There’s something about these hills and hollows in the evenings that always gives me the creeps. It doesn’t matter whether it’s summer or winter. Even when I was a kid running these woods, I rarely had to be called in after dark. Things I couldn’t see and feelings I couldn’t name raised the hairs on my arms and whispered me into the safety of our home on Clayton Ridge.
That’s one reason why, as soon as I was old enough, I stuffed my cardboard suitcase with whatever was mine and headed for the big city, where the wind didn’t whisper secrets. In Chicago the wind gusts down gritty streets and sidewalks, whistles in my ears, and forces me to hunker down deeper in my coat and squint my eyes to keep them clear. There were no sly, unnamed nighttime noises to worry my dreams – just the horns of irritated motorists and the blare of sirens racing through the cement and glass canyons. Man, I love the harsh reality of the city.
Anyway, years passed, I got busy with life, found a wife, bought a house, and now we’ve got kids to chase to all their events. Excuses for my not getting home, even to visit, were easy to make. Back in the hills the wind-up clock on the mantle kept ticking. Folks got old. Some died. The family withered away until only Pop remained. I felt it was my duty as his only child to bury him when he passed over. That’s why I came. Now there’s no one left up Salt Lick Trace for me to ever come back to see again. So, I returned the rental car and walked the few blocks past closed and boarded up shops to the train station, stopping once when I thought I heard the wind whisper. I looked around but didn’t see anyone. That’s not surprising though because it was late evening and getting dark quickly. I picked up my pace a bit.
The nearly deserted Amtrak station platform pressed up against the mountain like it was trying to hold it back. The only sounds were the scuffing of my shoes and the muted echoes of the suitcase rollers. Three vapor lamps splashed shallow pools of light downward onto the cement as the darkness deepened. Slanted shadows hung across the depot just beyond the light’s reach. Centered in one light pool, I watched the world beyond slowly disappearing. The train was due soon. I exhaled and chuckled, scolding myself for my childish fears but wishing for all I was worth that I would see that big diesel come rolling in. A few minutes passed and it became obvious I would be the only passenger boarding. It seemed highly unlikely that the vagrant sacked out beneath a newspaper on the bench at the other end of the station could afford a fare to anywhere. Feeling a wisp of fear, I wiped a bead of sweat from my upper lip and shivered.
My imagination must have been working overtime. The whispers on the wind became voices accompanied by soft laughter. Suddenly, from out of the shadows stepped two women. The taller one, with short curly black hair, wore black tights with a matching sports bra. Her companion, a pale-faced woman, was clad in grey tights and what looked like a regular beige bra. They stopped and appraised me. That is the only way I can describe their cold stares. ‘Black tights’ took the initiative and walked over to me, stopping just within my personal space. Before I could take a step backward she raised her face to me and smiled, exposing a mouthful of shiny white teeth. “Mister, you got a ladder?” she asked in a husky voice.
Baffled by the request and attracted by the darkness of her eyes, I responded, “No, I don’t have a ladder. I’m just waiting for the train. And what do you need one for anyway?” She seemed scarcely dressed for climbing. In fact, she seemed scarcely dressed at all. Nonetheless, I was relieved by such a mundane request.
Both women laughed. ‘Black tights’ black eyes danced. She lifted a hand toward me and pointed an unlit cigarette at my chest and said, “You got a ladder for me, mister?”
Relief washed over me. I recognized these two women were working in the oldest profession on earth. I had simply misheard her request. It explained both their clothing and attitudes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. No, I don’t have a lighter.” At the same instant I heard the distant horn of the train as it entered the yard. “Maybe that fellow down there,” I nodded my head in the direction of my unconscious neighbor on the bench at the far end of the platform, “maybe he can help you out.”
Her eyes searched mine for a moment. I thought I caught a flash of some emotion, it might have been anger, before she and her silent companion turned and walked away. With relief, I watched her and ‘grey tights’ stroll off in the direction of the sleeping vagrant, at first disappearing into the darkness only to emerge a few moments later in another pool of light. My relief was palpable. It felt as though I had narrowly escaped from some dangerous predator.
The two of them paused and stood a moment before the sleeper, as if considering his potential. “Black tights” bent and hovered over him while “grey tights” knelt by his side and leaned in. I averted my eyes from the intimate scene and started dragging my suitcase to the edge of the platform, as the train rumbled into the station, its bells ringing. The conductor leaned out, ushering me up and in. I lost no time boarding and stepped past the few resting passengers, sliding into a seat as the train glided out.
Feeling safe at last, I glanced out the window as we slowly passed the three companions in the last puddle of light. Suddenly, the two women turned and peered directly into my eyes – and snarled, feral, animal snarls, displaying two sets of brilliantly white teeth and long canine fangs. In shock, I pressed my face to the glass and saw the “sleeper’s” arm flop down as though pointing to the ground. From one finger fell a drop of thick dark liquid onto the cement, congealing into a small pool. The train whistle screamed. Blackness swallowed the night. My heart pounded as I sank back into my seat.
THE END
Karl Stewart 