local stable, borrowed a horse, and rode to the village of Brattleboro. The proprietor of the millinery there later testified that Elroy had indeed visited his shop and purchased an ornamental comb.”
“Oh, the suspense,” Brainert moaned.
“It was nightfall before Elroy left Brattleboro. Elroy reckoned he would be in bed before midnight. But a freak storm struck, burying the countryside in mounds of drifting snow. Despite the weather, the horse returned. But the beast was riderless.
“The next day a search party found Elroy. He was dead, struck by the local train during the blizzard. The searchers deduced the train whistle had startled the horse and it threw poor Elroy into the path of the onrushing locomotive. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
“Spit it out, Seymour. What horrible thing happened to the young lad?”
“His head was missing!” Seymour announced theatrically. “The search party looked and looked, but they couldn’t find it. Finally poor Elroy’s headless corpse was laid to rest beside his father in the family graveyard.”
Seymour leaned close to the fire, until his face appeared demonic in the wavering light. “Now, you’d think that would be the end—”
“I’d say hope would be a better word,” Brainert muttered.
“Well, it isn’t,” Seymour countered, “because, later that winter, during another heavy snow, a conductor was literally ripped from the train as it passed through the place where Elroy died. His partner said it was like an invisible hand reached into the cab and grabbed him. Linemen found the conductor’s broken corpse the next day.”
Seymour’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “Folks in the vicinity began hearing sobs and cries whenever it snowed. And during another blizzard, a second conductor was snatched from his locomotive by an invisible hand, only to be found dead the following day. This happened two more times, until the trains stopped running to Brattleboro because no conductor would risk becoming the Snow Beast’s next victim.”
“Finally got that title in there, eh, Seymour?” Brainert cracked. “Does this story have a point, or maybe just an end?”
“Well,” Seymour continued. “A grizzled old veteran was involved in all the searches and realized that all the dead conductors ended up at the same spot—at the foot of a century-old oak tree. The old man convinced the searchers to dig through the snow, and that’s where they found a human head—Elroy Denton’s missing noggin! They went back, opened the grave, placed the skull in coffin, and the Snow Beast of Brattleboro never struck again.”
Finished with his tale, Seymour slapped his knees. “So, what do you think?”
“I think your sorry little folktale reminded me of another story involving a railroad fatality,” Brainert replied. “This tale, however, is much more terrifying, and maybe even be connected to our hunt for Norma.”
I leaned forward at that. “How so?”
“Remember the Quibblers meeting,” Braiert said. “When we were going through Norma’s reading list, do you recall the title that gave me pause?”
“I remember you looked intrigued, but I don’t remember the title.”
“The Troll Garden, a collection of stories by Willa Cather. The story I’m thinking of is called ‘Paul’s Case.’ ”
“Never heard of it,” Seymour said.
“Well, let me enlighten you. Paul was an alienated young man living a shabby working-class life in Pittsburgh, PA. His only joy was his job as an usher at a concert hall where he could surround himself with art and culture and get lost in the music . . .”
As Brainert talked, I couldn’t help thinking of Jack’s past and that poor young woman named Cora, putting up with terrible people like Harry Amsterdam and Syble Zane, just to be near the art she loved. The theater.
“After Paul got himself into trouble,” Brainert continued, “his father forced him to quit his job as an usher and take an office position. But the drudgery was too much and one day Paul stole a considerable sum of money from his employer and fled to New York City.”
“Now the story is getting good,” Seymour noted with relish.
“Paul checked into a fancy hotel, bought new clothes, and lived the life he always dreamed of. But within a week the money ran out, and Paul learned not only that his crime had been discovered, but also that his father was on his way to the city to take him back to Pittsburgh. Rather than return to a life he loathed, Paul went out to the railroad tracks and threw himself in front of an oncoming locomotive.”
In the shocked silence that followed, I couldn’t help but think of Norma and her case.
Was it remotely possible she stole, like Paul, as a shortcut to something she wanted and couldn’t otherwise attain? And what would that something be?
Seymour was less reflective. “Actually, Brainiac, it sounds to me like your yarn is a lot like mine.”
Brainert blinked. “How so?”
“Don’t you see? Both stories are about characters who just want to get a head.”