#Ghost Trains

[holycatsandrabbits]

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.

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers 

Image credit

[locomotive-idiot]

What is the most hallowed ween train you have, gibbus

you have no idea how all-out the tweetsie goes for halloween my man

(honorable mention is the spirit of halloween from train sim)

also, also, also, you need to listen to "Ghost trains" by hank snow.

Ghost Trains - Hank Snow

that is all for what i have

go to train of though (the youtube channel) for some cool train ghost stories

i dont care that its november 1st

[joezworld]

Mountain Spirit

Traintober 2022 Day 4 - Spirit

 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. 

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night: Ch.1

Ch.1 The Uman and Din

Other Chapters

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.

[dragon-storm-of-the-west]

Nimbasa Ghost Trains

LMAO GUESS WHO JUST GOT A FUN NEW IDEA

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.

Three people go missing all at once.

[paranormal-playground-podcast]

Phantom Train of Anza-Borrego Desert

Thanks for reading! If you have a suggestion for something to cover, let me know!

The Phantom Train of Anza-Borrego Desert is a chilling tale. This ghostly locomotive has intrigued many with its spectral sightings and mysterious origins. Nestled in the vast Anza-Borrego Desert, this legend continues to captivate both locals and tourists. The allure of the Phantom Train of Anza-Borrego Desert draws paranormal enthusiasts from around the world, all eager to catch a glimpse of…

[writerofweird]

The Skeleton on the Ghost Train

Over there, you’ll find a fair,Is it a place you should beware?It’s primarily for the undead,Ghosts and skeletons, there they’ll head,But don’t worry, it’s not obscene,The toffee apples don’t bite and the burgers aren’t green,It’s still a place where fun can be had,And here’s a skeleton with her two dads,Yes, Amelia rides the Ghost Train,And the set-up stays the same,Cloth ghosts drop from the…

[zegalba]

Seiryu Miharashi Station (The Ghost Station) is a railway station on the Nishikigawa Seiryū Line in Yamaguchi Prefecture, Japan. It has no entrances or exits, meant only to get fresh air and enjoy the scenery.

[bluegiragi]

do not pet (he bites)

early access + nsfw on patreon

[grey-viridian]

Even death can't separate them

[holycatsandrabbits]

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

Image credit

[locomotive-idiot]

THEN A LOUD RUSHING ROAR LIKE YOU NEVER HEARD BEFORETURNED THE BLOOD INTO ICY WATER IN MY VEINS

AS I WATCHED WITH RISING FEAR, SOMETHING STRANGE DRAWING NEARAND I SAW IN THE CLOUDS GHOST TRAINS

(GHOST TRAINS GHOST TRAINS WHAT A FEARFUL SIGHT)

THE CANNONBALL AND NUMBER NINE WERE RACING THROUGH THE NIGHT

JUST AS THEY PASSED ME BY

I HEARD THE ENGINEER CRY: "GIVE HER COAL, GIVE HER COAL, SHOVEL IT ALL!"

[joezworld]

Electric Evil

Traintober Day 12 - Poltergeist

So, for context here, I stole took inspiration for most of this from the Extended Railway Series on the Sodor Island Forums (not for the first time and not for the last), and as usual, I've put some tweaks on it to make it better. #humble

Here I based a lot of this on ERS Novel 2 - The Peel Godred Railway, and while I recommend reading that, it's not required for this.

-

Summary - The DC Electric Line dies a violent death, and something rises out of it. Godred keeps it off his mountain.

-

1 - Nature

Those who believed in such things thought the very Valley was having its revenge on the rails.

It was not an entirely unreasonable belief. The Valley had not been consulted, nor did it want, the input of Man on how to conduct itself, and yet Man imposed his viewpoint anyway. 

The first rails to reach the fortified Peel of King Godred was a small one, coming from the western coast. They were not of issue to the Valley. 

Their small line worked with nature, inching along tight cliffs, running around mountains, and poking through gaps in the rock. Their service was first-rate, and the Valley’s People could soon move both themselves and their goods to markets far away. The Valley might have even enjoyed this - if one were to put stock in those sorts of beliefs - and caused no trouble for the second railway. 

The second railway only touched the Valley on its edges. Its rails ascended The Mountain, reaching for the heavens. It courted the mountain, edged along it, never daring to defile it. The Valley paid it no notice, even as The Mountain slowly but surely became One with the rails.

The third railway, however, did not please The Valley. Its rails charged northwards, up to the base of The Mountain and then beyond, caring more for the River than it did for the Valley. This was a slight, but one that the Valley was willing to overlook. 

What the railway brought with it, however, was an abomination. A massive blight on its natural order. A huge, noisy, dirty, stinking industrial plant that took ores from outside the Valley and processed them into Refined Aluminium, leaving equally huge piles of filthy, dirty, stinking refuse as a waste product. 

The Valley disliked waste. It disliked aluminium, and by extent, it disliked the railway that served it. Its dislike grew as the first railway suffered and died as a result - their careful and meandering path to the sea was too small and too slow, and they lost even the most loyal passengers, slowly siphoned away by the bigger rails.  

If the Valley disliked the railway, then the River was furious. The construction of the plant required massive amounts of Electricity, a new and unwanted evil that required nothing short of total damnation of everything around it, as a sacrifice.

Up and up the dam went, towering into the air until it seemed like it might touch the sky. The River raged, furious at having its path disrupted. The Valley seethed at the itching feeling of the huge structure. 

During all of this, the Mountain was ambivalent. Man had lived here for hundreds of years - it was them who had ascribed life to the Valley and the River, and had built the Mountain Railway. To live in Harmony with them would be better for all involved, it soothed.

The Valley ignored the Mountain, and the River flooded its banks in displeasure. 

Then Man fully damned them both. The huge concrete and earth structure was complete, and the River was soon fed into it. 

And into it

And into it

And into it

Until there was no longer a River and a Valley behind the concrete, but a massive lake, made purely for man’s needs - a total damnation of nature, as a sacrifice at the demonic altar of Electricity. 

The railway that ran up the mountain was powered by Electricity. Now tied together in both circumstances and rage, the River tried to flood it, and the Valley tried to collapse the land around it. 

Man was multitudinous, and whenever they tried, a hundred men, or a thousand, would arrive, and right their wrongs. 

The Mountain chastised them. Are they not Of This Land? It asked as the two cursed the railway, the plant, and the Men who worked on them. Are they not worthy of our care?

No. Responded the Valley And The River. They tried again, but Man stopped them. 

And again.

And again. 

Man simply persevered, expanding His mind through the concepts of “reinforcement”, “retaining walls”, “flood prevention”, and “embankments.” By the end of the first decade, the River was in check, and the Valley was unable to continue its crusade. 

While the Mountain watched with concern, River and Valley waited for a time to strike. 

They needn't have bothered; the denizens of the rails retaliated against themselves. 

-

2 - Steel

The Valley Railway has had two lives - the second is still being lived, but the first died a long and unhappy death, done so by its own buffers. 

Man was inexperienced in the ways of Electricity - they knew not how such technology would apply to the field of steel wheel to steel rail. They brought in a set of locomotives three - one of each power type, and named them for the Lakes around the Mountain that fed the River. 

Loey Machan - The strongest and largest. An express locomotive with delusions of grandeur, his line had sold him after the line he was to lord over was cancelled. Instead of a fresh start, he thought the Railway to be an exile - banishment from his own personal Kingdom of Heaven, thrown instead to the wolves and the sheep and the peasantry - who were altogether worse than the beasts. 

Poll-ny-Chrink - The middle engine. Neither the smallest or the largest, she was the youngest of a family of coal haulers, sold off during unfavourable economic times. Hard work was in her very being, and she arrived fairly aglow at the prospect of more challenging duties. 

Dubbyn Moar - The runt. Tiny even by the standards of the time, she was surplus to requirements - a third engine on a ¾ mile horseshoe of a line that did well with two. She knew her position and size acutely, and would’ve had self-consciousness issues on even the kindest railway. 

This was not the kindest Railway. Tucked away in the valley, far from notice of Men with Hatts - obsessed with Steam as they were - they worked alone, in the long shadows of the Valley, their complaints silenced by the rushing roar of the River. 

Left to his own devices, Loey Machan felt that he needed to re-establish his dominance by any means necessary. In the long shadows and loud silences, he turned himself from a fallen god into a tyrant king. 

Slowly, with equal parts bad luck, stupidity, and sociopathic insidiousness, Loey ground down the cheer and stability of his fellow engines. He believed that by turning them against themselves, he could engineer some kind of fiefdom, where he ruled over his serfs with an iron will. 

Instead, he created an emotional horror show, with himself at the center. 

Dubbyn Moar, now known as Maude, was his first target. He exploited her weakness, her doubts, and her size. Convinced of her own uselessness, she became moody and withdrawn. The engines of Steam and of Mountain, who knew not of what was going on behind their turned backs, assumed she was but a misanthrope and labelled her “Miserable Maude.” It soon became a self-actualising name. 

Poll-ny-Chrink, nicknamed Polly, found herself alone in the world. Gone from a family of loving 11 to a hateful group of 2 drove her to the edge. As Loey pushed Maude to new lows, Polly drew into her own shell, believing the whole world to be as cruel and miserable as Loey claimed it was. 

Finally, there was the mad king himself. Loey Machan was too stupid to understand the danger he put himself in, and too cruel to contemplate it if he was. In his quest to be the leader of a line where he was already “E1”, he drove away any emotional stability, any meaningful relationships, any hope of having friends. When he finally declared himself “King”, one sleep-deprived night during the war - where a stray German bomb “nearly” demolished him, he was already gone. In declaring himself King, he believed his own bullshit: that the world was cold and cruel, and the strong must crush the weak. 

Loey was at his peak in that moment, and although he didn’t realize it, it was lonely at the top; nobody arrives alone and remains sane.

-

Far away but yet so close, the Mountain watched with concern. It could do nothing to help the Railway, and so merely kept the engines on its Railway as far from Loey as it could.

-----------

3 - Starstrider

Peace almost came to the Railway. 

In the late days of the sixth decade of the twentieth century, an engine arrived on the Railway. He was strong, contemplative, quietly charismatic, and surplus to the mainland’s requirements. The Men In Hatts - different ones, still obsessed with Steam, but in a much more frantic way - recognized his ability to calm the demons that plagued the Line. They thought that there were three such problems, not realizing that exorcising Loey would purge the evil from the rails. 

They named this new engines after one of the greatest warrior kings in the Island’s history - Orry,  he of the famed Ogmudsaga. Said to bring peace and security to the Island†, the Men hoped that the engine could do the same. As he was prepared for his first train, they quoted a historical text. “Starstrider had arrived.”

And arrive he did. 

Sure of mind, free of heart, and generous with patience, the great Starstrider worked hard to undo what had been done - he brought happy news of one of Maude’s sisters surviving into preservation, and helped Polly through the guilt of being the only one of her kind to live. 

With each passing day, the Starstrider brought more joy, and banished more fear and hate. The silencing roar of the river no longer covered hissed insults and vague threats, but brash laughter and cheery jokes. Smiles were common for the first time in decades. 

Loey was furious. He had become so high on his own supply that he had forgotten that his castle had been built atop sand. A king that rules through fear will inspire fealty and obedience. A king that rules through respect will inspire loyalty and love. 

To borrow human expressions, Maude and Polly wouldn’t have pissed on Loey if he were on fire, but they would have triple-headed a train with Orry through the gates of hell.

Naturally, the Tyrant King of the Valley could not allow this to stand. His castle began to slip, the mortar cracking as the sand shifted underneath it, and he worked like mad to keep everything as it had been.

Orry matched him wheel-turn for wheel-turn, and it seemed like he would eventually besiege Loey’s castle and send it tumbling to the ground, freeing Polly and Maude once and for all. 

Privately, the engine with a saint’s patience and a king’s heart even hoped that Loey himself could be brought kicking and screaming into the light some day.

But it was not to be. 

One rainy night, on the front of a heavy double-headed train, Loey failed with a pop and a bang. Was it really an accident, or was it more? No one will ever know for certain. Polly was insistent, perhaps at Loey’s urging, or perhaps her natural stubbornness, and the heavy train set off with her alone leading it.

It would never make it to the bottom of the line.

Halfway down the Valley, the train overcame the brakevan on a steep hill that ended at a sharp curve. A double load of aluminum ingots ran wild, and the train ended in a mangled pile between the rails and River, with what was left of Polly at the bottom. According to the tear-stricken Men who told Orry, forty cars worth of ingots had come loose and acted like buckshot through an animal - there was truly nothing left, other than shredded metal. 

For Orry and Maude, this was a loss the likes of which they had never felt before. Polly was theirs, in every way that could possibly matter, and sudden destruction like this… was pain indescribable. 

Then there was Loey. 

Somewhere, deep inside his faltering mind, two wires that had no business being near each other crossed and sparked. In a moment of soulless and cruelty-laden pseudo-genius, he took this as a positive - claiming with sociopathic bombastity that he was fated to have avoided the accident. That the accident would have happened regardless of who had been pulling, and his exclusion from Polly’s horrible demise was simple and undeniable proof of his betterness. He was invincible. He was eternal. He was a god! The proof is right here!

There was, for a brief moment, true and total consideration on Orry’s part of figuring out a way to kill him, but Maude’s already fractured emotional state shattered like glass before that could happen. As Starstrider worked to rebuild his promised peace and security, the Tyrant King was banished to the top shed, deep within the plant’s shunting yard, well away from everyone else. Inside there, his miniature Saint Helena, he planned and he plotted ways to escape, to make his triumphant return to His Kingdom. 

Locked away, inside the little shed that was barely bigger than he was, kept busy with shunting work in a yard that was bright even in the darkest night, and isolated from the line by a tunnel connecting the plant and top station to the rest of the Line, Loey Machan went quite mad. 

--------

4 - May Day

As Loey went mad, and Orry worked to fix what could never be, the Valley and the River plotted. 

There were many lakes that fed the River. Over the years, Man had defiled and damned them like they had done to the River, mostly for sport fishing purposes. One of these reservoirs, known as Corloey, was directly in line with the largest of the many damnations - the one that powered the horrible stinking plant and the Railway.

It was a natural reservoir, and Man had done little more than reinforce what was already there, but they had done that nearly 60 years ago, if not more. The reinforcements were primitive, and had destabilized the layers of soil and clay that had held the hills together for millenia untold. 

Working together, well out of the Mountain’s sight, the River and Valley worked together to weaken the bonds between clay and soil, until something eventually gave. 

On the first of May of the seventy-ninth year, the clay and the soil separated. Thousands of tons of dirt, trees, grass, and soil crashed down into the water of the Corloey reservoir. Its banks burst almost instantly, and fifty feet of water roared along the cackling River, down the gleeful Valley, destroying all in its path. 

The dam was strong - far stronger than it had any right to be  - and as the water hit it, slightly weakened by its mad charge down the miles of Valley, it held. 

But it was only so tall. 

A blue wall surged over its top like the waterfall from hell, and erased everything in the Valley below from existence.  

The Peel of King Godred was saved from the worst of it - the great King had built his keep at the top of a small hill, surrounded on all sides but one by steep Valley. It was in that Valley that the River ran, as did the Railway, which tunneled under the town rather than skirt the edges like the River. The Plant was there too, and the dam. When the water destroyed all but the dam, the city survived - the annual May Day fete meant that even the citizenry were in the town square, and they watched the water surge below them. 

For a brief moment, Orry had given a sigh of total relief when the reports came in. Loey was not allowed around passengers, and with the May Day traffic biased towards people and not freight, the Tyrant King was likely gone - destroyed under unimaginable tonnes of water as his yard was erased by the hand of God. 

Then the rescue train returned - a stranded passenger train behind it, powerless after the wires went dead. It was not Maude who was uncoupled, but instead the Tyrant himself. 

She failed, He explained, his shock already wearing off, insanity already taking its place. I was beseeched to take her train for her. Last I saw of her, she was in the yard.    

In the yard. 

The deep emptiness that opened in Orry’s heart that day would never truly go away, and his indomitable spirit finally broke as he listened to Loey prattle on about divinity and invincibility. Words were shouted, threats of murder issued, and the two Kings were separated, each one foaming at the mouth. Orry declared himself done with Loey, and the Island in general. The Man in the Hatt granted his transfer to the line of his brothers, and Starstrider departed, his spirit broken. 

Meanwhile, the Tyrant King was jubilant. He’d driven off the interloper and reaffirmed his claim as King of this line. In his mind, power was all that mattered; The fact that he ruled over naught but dust never occurred to him. 

They eventually reattached the wires to mains electricity, and the Tyrant King was allowed to roam his empty kingdom, shuttling trains of refuse from the reclamation site at the tunnel portal to the junction with the main line. By all accounts, these were the happiest days of his life.

Meanwhile, at the Mouth of the River Tid, the Man in the Hatt made a choice - the dam would be rebuilt, the plant as well; that much was out of his control. The dam owners had offered him a choice: keep the frequency of electricity that flowed through the Line now - one that was out of date and falling out of use on the mainland, or upgrade to the Standard Frequency of the Future?

If Loey had been the one reduced to scrap under the water, and it was Orry and Maude cleaning up the mess, the Man may have changed his mind - might have kept their Direct Current. 

But all that was left was the Mad Tyrant King. 

The order was placed, to a company in America, for Alternating Current equipment, the newest available. 

Loey’s days were numbered. 

His power was, quite literally, about to be turned off.

------------

5 - Sic Semper Tyrannis

Loey found out about his forced abdication, and reacted accordingly, frothing at the mouth and howling invectives at anyone and everyone. Men soon avoided him altogether, afraid of straying too close to his drooling maw - being eaten was a suddenly real fear. 

Eventually, they turned the power off and left him on a siding - steam engines were infinitely better than an insane electric, and the final days of Loey’s life were spent hurling powerless insults at Scottish Twins who said worse to each other in loving jest.

Like Polly and Maude before him, Loey’s life ended violently and suddenly - the Ninth Engine was storming away from the rebuilding site, a heavy train of spoil and waste behind him, and a thick cloud of smoke and swears above him. There was a sudden snap, and the unbraked train parted at a broken coupling just behind the tender. Twenty-five cackling and screaming wagons roared down the grade leading towards the yard, the brakeman leaping for life. A quick thinking shunter threw a lever in panic, and the train was diverted away from the works site. Towards Loey. 

The Mad Tyrant bellowed claims about his invulnerability until his last breath. 

The railway sold what was left of him for scrap and used the proceeds to buy clothes for children who had lost theirs in the flood. It was the first time in years that he had been of any use to anyone. 

---------------

6 - Poltergeist

The Valley and The River felt the great evil snuff out. They had been infuriated by the failure of the flood. Clearly another means of revenge must be chosen. Pooling their great power carefully, they reached out, finding the faintest of threads connecting this world to the next, and they pulled.

The Mountain bellowed at them in horror, but they ignored it. 

Slowly, but surely, an evil presence began to become known in the yard outside of Peel Godred. 

It was an evil, machiavellian, scheming, plotting, altogether stupid presence. One that cared not for who you were or where you’d come from. All it wanted was to cause trouble, and re-establish itself as King of the Valley.  

It wandered around, searching for lives to ruin. 

First it tried the city, but as it approached the walls it began to feel pain - an unfamiliar sensation, and it turned and left. It was too idiotic and maddened to see the Norse Runes carved into the city walls glow with great power. 

King Godred may be long dead, but his city he still protected. 

-

Next he tried the rails that led up the mountain. His cloudy memories showed them to be stupid, and quiet, and purple. 

He hated purple things. 

He made it less than a wheel’s-turn onto the Mountain Railway, when the very ground shook. 

Far away, in a university on the coast, a machine tuned for earthquakes started vibrating as a small earthquake rumbled out of the Valley. 

He suddenly found himself flying through the air, as though He’d just been struck by a massive hand. He crashed into the far wall of the Valley, his incorporeal form bending and twisting in pain as he laid there, his infernal power drained in an instant as he tried to stay in this realm. He succeeded, but only just. 

STAY OFF MY RAILWAY

The voice boomed in such a way that every hill, tree, and babbling brook for miles around could hear it. Elsewhere on the Island, other creatures that straddled the line between life and death jumped at the sudden sound. 

The ground shook

The air shook

The very fabric of the veil between the two worlds shook

A sense of massive and untapped power emanated from the mountain, like a piece of heavy electrical equipment coming to life. 

The Valley and the River suddenly knew great fear. 

THIS ENDS HERE

The voice thundered down into the Valley and River. It promised great pain if they ever did so again. 

Godred may have been long dead, but his railway he protected. 

-

†Awdry, W., & Awdry, G. (1987). ORRY, KING*. In The Island of Sodor: Its people, history and railways (pp. 109–110). essay, Kaye & Ward. 

[hazel-of-sodor]

A Screech in the Night Ch:2

Ch:2 Firelight

Other Chapters

The firelighters arrived early before dawn. They stopped cold at the sight of the rumbling eldritch behemoth guarding the shed as if a dragon had come to protect its mechanical kin. But this was Wales, and after a moment the workers shrugged and began preparing the other engines.

The engines roused slowly as their fires were raised, 4702 watching their double takes at her presence with amusement.

Once the others were steamed, the firelighters glanced toward the giant apprehensively, "Do we light her fire as well?" One asked, mustering her courage.

"Oh, you certainly may try," 4702 cooed, reaching out with one of her tendrils to tap the firelighters rag.

The young woman dropped her rag hastily as it turned to ash in seconds.

"Leave her to me." The head firelighter stepped forward. He was an older gentleman with a head full of grey, short hair, the tips turning white.

4702 raised an eyebrow, "I will not be responsible for anything you lose in the attempt."

The whisper cackled in her mind.

The old man smiled knowingly, "I'll make you a deal young lady, if you're right, I'll make sure no one holds it against you, and you can go on your merry way."

The firelighter's smile suddenly grew challenging, almost predatory, "but if I can stream you, you have to pull our morning freight." 

'Do iiiitttt.' The whisper pleaded.

4702 smiled a shark-like grin, happy to agree with the whisper, "We have a deal."

The firefighter pulled off his gloves and moved to lay his hand on her running board.

'Yesss!' The whisper cackled with glee.

To both of their shock a warmth shot through her running board the instant his hand made contact. She couldn't help the shudder that shook her frames as she felt heat for the first time since her scrapping.

The firelighter met her eyes with a small smirk, " Would you be a Dear and pull up to the coaling stage, chun? You'll need plenty of coal and water for today." He patted her running board and walked towards the coaling tower.

'How...' The whisper sounded utterly dumbfounded.

The giant rolled forward slowly, uncaring that her curiosity was shown openly. Everything else she had touched had been reduced to ash in seconds. How could he touch her?

She stopped by the coaling stage and soon the lever was pulled and her tender filled for the first time in months. She fought to keep from squirming at the once familiar feeling. She was so focused on the feeling she almost missed the firelighter grabbing her tender handrail and clambered up on top.

The whisper grumbled about the unfairness of it all as the firelighter swung the water pipe over and began to fill her tender.

Before 4702 could respond a shout echoed through the yard. 

"Gywn Jones, just what do you think you are doing?"

The firelighter's head popped up, "Freda my cariad!" His enthusiastic greeting was met with an unimpressed stare. "I was just firing up the young lass, isn't she just beautiful!"

4702 blinked dumbfounded. She'd had many reactions to her appearance: screams, fainting, and the ever-popular "why are my eyes bleeding?"

Freda was unimpressed. "By yourself? And would I be right in guessing you haven't even asked the poor lass her name?"

"Erm..."

"I thought not." The woman turned to face 4702, "Forgive my husband. He sees a pretty locomotive and what little brains he had flies out the window. I am Freda Jones and the rude fellow on your tender is Gywn." She glared at her sheepishly smiling husband. She laid a warm hand on 4702's buffers, "Now dear, do you have a name you prefer?"

'I like her,' the whisper grudgingly admitted.

"Screech." 4702 said slowly, staring at the hand on her buffer, unaffected even when she poked it with a tendril experimentally.

"A proper name for a Night Owl!" Gywn crowed, seemingly not noticing as a tendril kept him from slipping off the tender.

Freda pinched her nose in long-suffering exasperation. "In my defence dear, I thought he would eventually grow up." She sighed, "I guess I better come alone or He'll find you both in trouble soon enough."

"He mentioned a morning freight?" Screech ventured.

"The Morning Pike then," Freda said walking back toward the cab. "A fish train. Ran express from Uman through to Din. It's heavy, but I suspect you'll manage, and it'll let poor Guinevere get some sleep."

As Freda climbed into the cab, Gywn had begun expertly lighting a fire. For the first time in months, or was it years at this point? Warmth spread through Screech's boiler. Snow began to fall lightly, deepening the drifts around the yard. Long before she expected, her safety valve lifted as steam escaped into the dark morning air. Her tendrils poked at it experimentally. 

"Let us be off Screech!" Gywn called from the cab, "We'll show the lorries a thing or two today."

As she set off towards the distant docks, 4702 wondered what she had got herself into.

Author’s Note:

Hey guys! Currently writing Ch.8 and 9, and I haven’t even reached the original story beats yet. This is gonna be a long one.

[writersdrug]

Training for Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon's desperate to find Riley a pet sitter after she suffers an injury in the field and can no longer work alongside him. Despite being desperate, he's also picky. He wants someone professional, organized, and perfect for the position. You show up for an interview - and while you may not be his idea of the perfect candidate, you're the perfect fit for what Riley needs. Unfortunately for Simon, you flip his world upside-down and melt his icy walls of stubbornness and anger, making him crave you like the heat of the sun. The worst part? You don't even know it.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, brief mentions of animal injury (not detailed), pining, angst, possessiveness, jealousy, slow burn (?), cheating, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex

Chapter 1. Interview

Chapter 2. Rules

Chapter 3. New Trails

Chapter 4. New Tricks

Chapter 5. Back to Square One

Chapter 6. Pup Cup

Chapter 7. Motivated, Sir!

Taglist is CLOSED - thank you to everyone who requested to be tagged in this story!

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"