It was during the winter of '09 that the yard workers went missing. The sky was a dirty grey like coal smoke, and streets were covered with a murky slush that was just as treacherous underfoot as snow or ice, but not as pleasing to the eye. My first theory was that the bunch of scoundrels had come upon some good cargo and taken to their heels, but when the train arrived in Albany a couple of hours later nothing was missing except the materials that were supposed to have been added. All were still stacked in the rail yard; only the dozen men had vanished.
Springfield, Massachusetts was a bustling little town that had grown up around the convergence of the mighty Connecticut River with the rail tracks coming from Boston to the east. It was a natural hub of trade, where goods from New Hampshire could be loaded onto cars bound for the mid-west, or fly-coated crates of salted cod fresh from the Cape could be transferred onto a ship racing down the current to Long Island.
There was a long history of animosity between the dock workers and the boys from the rail yard, and my next notion was that something had finally boiled over between them.
"I don't know why you're even wasting your time questioning the likes of me, Inspector Mullins," Clive Neal informed me with a sour frown. "My crew was here working to a man last night. For once, not a one was even playing sick to spend it abed with their honey; it was a blessed miracle!"
The dock foreman was a short, barrel-thick man. Unruly reddish brown hair covered his head and also seemed to be threatening to burst from his shirt collar and crawl out of the sleeves of his workshirt.
When I merely nodded and continued to regard him silently, he wilted a bit under my stare and suddenly felt the need to expound.
"Really, we may have had a rough and tumble with those iron heads a time or two, including myself when I was a tad younger and hot-blooded I'll have you know, but it was all in the name of good old American competition! Ain't none of us would ever kill a man for that!"
His entreaty struck me as sincere, so I decided to take him at his word, for now.
"Very well, Mr. Neal, if you vouch for all your men's whereabouts last evening, then I shall not be needing to trouble any of you further. Unless any additional evidence points matters in their direction, of course."
"Of course," he repeated back to me bitterly.
A cold rain was beginning to fall as I made my way up the drive to my Model T. A windblown drop snuck between the brim of my hat and the flaps of my jacket, where it ran down my neck and caused me a shiver. The water cut little bulletholes in the slush as it landed, but I knew from experience a rain like this would mean ice on the roads at nearly the instant the sun went down.
I had spent my morning combing the scene of the disappearances, then picking the brain of Railstation Director Shawn Dougherty over several chipped cups of tea. Both had been fairly fruitless endeavors. We had checked the inventory against the records and found no major discrepancies, and as far as I could tell, winter's wind and rain had obscured any physical evidence of what might have occurred. Certainly there had been a great deal of movement of bodies and equipment both towards and away from the tracks, but on the muddy ground I couldn't discern any markings that were obviously suspicious.
Dougherty was a prim and proper type who knew his workers' vices by his grudging, holier-than-thou heart. He was all too willing to share them around complaints about the tremendous sums of money their desertion had already cost the company. To me, they sounded like the usual joes—a little drinking, a little gambling, maybe a little whoring. Still, Dougherty couldn't imagine them having lost enough to the Italians at cards that every last one would have ended up at the bottom of the river. The way things stood now, the people with the best motive seemed like the group of young grunts that the line had been forced to hire as temporary replacements.
I paid a visit to the wives and families of the missing men to assure them that I was on the case, and asked a few questions to complete my sketch of their personalities, but didn't come away feeling as if I had learned anything new.
I hated to retire early with a mystery unsolved, but I felt at a complete loss in this case, and saw little good in spending the night fumbling around in the freezing dark. Besides, I was hoping that perhaps some quiet reflection was just what I needed to have inspiration strike. With nothing else pressing requiring my return to the office, I steered my car west towards my home. The small stone bridge I crossed over the Connecticut was dwarfed by the massive rusting rail bridge which ran parallel. As I reached the other side and turned off onto the local roads, I felt as if a dark dread had lifted off my shoulders, and was optimistic that some time at home would be of great aid.
Unfortunately, my cozy fireplace and a mug of spiced cider proved too persuasive, and I had done little more than make some notes to remind myself to question the temporary workers and some of the rail workers' known gambling associates before I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
I started awake to the discordant ring of my telephone. The pocket watch still attached to my belt-loop read only a few minutes after 5am.
"Inspector! It's happened again!" squealed the panicked voice of Night Sergeant Marty Faye, making me wince.
"Slow down, boy. What's happened again?"
"The night shift at the rail yard, sir," he said, marshalling his voice a bit after the rebuke, though still clearly shaken. "The replacements have gone missing."
"I'll meet you there in twenty minutes." I hung up without waiting for a reply.
I forewent a shower, and paused only so long as it took me to find a clean uniform in my closet. The evening's ice had been crusted this morning with a fresh new coating of snow, and in my hurry I almost slid into my neighbors' fencing upon taking my first corner. Luckily, I managed to steer through the skid, and the near miss centered me. I progressed to the rail yard at a more cautious pace, arriving safely, if a small increment later than I had predicted over the phone.
Sadly, searching the scene after this the new round of disappearances netted me no further clues. Dougherty, personally working late to ensure the green rail hands would at least keep pace with the shipping schedule and not drop them further behind, had noted the arrival of the late train at around three in the morning. This was a trifle late, but in no way extraordinary considering routine delays and the incumbent weather. He had done one last rehearsal of duties with Torren, the acting yard boss, to try and convince himself that the rookies would not foul things up too badly, then had headed back to his office to call ahead to Albany and alert them that the train was running nearly on time.
No sooner had he begun dialing than he heard a commotion from the yard. A couple of nights ago he would have put such a thing off as simply resulting from a particularly difficult to move item, and ignored it unless continued long enough to imply there was a serious problem. In this instance, however, he wisely decided that it was better to be suspicious of anything and raced headlong towards the sound.
Regardless of his haste, by the time he arrived he found no one in the yard. Wagons and cranes had been moved into position to swap cargo back and forth from the cars, but sat lonely and abandoned in the light cast by his lantern. A number of car doors had been opened, as if the men had just begun their work before being interrupted, but there was no one else about and no obvious sign of what could have created a disturbance.
Dougherty had alerted the engineers to the problem, and they reluctantly deferred to his rank and let him scan the passenger car—which actually had a surprisingly large number of filled sleeper seats. But alas, they were apparently filled with impoverished late night travelers taking advantage of discounted fares rather than with young yard workers going rogue. He had then given the cargo area at least a cursory examination as he quickly handled what small deliveries he could by himself before shutting up all the open doors. He then urged the engineers onward, not wanting to lose the rail line anymore money than they would already be shorted.
"You did what!" I exploded at him as he recounted this tale to me, sounding both weary and expectant of praise for his heroic exploits. "You do realize that that train was the only piece of firm physical evidence we had to analyze in order to stop this pattern from repeating?"
"Repeating? Bah!" snapped back Dougherty contemptuously. "No one in their right minds is going to sign up for the night shift tonight, no matter how much money they're offered. Our profits will be cut by a full quarter! I damned well wasn't going to leave a train sitting around all night and set things back even further!
"Besides which, I dare say it would have done you little good. Twenty-four of my workers are missing, and it's obvious to me and all of Springfield that you don't have the faintest inkling what has transpired. Hardly a ringing endorsement for your mastery of your craft, Inspector."
The Railstation Director did an abrupt about-face and stormed off, still fuming. I considered calling out to remind him that he'd been present at one of the abductions and hadn't the foggiest notion what had occurred, either. In the end, I decided it was better to let the man have the last word.
Sergeant Faye coughed nervously besides me, shifting weight from one foot to the other and shivering vigorously in the biting chill of the early morning breeze.
"Problem sergeant?" I asked gruffly, taking a moment to clean my glasses.
"No sir, I mean... I'm surprised you let him talk to you like that, sir."
I shrugged. "He's right," I replied.
This unexpected response caused Faye to lapse into a type of stunned gaping.
"I've been going about this all wrong," I continued. "I've been waiting for the culprits to leave something behind for me, when what I really need to do is go out and find it myself."
"Sir?" hazarded Faye after a moment.
"Here's what I want you to do, Sergeant. Hire any bunch of drunken vagrants you can find that will stand out here in the cold with you tonight for an honest dollar, in spite of all the rumors no doubt already making the rounds. I'll make sure the funding request is approved by all the proper channels. I don't expect them to do any work, but I just want things to look somewhat normal to whoever is on the train or watching it pull up. I'd use officers, but as you know we've only got another thirty men in the entire Springfield office and the Chief would call for my badge if I insisted I needed a third of them to solve this case.
"When the late train arrives, just do whatever you think the yard boss would in your place, and observe what happens. Just be alert, and if things turn sour somehow, then do whatever it takes to stay alive."
Faye gulped audibly. "What will you be doing, sir?"
"I'll be leaving on the next train to Boston. So I can make the trip back tonight, disguised as a box of cranberries."
I patted him on the shoulder in a mentorly way, and began walking towards my automobile—I had to go make some calls. With a soft "ah" sound, the young sergeant fell into step behind me, our feet making pairs of dirty scuff marks in the snow.
Captain Sexton of the Boston P.D. was waiting for me when I arrived in the city. He gave my paperwork a thorough going over, then assessed me just as carefully. Whatever conclusions he drew must not have been pleasant ones, for the tips of his mouth curled down into a disgusted scowl. It made his pudgy face, already ruddy red from traveling through the fierce and brutal sea-side winds of Boston, rather unattractive.
"Look, Inspector," he began, a condescending tone already creeping into his voice. "I'm not certain how things are done out west, but here in the city when people go missing, we respond to the situation by initiating a methodic search, not hijacking trains. Now two dozen men is certainly a large number to go missing, especially in a town the size of Springfield, but you must admit this endeavor seems a bit radical."
Ah, he had me pegged as a Western Mass. country bumpkin then, who had convinced his superiors to let him indulge in a little high adventure, rather than police work.
"Technically, sir, I'd be stowing away, not hijacking."
Sexton bristled, puffing up his chest like a rooster. I surged on ahead, attempting to forestall any interruption.
"Furthermore, sir, for the past two nights the crew of workers servicing the very route of this train have disappeared. That to me, sir, is a clear trend. I wish to prevent it's third reoccurrence." I gave a placating shrug. "Perhaps there is a simple solution, and my efforts will go for naught. I still think them worth an old college try, however."
Sexton huffed in response. "Think what you will," was all he said.
My accommodations turned out to be a cross-hatched wooden crate, five feet square, lined with a burlap-like fabric. The hanging material would disguise my presence to onlookers, but had loose seams so that I could pull them slightly apart and look out through the openings in the wood. I was placed near the loading door to my compartment, where I would, in theory, have the best view. A solid wooden cover was nailed loosely above my head to conceal me, but I was provided with a crowbar so I could free myself in the case of an emergency. The inside of the crate was not clean, and smelled strongly of some former animal occupant, I thought perhaps goat.
Sexton hung about after I was packaged, apparently intent on ensuring that I left Boston and ceased to be his problem.
"How soon will we be underway?" I asked him.
"You should have left already," he answered irritably. "The weather's slowed a busload of passengers from up north. Newburyport and a handful of little one horse towns like Innsmouth and Arkham. But don't worry, if they're not here in a few minutes, you'll be leaving without them."
I heard the bus' puttering arrival even as he finished speaking, though it parked outside of my limited field of vision.
"Good journeys, Inspector," said Sexton with a trace of irony, and tipped his hat.
"Thank you, sir."
He motioned to a yard hand waiting nearby. "Carry on."
There was a rusty creak and then the door slammed shut, leaving me in near total darkness. A moment later we were underway. I found that I either had to brace myself along the edges of the crate with my arms, which was tiring, or I would jounce around painfully with the vibration of the train. The fabric shook softly with the train's motion, showering me with filth which worked its way in between my clothing. Either my pen contained fleas, which I thought I felt crawling about my skin and making me itch, or I imagined it did, which amounted to much the same. I found myself fighting a constant battle against the urge to cough in the musty atmosphere of my container, and I was not always victorious.
It was a short trek into Framingham, where a few men removed some small parcels at their shoddy little station then placed more minor packages aboard. Nothing untoward seemed to befall them, and from my hideaway I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
I admit I may have dozed a bit then, lulled by the rumble of the train between Framingham and Worcester. At best, I remained only half-awake, but I can say that nothing transpired along this portion of the route to draw me into an alert state.
The station in Worcester seemed cleaner and better maintained than that in Framingham, but the work crew was no larger, nor was the amount of goods exchanged. Again there were no interruptions, and I saw nothing out of sorts. I began to wonder if Sexton had been right, and I was completely misusing valuable time when I ought to be out hunting for new witnesses.
As the train got underway I began to lapse again into a sort of daze, but this time soon became aware of noises in the very car in which I traveled. I shuffled as quietly as I could towards the wall of my container which faced inwards, and pulled apart the fabric there. Even with my eyes adjusted to the gloom, there was little moonlight creeping around the edges of the door with which to see. As I squinted in that direction, I thought I could make out several forms moving along the wall that led towards the passenger compartment and head of the train.
The intruders were making no attempts at silence, and I heard them spread out rapidly across the car. There was a long, wet, wheezing sound, and I thought one of the interlopers must be suffering from some sort of pneumatic ailment. However, similar sounds soon echoed back from the others, and I realized this was some repellent slurping language in which they were conversing.
Footsteps approached my container, and I momentarily pulled the fabric closed before me. The walker paused just as he or she reached my location, and I cringed, fearful that my motions had given away my presence. There came a rough sniffling sound, as if the newcomer was scenting my crate, and then arms reached out and shook the box sharply. I had to grab the sides of the crate to keep from falling. Fortunately, one of my accoster’s companions gurgled something at them angrily, and after a curtly hissed reply, the shaking subsided. The intruder stomped away from me, and I risked a quick peek at them through the fabric.
I was shocked to make out a naked female form with mangy-looking long hair hanging down her back and skin so pale it seemed almost luminescent, reflecting even the dim light of the closed car. I could also make out a man's bare leg, just as pale, near the edge of my peephole's line of sight. What was this? Some strange group of sexual deviant stowaways? Or were they passengers who had somehow broken into the cargo compartments? I supposed they must all be a group of foreigners of similar descent to share such a strange and disconcerting language.
As the train hurtled onwards, they conversed sporadically and continued to wander about. A door creaked open, and I realized that they were spreading further down the line to the other cargo-bearing cars. A small group remained with me, but I had difficulty judging their number since only one or two came into sight at any given moment and I had trouble telling those horrible sloshing voices apart.
The remainder of the trip into Springfield did not take long, but trapped in an itchy, stuffy crate, trying not to cough lest I be discovered and captured by these strange folk, it seemed to last an eternity. When we began to slow on our way into the station, someone slurped a command, and the intruders crouched down behind the cargo.
As the doors were opened, I strained my eyes against the flooding lamplight to make out the shape of the woman crouched nearby me. In the light her skin was more greenish than white and seemed coarse and heavily scabbed. I am not sure I have the words to sufficiently describe what happened, to my shock and terror, in those next few seconds but I will do my best.
Her whole body seemed suddenly to swell, like a corpse bloated with decay, and as it did so her skin deepened in color. I imagined it growing thicker and rougher. Cracks then formed along it, all over her body, giving her a tough, scaled appearance. At the same time, strange spikes, like a porcupine's, somehow protruded from the fissures along her arms and legs, dripping some foul black ichor. These were accompanied by ribbed flaps of oily looking skin. But most disturbing was the way the flesh at the base of her neck stretched apart, revealing grotesquely wiggling worm-like protuberances which wetly squeezed open and closed, open and closed.
Stunned as I was by this horrifying occurrence, I did not even think to shout a warning to Sergeant Faye, who as the head of the false work crew was standing closest to the open car. Many times I would later reflect that this hesitation likely saved my life.
It was over in moments—these hideous half-men leapt from the train and beset their surprised prey, who were heavily outnumbered. Faye and another man I recognized as Officer Murley had been waiting with guns drawn, but neither had a chance to let loose shot, for the man-beasts moved with an inhuman speed.
They pounced down from the cars, biting and clawing through men’s throats before they even had time to scream. Bulging, dying eyes formed the sole mute evidence of their terror. The things had tremendous rows of teeth and tore into their victims, shredding and devouring clothing, flesh, and bone alike. I knew from experience that they would leave no trace behind.
I pulled away and retched within my crate, but the creatures were too busy with their meal to take notice. Crawling to the far side, I lay there shivering, horrified and ill. The things slipped back onto the train as quickly as they had departed it, and I heard them rush by me towards the front cars. I imagined them changing back into their human forms, and quickly dressing themselves to impersonate sleepy passengers there.
I heard Dougherty arrive shortly later and curse vehemently, once more performing a perfunctory search of locomotive, no doubt already aware he would find nothing. I had not informed him of my plans, so he knew not to rescue me, and I did not alert him now.
I considered fleeing then, but knew if Dougherty saw me he would make a commotion, and I was afraid it would draw the attention of those terrible creatures, who I imagine would not be pleased at my deception. Besides, I had an inkling the beasts might sleep during the day. Their skin did not look as if it would agree with direct sunlight.
The remainder of the journey was the worst experience of my life, trapped in my tiny prison with the stink of my own fear. I lay there certain that the things would discover me before morning, but having been sick actually seemed to aid my cause, for the stench seemed to mask my natural odor and I never came as close to being uncovered as I had before that first feeding.
And there were other feedings, my friend. The creatures did not loose themselves at every stop, thank God, but seemed to wait until their hunger was greatest before striking again. They ate twice more before the end of that fateful night.
By morning I was in a state of shock, and barely recognized the sun for what it was when its first rays shone into the car in the metropolis of New York City. I frantically popped the cover off of my casing, shambling and dashing by a group of confusedly shouting yard workers on my heavily cramped legs. They would have apprehended me as a vagrant, but I flashed my badge and they backed away hastily as if I were carrying a plague.
I ran over an hour without realizing I had no idea where I was going, and when I came to some limited form of sanity, I took my first steps on a long journey south. Over the next year I made my way slowly to the South Americas, always traveling during the day, and always staying as far from the sea and the rail as I deemed possible. For I intuited the things would like neither the warmth nor distance from the salt water. I never heard another soul speak of their like, though I followed with interest a number of articles on numerous unexplained disappearances of almost entire towns on the western coast of the United States, near where the transcontinental railroad terminated.
I eventually happened upon my life here as translator in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, but I cannot shake the cold knowledge in my heart that they exist, and they are spreading. After all, our advances in modern transport are only making it easier and easier for them to reach new sources of food. Perhaps one day they will cover the Earth, farming us like sheep. For they seemed creatures of at least some form of advanced intellect.
My neighbors have already tagged me as odd and eccentric, and I know my ravings would only be denounced as madness were I to try and spread a warning. I have given up on a normal, happy life. My only remaining hope is have the good fortune to pass away before encountering such terror again.
