Trains, ghosts and ghouls

Until 1941, when an air raid destroyed the special train line from Waterloo to Brookwood Cemetery, funeral parties would travel out of the city to the landscaped location in Surrey. I’ll let you decide whether the following story is fact or fiction.

I sat lifeless on the 8.22 from Waterloo, staring at the electric speckled black beyond the window. My usual commuter friends had long since reached home, which was just as well because I didn’t feel like conversation this night. I’d made the journey for nearly two years but it had never worried me as it did now. It didn’t matter what time I travelled or with whom, no-one else seemed to be aware.

My stop was the last before the train sheds. No danger of falling asleep with my pulse racing faster than train wheels. Only two of us got off. We walked through the empty car park and he turned right while I set off uphill, past the yawning bus shelter till I reached the shortcut. It was just a 100 yards of stony path, edged by common land on one side and scrub on the other, lit at each end by lamps so weak even the moths couldn’t find them.

Leafless bony fingers jabbed the night sky, allowing patches of light to squeeze through. Stagnant water mouldered in pools between creeping bramble and exposed root. I scanned the landscape and continued like a barefoot tribesman in the Kalahari; not sure whether I was hunter or prey.

I really wanted to run but I also needed to resolve this problem. I kept stopping to listen for the usual delayed echo but nothing – no footsteps tonight. It was only when I neared the end of the path, not daring to breathe or turn around that the weeping began. Softly, then rising to a crescendo until the banshee cry startled the sleeping birds again. I looked back towards the railway bridge, in time to see her shadow disappear towards the track beneath. I just knew if I went to look, no-one would be there.

I hope, if I don’t make it home tomorrow, that someone will take the time to find my diary.

Advertisements

About jaytale

My name's Jill but I'm Jack of all trades and master of none. I've been writing, mainly poetry and short pieces for a long time and decided to concentrate a little harder to see if I can master this at least. I paint both the house and pictures when inspiration strikes. I am a country bumpkin who loves to be outdoors and enjoy meeting interesting people.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s