This story was turned down for being ‘too gentle,' for an anthology of ghost stories.
The waiting room is in its original color scheme. Cream wooden planks climb the walls, dark green edges the windows and skirting boards and in the center of the ceiling a single light shade hangs, fly spots decorating the underside. The door opens and a man joins me, his clothes dusted with a patina of frost. His long overcoat hangs on him as if he’s lost a lot of weight since acquiring it. The draught as he enters swing the lightshade and the dust encrusted top shows in the beam of light from the platform.
We nod to each other. “Waiting for the seven-twenty are you?” he asks, his smile revealing teeth that need a polish, and his breath has an odor of decay. I shake his outstretched hand, clammy on this winter evening.
“I’m James, waiting for my daughter.”
“Benjamin,” he answers. “Waiting for my son.”
“My daughter’s been on the scenic trip through the mountains. Good opportunities for photos of the train exiting tunnels.” He raises his eyebrows. “She’s a professional photographer,” I add, “And your son? Is he part of the photography club?”
The bitter wind has driven me into the waiting room. The lack of reading matter leaves me with no other source of entertainment, there’s no internet connection, and I’m inquisitive by nature.
“No, He’s still at college.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I’m hopeful each time the seven-twenty pulls in that my son will arrive; ever hopeful that my memories have been twisted and my recollections are wrong.”
A strange statement. I incline my head, waiting for clarification. He draws a shaky breath and surveys the room. “I know this area well and this station in particular. I was the Station Master here, once.”
The railway, now a tourist attraction, had been closed for thirty years, before rejuvenation. Is he a volunteer? Perhaps he painted the station walls and revitalised the abandoned building?
“So, he went on today’s excursion?”
“Possibly, we’re not in constant touch. It’s the timetable that matters, the 7.20…and the weather most of all.”
“Certainly, the weather,” I agree. “The recent snow has attracted more tourists. The scenery is magnificent.” I indicate he might like to sit. He shakes his head. “Do you live locally?” I sound nosey, but that’s the nature of my livelihood, asking questions.
“You could say that.” Another vague answer and he scuffs his high-sided boot on the wooden floor. His action gouges the varnished planks with a sharp scritch, leaving marks on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The parking area has a fresh dressing of grit. A stone has stuck to the sole of his boot. After a deep sigh he changes his mind and sinks into the corner chair.
We sit in companionable silence until the vibration under our feet signals the train’s arrival. I hurry to the door and peer out. A trail of smoke floats above the forest. At any moment the engine will appear around the bend. I turn to tell him and watch slack-jawed as he melts through the wall, allowing a final glimpse of one corner of his long black coat before it too flicks out of sight.
He simply walked through the wall. My first ghost and all the things I could have asked him flash through my mind.
Among the throng that tumbles down the steps from the carriages, my daughter’s cerise beanie stands out. On the platform she bounces on her toes. Face flushed from the day in the mountains, her russet curls peeping out from under her snug hat, she looks so beautiful my heart melts with pride. I sling one of her camera cases over my shoulder and lean in to kiss her.
“I’ve just had a conversation with a ghost,” I whisper.
Her face lights with delight. “You did? I wish I’d been here. I’d have taken a photo.”
Over her shoulder, through a gap in the crowd, I spot him, a lone dark figure standing by the tracks, looking back down the line at the faint outline of a young lad approaching.
“You can, there he is.” I point but as she turns the figures merge into the treeline, dark against the brilliance of the snow. They transform into a drift of grey smoke, like a belch from the engine’s exhaust. “Damn, he’s gone.” I hold her gaze. “I didn’t imagine it.”
“I believe you.” She pats my arm. “The guide told us the story between photo ops. He’s been haunting this station for years.”
Together we traipse to the car and once on the road with the heater blasting she continues. “His name is Benjamin Watkins. He waits for the 7.20 train on a Sunday night, but only if there’s been lots of snow.” She rubs her mittens together and sniffs. The cold air has our noses running.
“The story goes that his son was returning from college on the 7.20 but an avalanche derailed the train and smothered it in snow. By the time rescuers located it there were no survivors. Apparently, he haunts the station’s platform, sometimes pacing, sometimes standing in the waiting room, always hoping for his son to arrive – so the story goes.” Her brow creases “Was he spooky?”
“Not, at all.” I picture him again. The frost on his shoulders, his strange clothes and the air of decay he carried. “A sad fellow, stoic. His handshake and voice were firm.”
I thump the steering wheel. “If I’d known he was a ghost I could have asked him if he’d seen your mother.” My voice hitches. A silence, thick with memories, fills the car for long moments, until Abagail wipes her eyes and attempts to lighten our grief.
“Always the reporter, always after a story. You’ll have to write about him. Do some research and do an article.” My heart twists at her gaiety and I wonder how I will cope if I ever lose her.
“Good idea. A real ghost and I messed up.”
Since that night we’ve met the 7.20 often, especially after a heavy snowfall. Benjamin has never returned. I like to think he finally united with his son the night I met him. I know it happened because the scratches are on the waiting room floor. Anyone could have scuffed the floor, but I know the truth. I saw him do it.
I endure cold nights, waiting on the platform with Abigail. She has her camera at the ready. These are great father-daughter bonding times and I silently thank Benjamin Watkins for gifting me these opportunities.
My other work can be found here: https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar
Perhaps you might like to read a novel with a New Zealand flavor?
https://www.amazon.com/Carbonites-Daughter-Deryn-Pittar/dp/1922556467/r
What an amazing story! Love it! Too bad they found it too gentle for the anthology. I thought it was great :)