1.14 - The Night Train

Hello listeners. It is midnight in Mercy Mountain once again and I, Julian Glass, am here to lull your nocturnal souls.

[intro]

Something interesting has happened, listeners. The night train, only its rumble ever indicating its race through town, has stopped. And turned on a light.

No one, nothing, has emerged from the train. It just sits, engine growling, light glaring, blocking every railroad crossing in town.

Citizens are reluctant to approach and observe it for the first time. Anyone waiting to cross the tracks averts their gazes nervously.

More on this fascinating development soon, I am sure. But for now, a trip around town.

One of the workers at the animal shelter, Alton Davis, is nowhere to be found. The same can be said for 29 other people.

Time for a Fun Fact. There is a clock. It chimes not at every hour or half-hour, but whenever a person is saponified by the lawyers. This is not as often as you might think, only every seven minutes or so. This has been tonight’s Fun Fact.

Alejandra—my necromancer scientist friend—and I participated in a skating half-marathon the other day. I have never roller-bladed so far in my life. I suppose that means I did not train well enough for this event, but Alejandra and I weren’t racing, just having some leisurely fun.

I saw many acquaintances and friends participating in the event. We called out and waved to each other, wide smiles on our faces. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

I haven’t been having enough fun lately. I am eternally grateful to Alejandra for dragging me places, making me shed some of the weight I have been carrying, at least for a short time.

Back to the night train. Some daring folks have shone their car headlights onto the huge metal snake, revealing a length of black-painted passenger cars. These foolishly courageous witnesses claim to see shadows moving onboard, but no one has yet emerged from the train.

Incredibly, the people who dared shine their lights on the train have not turned into purple statues as expected. Instead, they have approached the train. They have boarded the train.

Listeners, people have boarded the night train. At the moment, only those who have illuminated it have boarded, but those waiting to cross the railroad tracks have exited their cars and are standing in the street, staring at the train.

Nearly everyone else in town is now also standing in the street, gazing off in the direction of the train, even if they cannot see it.

I feel the urge to do the same.

More on this later, listeners. For now, let’s venture around town again.

Mayor Stephanie Vaughn holds a screaming contest with the tree in her backyard. So far, she is losing.

Sheila Carroll searches for apartments in town on her laptop as she snuggles into her couch. She does not need to look for an apartment yet—she has several months left on her current lease—but she likes to know her options.

Carter Bycofski prunes one of his overgrown houseplants. He doesn’t care too much about the resulting shape, because it will grow out again in a month or two anyway.

Listeners, there is more to tell on the saga of the night train. The entire town is marching toward the train, inexplicably, inexorably drawn north or south, away from their homes, jobs, vehicles.

I…am going to be unable to resist the urge to follow them for much longer. In my last moments of fortitude, allow me to take you to this pre-recorded word from our sponsors.

You are in a quaint, rustic cabin. So quaint and rustic that there is not plumbing. So quaint and rustic that there is a hole in the basement floor. The hole is unfathomably deep; you dropped a rock into it and never heard it strike bottom. A faint sound trickles from within—that of frogs in the distance—along with the smell of petrichor. The air flowing from the hole is hot and humid.

You find yourself leaning in towards the mouth, a little too close for comfort. Well. Maybe someone else’s comfort. You aren’t worried. You want to jump in, as a matter of fact. See where it takes you. See if it never ends.

You lean in a little more. A little more. A little… Come to RadioShack.

[interlude]

Welcome back, listeners. Welcome back [brief pause] from the night train.

We all went there, boarded. But after doing so, we found no one else on board. Where did our fellow citizens, the few thousand of them, go?

We walked along the aisles of the chain of passenger cars until we decided to sit in one of the dark, empty seats, far away from the lights of the cars. We stared out the windows into the night. We saw the shadows of trees begin to quake and sway under the force of nonexistent storm winds. We saw them flex under the weight of the storm that was not there, bending until their crowns touched the earth and the great plants melted into the ground. What was left behind was a sheet of darkness pierced by nothing at all, not even the lights of town, or starlight.

The indomitable darkness swooped into the passenger cars and wrapped itself around us, swaddling us, holding us. We fell backward into the darkness and emerged into a sinister light that blinded us. Our eyes bled. It was there that we heard whispers; whispers that breathed to us secrets that no one should ever know. Our ears bled.

The light grew even brighter, until it burned away the secrets that no one should ever know. We fell backward into the light and emerged into passenger cars bathed in the soft lights of town and starlight. We walked along the aisles of the chain of passenger cars until we decided to disembark.

And from there, we returned to our homes, our jobs, our vehicles. And we continue our lives. As if we were not changed by the knowledge that we no longer have.

The train has turned off its light and is moving once more, gradually picking up speed on its way out of town.

Listeners, I feel…changed. Like something about my identity has shifted. Something deeper than my self-perception. The world seems to be different shades of colors than before; is that because I have changed, or has the world around me changed?

Perhaps we will never know what shifted.

Stay tuned next for the sound of an aloe plant growing. Have a wonderful rest of your night, Mercy Mountain.