Whether you’ve been with us since that first trip into the cellar or if you’ve only just found your way to Fenwick, I’m glad you’re here.

Subscribe now

This story is meant to be read in order, so new readers—or anyone who might need a refresher can catch the previous episodes by clicking on the links below:

Do Not Clean Glass

The Sock Monkey

One Week

How to Give Orders to a Dead Man

Right Down to the Minute

For everyone who’s following along, I hope you’ll share your theories or ideas about what’s going on here. Thank you for being part of this little community. Now, let’s get back to the story.

Nate had that far-off look again. He’s hearing it again. I shoved him. Hard. Maybe a little too hard? No matter. You have to take your fun where you can find it. And if a crisis isn’t the right time to push your cousin around, when exactly is?

“Ow—what?” His voice trailed off while he rubbed his shoulder. He was focused. Good. I needed his attention. “She’s back!” I pointed to the window. Grandma’s old station wagon was turning into the gravel parking lot. How angry was she?

We stepped closer to the large display window at the front of the store. Not right up against it, so she wouldn’t see us watching. She buzzed into a parking space and the entire car lurched forward as it jerked to a stop. That wasn’t good. That same woman had hauled all of us kids—I have a lot of cousins—all around Nicholas County. Riding in the back of her station wagon was almost like being on a roller coaster… especially if she was angry. And the way she’d just parked made me think we were getting ready for a trip to Kings Dominion.

She sat in the car for a long moment before the door opened. Her feet came out first to find the gravel. She gripped the top of the door with one hand, the frame of the car with the other, and pulled. It took her two tries to stand. Once she was up, she stayed there, one hand still on the door, like she was deciding if it was safe to trust her balance. The same woman who used to fling that station wagon through curves like it was a roller coaster now needed a moment before she trusted herself to take a step.

She reached into the car and pulled out a grocery tote bag.

“We better go help her,” Nate said, but I was already on my way out the door.

“Grandma!” I called out. “Is everything okay?”

She looked past me to Nate and then her eyes returned to me. “I don’t know, Hank. Is it?” She held the bag out for me.

The tote was warm and smelled like freshly made biscuits. I started to make a joke about how biscuits always make everything okay, but then I saw how her eyes were red. Instead, I said, “We’ve made progress.”

Nate caught up to us. She smiled at him and I couldn’t help but notice that he got a smile and I got chores.

“Nathaniel, will you help me up the steps?” She reached out and took his arm. I followed behind the two of them as we made our way into What Remains.

Nate led her straight to the back where our work table was still covered with papers, maps, and notes we’d scribbled since yesterday. At the center of the mess was the notice that Vallow had left behind.

I set the tote down and quickly gathered the papers into a pile. I buried the notice somewhere in the middle of the stack and pushed it all toward the back. No point in shoving visual reminders of my mistakes in her face.

“Hank, why don’t you get coffee started?” Grandma asked. “Nate, I brought some orange juice that I squeezed fresh this morning because I remember how much you enjoyed it when you were little.”

“Grandma, you didn’t have to…” Nate said.

“Now, hush.”

I busied myself with a decades-old Mr. Coffee that I’d inherited with the shop. Grandma and Bessie had bought it sometime during the Reagan administration and never saw fit to buy a newer model. “If it ain’t broke…” Bessie would always say. I smiled at the memory and then my conversation with Allison intruded. Old man Cottrill had died at exactly the time when Vallow had said he would be collected. That meant we had five days and—I glanced at the clock—ten hours and twelve minutes left.

I felt a hand touch my arm and looked down to see Grandma standing at my side. “And I brought strawberry preserves for you, Hank.” She gave me a smile. “But you’ll have to get the butter out on your own. I forgot to grab a stick before I left.”

“I… eh, I can do…” I couldn’t help myself. I leaned down and hugged her until she slapped my chest.

“I’m still mad at you, but that boy needs us, so it’ll keep.”

We all joined Nate at the table. I handed him a juice glass and set the butter down next to the biscuits that he’d placed on a plate. “Isn’t it kind of late for biscuits?” he asked.

Grandma and I looked at one another. “You’ve been gone from West Virginia too long. It’s never a bad time for biscuits,” she said.

I realized then that he’d never been to Tudor’s Biscuit World. That was an oversight that bordered on criminal, and if he lived past the week, we’d have to make a trip to Craigsville to fix it. No. Waiting was too big of a risk. I’d drive, obviously, but we’d have to do that sometime before the deadline, because I couldn’t live with myself if the man died before having one of their Peppi biscuits.

There are a lot of ways to make biscuits. Some people make them thin, with a toasted crust that’s almost crunchy. Others prefer them soft. Grandma made cat’s head biscuits, named for their size. She didn’t much like them that way herself. They were harder for her to chew, but she made them because she knew I loved those big biscuits. Grandma never said sorry. She baked.

I passed the plate to Grandma, then Nate, and took one for myself. I watched them fix their biscuits, but my mind kept drifting back to our plan. Truth was, it wasn’t much of one. It was, however, the only approach I could think of that made any sort of sense.

I didn’t want to rip off the bandaid again, but we were going to have to face this sooner or later. I reached into the pile of our research papers and pulled out Vallow’s notice. Grandma saw the yellowed slip of paper as soon as I pulled it free. She started to say something and stopped.

That was good. Well, maybe it was good. More than likely, she was waiting to see how deep of a hole I’d dig, but at least I had a chance to sway her to my side. “Grandma, you were right about the trains. They stopped coming through Fenwick in ’87. Nate found the paperwork showing the railroad later closed the line for good in 1990. Now, it seems to me, Vallow’s the kind of guy who’d follow an order into the grave… and apparently, quite a bit farther. So we show him the new orders. Timetables, abandonment notice, the whole official stack. He checks the dates, sees his route is gone, and tells Nate there’s no train for him to catch.”

Nate looked at the notice and then back to me. “You’re assuming the new orders cancel everything he’s already done. But he delivered this after the line had closed. There’s not even a train platform out there anymore, but he still signed this and set a pickup time for me. Even if he accepts your paperwork, what makes you think it cancels the freight he’s already agreed to collect?”

Nate was naming every objection I’d been trying not to say out loud. I leaned toward Nate and put on my best smile. “He’s scheduled a pickup. Fine. But the railroad has closed the line. No trains, no platform, no Fenwick stop. We put the paperwork in front of him and let him do what he’s spent his whole life doing: follow orders.” I glanced at Grandma. “For once, the government’s timing might actually help us.”

Grandma set her biscuit down and watched us both. Her eyes moved from Nate’s stained finger to my face. “You don’t know if it’s gonna work,” she said quietly. “You’re gonna bet that boy’s life on a piece of paper and some pretty words.”

I didn’t have an answer that would make her happy, so I just kept my smile and nodded.

After we finished eating, Grandma stayed in the back to pack up the leftovers and clean the few dishes we’d used. We’d offered to help, but she insisted we get back to work. We had to print out copies of all of the documents that would be needed in just a few days.

The old printer chugged and wheezed, spitting out page after page of abandonment records and employee timetables. Nate was hunched over the laptop, cross-referencing the dates when the B&O line officially ceased operations.

Suddenly, he jerked up straight. He looked off to the side as if he could see all the way to Holcomb. I put a hand on his shoulder to bring him back to the present. He looked up at me and mouthed the word, “whistle.”

“I know,” I said quietly, just loud enough so he could hear.

He started scrolling through a maintenance report, then gripped the edge of the table. His shoulders rocked in little uneven jerks, like he was riding over an old dirt road. The table didn’t move. Neither did the printer beside him.

“Nate?”

He looked down at the floor. “Can’t you feel that?”

Grandma had said Bessie’s daughter heard the rumble of an approaching train. Had she felt it too? Had Grandma ever seen her shake like this?

Nate had lost his place on the page. He slid his stained finger across the trackpad, searching for his place.

“It’s getting louder,” Nate whispered.

“That’s a good thing. It means this is almost over. We’re almost ready now, Nate,” I said as I gathered up the papers I’d brought with me from the back room. “Tuesday at 9:14. We’ll meet him where the old platform used to be and serve notice.”

“And I’ll be right there with you,” Grandma said from the doorway. I didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, but it was obvious that she’d overheard everything. Her face had that determined look she got when she’d decided she was going to get her way. “You’re not going to confront him without me.”

“Grandma, it’s too dangerous,” I said.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she walked to the worktable where the sock monkey lay. She picked it up and cradled it against her chest as she made her way back to the front of the store where we were. “Vallow took Bessie’s daughter. That little girl never got to grow up because of him and now he thinks he can take Nate? Maybe your plan will work, maybe it won’t, but I’ve got a plan of my own. I’m going to shove this sock monkey in his face and make him understand the pain he has already caused this family. He’s not going to cause any more.”

“Grandma, you need to put that monkey down. It might be dangerous. I haven’t had the chance to finish…”

“Hank Shaw, you need to hush. First, you’re not Bessie. You can’t just touch something and know all about its history. So don’t try to pass yourself off like you can tell me if this monkey is cursed or not. Second, it’s not cursed. I had this monkey decades before you were even born. If there was something evil trapped in here, I would know already. So shut your mouth. I won’t listen to that nonsense anymore than I’ll listen to you tell me I can’t go to the platform with the two of you.”

Over the next few days, I tried to talk Grandma out of her plan several times, but she wouldn’t even discuss it. As far as she was concerned, the matter was closed. So the three of us spent every day locked up in What Remains.

Bessie’s daughter had drowned while the adults were distracted. The most important part of our plan now was simply keeping Nate alive until Tuesday. I wondered if Vallow would even be able to claim him as freight if he wasn’t already dead by that point. I didn’t want to depend on that as an escape clause, but it certainly beat the alternative.

We kept the store closed during that time and treated Nate like he was trapped in bubble wrap. No, you can’t go upstairs. You might trip and fall down. No, you can’t go outside. A car might skid off the road and take you out. What are you doing touching that toaster? I’ll cook for you. Then there were the whistles Nate kept hearing and the rumble he could feel more and more often. You can imagine how sick all of us were of one another by the time Sunday afternoon came around.

“What about that place you guys told me about? The biscuit place. Why don’t we go there?” Nate asked.

A Tudor’s biscuit did sound like just the thing, but it just wasn’t safe. “We can’t, Nate. Tudor’s is all the way in Craigsville. That’s at least a twenty minute drive. It’s too dangerous.”

“No,” Grandma said. “The boy’s right. And it’s not twenty minutes. It might be fifteen, but if you know what you’re doing, you can make it ten. Maybe twelve if there’s traffic.”

“Yeah, if you’re driving, but we’re trying to be safe here, Grandma.”

“You’ve spent days tellin him what he can’t do. Let the boy have a biscuit.”

“He’s already had your biscuits, Grandma. Anything after that is going to be a disappointment.”

She gave me a smirk and then jingled her keys. “Nate, get in the station wagon. I’m takin’ you to Tudor’s. Hank, you can come along if you want. Or you can just stay here and fret. The choice is yours.”

This was ridiculous. The entire trip was too dangerous. Letting Grandma drive… I just didn’t even have words to describe how bad it was. I won’t even try. Instead, let me just say that she tore out of that parking lot like she was racing the Devil himself. I gripped the door handle as she backed out fast enough to make the tires squeal. “Sweet mercy, Grandma! Slow down.”

“I’m driving perfectly fine. You know that. So does Nate. I was hauling you kids around these roads before you could even ride a bike.” She turned left onto Route 20 and began to drive in earnest.

“Grandma, please slow down!” Nate said. “You don’t have to prove that you can make it to Craigsville in ten minutes. I believe you.”

I glanced over at her speedometer. It said she was doing twenty-five. The way the trees were whizzing past, I knew that she was going a lot faster than that. “When was the last time your speedometer worked?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about my speed,” she said.

“Hank,” I heard Nate say from the back seat.

I turned around so I could see him and he said, “I think I saw Jesus.”

“I know. He waved at me,” I replied.

“Will both of you hush. I have to focus. My eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be.” She looked over at me as she said it and gave me the biggest smile.

Somehow we made it to Tudor’s. I wanted Nate to have the full experience so we went inside… or at least that’s how I presented it to Grandma. The truth was, I just wanted to be out of that car for a moment. Feel solid ground under my feet.

“What’s good here?” Nate asked.

“Depends on your tastes,” Grandma said. “A lot of people like the Peppi. That’s pepperoni and cheese on a biscuit. Of course, there’s the classic ham and cheese or you can get it with egg.”

“I think Nate should have the Politician,” I said.

Grandma gave me a confused look and asked, “Why’s that?”

“Well, his entire future depends on negotiating with Vallow. Seems fitting to me.”

“The politician? That’s a weird name for a sandwich. What’s on it?”

“Boloney.” Grandma laughed. “Boloney, egg, and cheese.”

We ordered, and Nate admitted Tudor’s was every bit as good as we’d promised. I enjoyed my Peppi right up until we reached Grandma’s station wagon. Then I remembered she was driving us home. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep that biscuit down. Grandma’s driving didn’t necessarily go well with a full stomach.

Tuesday came and we gathered in the parking lot of the Fenwick Post Office just after nine. A train stop had once stood here on the slope leading up to where Route 20 meets Routes 39 and 55. Now, there was only grass, gravel, and the sound of the Cherry River. The lights of What Remains looked warm and inviting from where we stood on the other side of the road.

I’d been gripping the printed abandonment records so hard the pages had crumpled. I made myself loosen my grip. Grandma stood beside me, her jaw set, cradling the sock monkey against her coat like a weapon. Nate stood on her other side.

“It’s here,” he said. “The whistle. It’s so loud I can’t hear anything else.”

The smell of creosote filled the air. Light from the pole lamp next to the Post Office showed what I thought was mist swirling in the night air. As I watched, it gathered and began to take on shape. It seemed to glow from within. Within moments, a train platform jutted out from the side of the hill. A mail crane formed beside it, and then a small depot building.

I thought Nate was going to fall over. He had both hands pressed over his ears. I couldn’t hear a thing. Just the river. I put an arm around him to steady him.

A joke about Nate looking like he’d just seen a ghost was right there. I didn’t make it. Instead I asked, “Are you okay?”

Before he could answer, Grandma said, “Look.”

I turned. Beyond the platform, a red lamp glowed on the front of a locomotive. It was moving toward us across the ground where the tracks used to be. A breeze carried the smell of machine oil to where I stood.

I glanced down at my watch: 9:11 PM.

Three minutes.

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Whether you’ve been with us since that first trip into the cellar or if you’ve only just found your way to Fenwick, I’m glad you’re here.

Subscribe now

This story is meant to be read in order, so new readers—or anyone who might need a refresher can catch the previous episodes by clicking on the links below:

Do Not Clean Glass

The Sock Monkey

One Week

How to Give Orders to a Dead Man

For everyone who’s following along, I hope you’ll share your theories or ideas about what’s going on here. Thank you for being part of this little community. Now, let’s get back to the story.

“Well, that’s a bust,” I said as I leaned back in one of the ladderback chairs Bessie always kept by the pot-bellied stove. Always hated these chairs. They had no give. Great if you wanted to sit up straight, but you just couldn’t relax in them at all.

“What’s that?” Nate asked. He didn’t even look up from his laptop.

Before I could respond, Grandma snapped, “Stop leanin’ back in that chair like a fool! You’re gonna fall back and crack your head open.” She shook her head. “Last thing we need now is havin’ to take you to the hospital.”

I set the chair down on all four legs and said, “Allison, the daughter of the original guy who handled the auctions, is out of town until tomorrow. They wouldn’t give me her cell phone number. So I’ll have to call back tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t blame them.” Nate had been examining the notice that Vallow had left, but he set it down on the counter next to his laptop and said, “You probably sound like a creeper. Some random guy calls up and asks for a woman’s number.”

“How old is this Allison? You could use a lady friend, Hank.” Minnie said it with a straight face, but I could see the laughter she was holding back. Nate didn’t even try. He burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing at, Nate? That computer isn’t going to give me any great-grandkids. Hank, see if Allison likes computer guys.”

“You mean nerds, Grandma. I’ll see if she likes nerds.”

“Laugh all you want, but this nerd just found some information about our conductor friend.” He looked up from the computer to give me a haughty look. “Apparently Mr. E. M. Vallow was a member of the Moose Lodge in Richwood. I found some Facebook groups devoted to Richwood. In one of those groups, they were talking about a big flood that happened in 1954.”

“What did it say?” Grandma asked.

“Someone posted pictures of an old copy of the Richwood Newsleader devoted to the flood. One of the side articles was all about Vallow and the work he did with the Moose Lodge. The article praised him for how ‘punctilious’—they really used that word—he was about making sure that every single dollar raised was spent to help victims of that flood.”

“So, you didn’t really find anything useful, then? Just a fluff piece about how he’s a good guy. Is that about it?” I asked. Nate didn’t respond and that kinda took the fun out of it. He looked distracted. He was staring in my direction, but he was looking at the stove… or maybe through the stove. Thousand-yard stare. That’s what my dad had called it. That’s how he looked right at that moment.

“Nate? Earth to Nate?” I asked. “Are you there, man? You okay?”

His eyes came into focus again and he sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry… what were you…” He looked at Grandma and then at me. “Did you guys hear that whistle?”

Minnie froze. “Whistle?” I could hear the terror in her voice.

Nate didn’t answer right away. He had that far-off look again. I snapped my fingers right in front of his face. “Nate, did you hear another whistle?”

“Yeah, you can’t hear it?” He looked at me and then to Grandma. “It’s louder now. Sounds closer. It’s so loud I thought maybe you guys could hear it too.” He picked up Vallow’s notice from where it sat on the counter. “This is just like he did with Bessie’s daughter, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know that, Nate,” I said. If we were going to save him, he needed to keep his head on straight.

“But, we do know,” Grandma said quietly. “I know, Hank. I was there.”

“Maybe it’s different…” She cut me off before I could finish the thought.

“This is your fault, Hank Shaw! If you had listened to me…”

Her words stopped in a sob. I went to comfort her. Hug her. Hold her. Give her whatever strength I had to offer, but she pushed me away. She was right. If I’d stayed out of the cellar Nate wouldn’t be in danger, but that cellar was full of danger and somehow we had to figure it out. We couldn’t just let whatever evils were down there fester unseen, unknown, and not understood. Not knowing what else to do, I just rubbed her back.

I felt her stiffen, but then her shoulders relaxed. For years, I’d seen her do the same for grandkids who’d scraped their knees or suffered some other childhood injury.

“That’s not fair, Grand—“ Nate began.

Her shoulders stiffened again and she stepped away from me to face Nate. “Don’t you dare start on me, young man! The only one more to blame for this mess than Hank is you.” She gathered her things. “I can’t be here right now. Just seeing the two of you hurts too much. Bessie’s daughter. Then, Bessie. And now Nate. I can’t take it anymore, Hank. How much does a body have to give? I’ve paid enough.” She started to say more, but her voice broke and she stopped. She gave me one last look and I could see the emotions she was fighting to keep in check.

After she left, Nate and I sat in silence for a while and then finally I said, “Tell me about the whistle.”

“I didn’t want to tell Grandma, but it’s happening more often. Not just whistles either. I’m also hearing the rumble of a train rolling down the tracks. It’s getting harder and harder to focus on anything else.”

I walked over to where Grandma had been working close to Nate. She’d left her ledger and the box of receipts. The ledger was open to the page that documented when Bessie had purchased the lantern from Owen Cottrill’s estate sale. There weren’t many details, but why would there be? Just the price paid, the name of the auction house, and date. I had so many other questions. Exactly how had Cottrill died? Had the lantern been involved in some way?

I looked at my watch. It was getting late. “Nate, why don’t you head on up. That guest room upstairs is yours for as long as you want it. Get some rest. There’s not much left we can do today.”

“You’re the one who should be resting. That Allison girl isn’t available today. Go on upstairs and get to sleep. You can call her in the morning.”

“You think I can sleep?” I laughed. “After seeing Grandma storm out of here. Can you sleep?”

“No,” he admitted. “But, I also have a bit more motivation to figure this stuff out than you guys.”

I chuckled. “Why is it that our family always resorts to gallows humor? Everyone I know is like that.”

“Defense mechanism?” Nate shrugged. “Sometimes you’re just hurting so bad that the only thing you can do is make a joke.”

“Sounds right. I still remember the first thing you said to me after your mom died.”

Nate leaned forward, his interest obvious. “Huh? I don’t remember this. What’d I say?”

I pointed to the stairs that led up to what was now my apartment, but back then had been Bessie’s home. “You came down those stairs and said, ‘Why are you looking at me like someone just died?’”

Nate’s laughter was like an explosion. Sudden, spontaneous, and surprisingly loud.

“Even Bessie didn’t know what to say to that. No one did.” I opened the box of receipts and started to pull out the strips of paper.

“I was fourteen and it was the saddest day of my life. I came downstairs and everyone was staring at me. I didn’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay, man. We all make jokes like that. Must be genetic or something.” I looked at yet another hand-written receipt. I think Bessie had written this one. It was for a fork. Not a set. Just a single fork. She’d paid $87.32 in 1974 for it. How much was that in today’s money? Doesn’t matter. It was a ridiculous amount. I wondered what the story was there and realized I’d probably never know. Like so much of what Bessie knew, the information was just gone.

We lingered for a few more hours. I went through receipts and he continued to research Vallow. He was able to verify that the number on the notice was his employee number, but that just seemed like useless trivia. We needed something more. Finally I decided that I’d done all that could be done with the receipts and headed up to bed. Nate said he was going to keep working for a bit longer. He had thought of a new research angle he wanted to look into before calling it a day.

The next morning I found him asleep. At some point during the night, he’d moved over to Bessie’s old rocker where he was stretched out as much as the rocking chair would allow with his head canted in a way that I knew was going to give him nothing but pain when he woke up.

I set the percolator to going and stepped out onto the porch to feel the morning air.

I pulled out my cellphone and realized I needed to walk over to the side of the porch closest to the river. It was just across the road from the Post Office here in Fenwick. More importantly, it’s where I had coverage.

I leaned against the railing and had started to pull up Allison’s contact information when my phone rang. It was Allison.

“This is Hank Shaw.”

“Hank, they told me you were tryin’ to get a hold of me yesterday. What’d you need?”

“Yes.” Straight to the point. I could work with that. “Yes, I did. I’m not sure if you know him or not, but Mr. Doddrill told me your father handled an estate sale where my great-aunt bought a lantern years ago.”

“How many years are you talking?”

“Um, it’s been a while. Decades.”

“And your great-aunt is wanting what? A return? Sorry. Been too long.”

I laughed. “No. Nothing like that. She died recently and I’m trying to find some information about different items she has in the store.”

“In the store,” she said. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you were again? Who was your aunt?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. My name is Hank Shaw. My great-aunt was Bessie Stafford. She used to run a small shop in Nicholas County named What Remains. When she died, she left it to me and my cousin. This is all new to us and I’m just trying to understand what she left to us. I’d really appreciate any help you might have to give.”

“Bessie Stafford? I know her. I used to trade at her store years ago. Been there many times. Hadn’t heard she’d passed.”

“Not a day goes by when I don’t find myself wishing she were here. Especially when it comes to all the things involved in running this store.”

“I bet. Now tell me about this lantern you were askin’ about.”

“She bought it from an estate sale your dad ran up in Clay County in about ’58. It was Owen Cottrill’s estate, if that helps you at all.”

“The Cottrill Lantern!” She laughed. “We grew up hearin’ stories about that. It’s a legend in our family. Ghost stories around a campfire kind of thing.”

“You don’t say? Do you remember any of them?”

“I do,” she said. Her voice had a calculating edge to it that I didn’t like.

“Well, could you share them with me?”

“I can, but it seems like maybe I should get some type of consideration for the effort. That seems only fair, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t like where this was going. “What’d you have in mind?”

“You said that you and your cousin inherited What Remains, right? Are the two of you about the same age?”

“Six months apart. Why?”

“And what age would that be? Younger than, say, forty? You sound young.”

“We’re both twenty-nine. No… that’s not right. Nate is still twenty-eight for a few weeks.”

“Fine. That’s fine. I’ll be happy to answer any question you have about the lantern, but I need a day of your time.”

“And what would we be doing during that day?”

“The reason I couldn’t answer the phone yesterday was because I had just purchased an old farm. County put it up for auction after the owner died without anyone to leave it to. I think there are some nice pieces in there, but there’s an awful lot of junk too. I’m in my sixties now and I need a couple of strong backs to help sort through it all and haul stuff off to the dump for me.”

“That’s a big ask just for some information. I mean a day’s worth of back-breaking labor just for a few minutes of your time?”

“Seems like a fair deal to me. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person alive who still has the answers you want.”

“Are any of Cottrill’s people still living?”

“Yes. He has a great-grandson. Probably a few years younger than you, I’m guessing. Marcus Cottrill. He might know something, but how much do you know about your great-grandparents? I’m sure I can find his number, if you like. But I’m going to have to hold on to that until you finish helping me with that farm. I’ll give it to you then.”

“Jimmy Doddrill said you’d pull something like this.”

“I know.” She laughed in a way that made me hate her. “He’s the one who told me to expect your call.”

“I guess we don’t have a choice, then.”

“It’s settled. That lantern belonged to a conductor named Vallow. He worked for the B&O on the line that used to run right past your store. His death was in all the papers back then.

“He was getting ready for the stop in Fenwick when he collapsed. I think they were going through Dane at the time. They figured he’d had a heart attack, but the brakeman didn’t find him until after the train stopped. They called for a doctor, but by the time one arrived, there was nothing to be done.

“He’d picked up the lantern before he fell. Even after he died, he was still holding it so tightly that they had to pry his fingers loose to get it out of his hand.”

“That’s a little morbid,” I said.

“I’m not quite sure how Mr. Cottrill got the lantern, but I imagine that no one wanted to use it after Vallow died. It was either sold or thrown out. Somehow it ended up in Cottrill’s hands and that’s when the story starts to get creepy.”

“How so?”

“Well, Cottrill gets this lantern and the glass is all covered in soot. So he does what anyone would do. He cleans it. Except when he wipes away the grime he notices that there’s this red light coming from inside the glass. Not an ordinary flame like you’d expect. Just this eerie red glow.”

I saw that same light when Nate cleaned the glass.

“Shortly afterward, he started hearing train sounds. A whistle at first and then the rumble of tracks.”

My mouth went dry and I swallowed several times.

“Then this train conductor shows up. My dad always said it was the ghost of Mr. Vallow. Anyway, that ghost tells Mr. Cottrill that he’ll be back to pick up his freight in seven days. And by freight, he meant Mr. Cottrill himself.”

I felt myself gripping the phone more tightly. “Your dad said freight? He used that word?”

“Yes. Freight. My dad always played that part up because when we were little kids we didn’t understand why the ghost referred to Mr. Cottrill as freight. So my dad would always make this spooky voice and say that the conductor was going to claim his soul. Ooooooooh!”

She chuckled and it felt like she was waiting for me to join her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not even a fake laugh.

After a moment, she continued, “Then, that ghostly conductor left a little slip of paper that had the time and date of when he would return.

“After that, Mr. Cottrill started acting strange. He was hearing those train sounds more and more often. And every passing day just made him more anxious. We loved hearing this spooky ghost story as kids, but as an adult I see it for what it really was: a man who was struggling with some type of mental breakdown. It’s sad when you really think about it.”

I wanted to speak up. Object. Let her know that Cottrill wasn’t crazy, but then she’d want to know how I knew and that was more than I wanted to give her. Instead, I asked, “So what happened? How did he die?”

“The way my dad told it, Cottrill was working in the hayloft when he heard a whistle blow. He got so startled that he fell backwards and landed on his head. Died instantly.”

“Did he die on the seventh day?”

“Right down to the very minute.”

Down to the minute. Not much left to say after that. Not anything I wanted to say at any rate. I thanked her for her time, promised to be available when she was ready to clear out that farm, and hung up.

I took a step back from the railing and turned to look into the store. I looked past the Indian motorcycle displayed in the large window to where Nate sat. He was just waking up and I had to look away from him before he could read the feelings I knew were showing on my face.

Nate was already back at his laptop when I stepped back into the store. He looked up and lifted a paper from the counter. “Printed this out last night after you abandoned me.”

“I didn’t…” It was too early for this fight. I shook my head and said, “What’s that?”

“It’s a story about Vallow. A lot of newspapers covered his death. This particular article is from the Charleston Gazette. Heart attack. Did you know he was clutching a lantern—I think it was our lantern—so hard that they had to literally break his fingers to get it out of his hand? Grisly.”

That was different than what Allison had told me. I wondered if she’d left that part out or if the newspaper exaggerated what happened to juice sales. “That has to be an exaggeration. They printed that in the newspaper?”

“The fifties were a different time, man. Oh, and I also found his obituary. It’s just more of the same. Talking about how reliable he was, his sense of devotion to his job, and how he always made sure that every parcel made it to its final destination. Did you know the train used to deliver mail to the Post Office right here? That was a big part of his job and the postmaster at the time talks about how seriously he took his responsibilities.”

Reliable. Devoted. A man who finished what he started. Yesterday I’d called that useless information, but when I looked down at the notice next to Nate’s laptop I wondered if I’d been too dismissive. The notice had Nate’s name. The date. The exact time.

Our plan was to show Vallow that the railroad had closed. His orders had changed. We were going to show him the paperwork and trust that he would do his duty, but which obligation would he honor?

The forms we showed him or the promise he’d written himself and hand-delivered to my cousin? What if doing his duty meant taking Nate?

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Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week One.

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I wanted to use this opportunity to introduce you to one of my favorite authors. If you decide to give him a shot (either this book or one of his many others), I hope you’ll speak up and let me know how you liked it.

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Paradox Bound by Peter Clines

I first discovered Peter Clines’s writing about a year ago. He’s writing appeals to me because he frequently has an interesting premise based on some type of mystery that involves a science fictional premise and enough action to be a low-key thriller.

The Fold was the first of his books that I’ve read. Turns out that book is actually the second one in a loosely-connected series that Clines refers to as The Threshold Universe. If you are a fan of cosmic horror, you have to read these books. The first book in that series is 14. There is a chronological order to them, but you can read them in any order. The only risk you run reading them out of order is that you might encounter some of the characters meeting one another after you’ve already finished a book where they had an established relationship… and that leads me to the book that I want to talk about today.

That book is Paradox Bound. It’s a story about the American Roadtrip with a twist. The roadtrips in this book aren’t the type that have been immortalized in songs about getting your kicks on Route 66 because these roads wind through American history itself, passing through different eras and occasionally crossing paths with figures who have become part of the country’s folklore and cultural mythology. These journeys don’t represent traveling through the American history taught in schools. Rather the characters in this novel are traveling through the history Americans imagine. It’s a story built around the mythology that has grown up around our roads, cars, folk heroes, secret societies, and frontier optimism. Most of all its about the American Dream. Clines manages to mix all of these elements together into a time-travel adventure that kept me turning pages until I reached the end.

Normally I’m not a fan of time-travel stories because there are so few people who can do them well. Too often they become preoccupied with temporal paradoxes or elaborate rules designed to keep travelers from accidentally changing the past. Clines largely sidesteps that problem by making things simpler: you can’t change history. If you travel into the past, whatever you do there was always part of the history that already happened. The book builds on what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call predestination loops.

The story begins when an eight year old Eli Teague meets a captivating woman whose car, a 1929 Model A Ford, has broken down by the side of the road. She’s dressed in clothing from the Revolutionary War era, carries old-fashioned weapons, and drives a car filled with technology that shouldn’t exist in 1929 or even in our own time. The encounter is brief, but it comes to be one of the defining moments of his life.

He sees her again five years later, and then once more when he is on the cusp of turning thirty. Eli has grown older. She hasn’t.

Eventually, he persuades her to tell him what she has been searching for all these years, and in doing so finds himself drawn into the hunt for the American Dream. Not the nebulous concept or fuzzily defined collection of ideals we usually mean by that term. In Clines’s world, the American Dream is a real artifact. It was once protected by a group of secretive guardians, but now it’s gone missing. And so Eli joins the Searchers who have spent years traveling through American history trying to find it… and that’s when the fun begins.

The premise may sound a little over-the-top—maybe even a little sappy—and, maybe it is. But that’s part of the fun. Paradox Bound takes an absurdly ambitious premise and plays it straight, turning it into a wonderfully uplifting and hopeful adventure that I think you’ll enjoy.

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Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week Four.

Next week, we’ll be back with another installment of my serial featuring Hank Shaw and Nate Parsons as they try to unravel the secrets of the antique stores they’ve inherited and the mysterious objects locked away in its cellar.

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Whether you’ve been with us since that first trip into the cellar or if you’ve only just found your way to Fenwick, I’m glad you’re here.

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This story is meant to be read in order, so new readers—or anyone who might need a refresher can catch the previous episodes by clicking on the links below:

Do Not Clean Glass

The Sock Monkey

One Week

For everyone who’s following along, I hope you’ll share your theories or ideas about what’s going on here. Thank you for being part of this little community. Now, let’s get back to the story.

I came downstairs before daylight and found the cards where I’d pinned them the night before. The few facts I’d documented—SOOT, WHISTLE, RUMBLING, THE MAN, and ONE WEEK—had to mean something.

I spent the next few hours going back through everything we knew. By the time I stopped writing, I’d covered the table with maybe two dozen sheets of paper. Half-formed thoughts. Questions I couldn’t answer. The same facts arranged and rearranged in the hope that putting them in a different order might reveal the connection I’d been missing.

I picked up my cup from the edge of the table and took a sip. The coffee had gone cold already.

I looked out the window and was surprised to see that the sun had risen above the ridge. I couldn’t believe I’d been working that long. The morning light fell across the table and caught the yellow notice the conductor had left there the night before. Nate’s name stood out in crisp black type against the aged paper.

Before Nate went home, he’d complained that my list of cards wasn’t complete. He said I needed to add one more. A card that would read DEATH. I’d refused—only to have the conductor hand-deliver a notice that said as much.

The conductor had to be the key to all of this. But was he tied to the lantern or to the rail line that had once run through Fenwick? Why had exposing the light brought him here? Why did the soot constitute acceptance? And why did he insist that Nate was freight?

I took a fresh card from the stack and wrote FREIGHT. On another, I added the words TENDER CONFIRMED. Then I filled others with the words CONSIGNEE UNASSIGNED, ORDERS REMAIN UNCHANGED, and the time 9:14 P.M. I pinned the new cards beneath the others and stepped back. The cards still didn’t give me an answer, but at least I was beginning to understand some of the questions.

A big question was the lantern’s history. The only thing I knew was that Bessie had bought it from an estate sale in Clay County, but who did she buy it from? Why had she bought it? I doubted that I’d ever learn the why, but I knew enough about their bookkeeping to be reasonably sure I could find out the who. The answer would be in one of Minnie’s notes. That woman documented everything. I went over to her desk and started going through the various drawers, flipping through notebooks, and just digging for some type of record from that year.

The bell above the front door jingled. I jumped and dropped the notebook I was holding. When I turned, Nate was edging sideways through the doorway with a cardboard box in his arms. Minnie followed with one of the old leather-bound ledgers.

“You can get out of my chair right now,” Minnie said. “You’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”

I froze in place like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “How do you know what—”

“Because in the two decades you’ve been walking this earth you’ve never shown a single moment’s interest in my records. Now, you’re trying to figure out this lantern. Only makes sense that you’d go looking for the man who owned it before Bessie. Well you can stop looking.” She dropped her ledger on the desk. “The answer’s in here.” Without another word, she flipped the book open to a page that she’d bookmarked and ran her finger across the page until it stopped at a name: Owen Cottrill.

“That’s great. Do you know anything else about him?”

“I do not, but I do have the name of the man who ran the estate sale. Maybe he’ll have more information for you.” Her finger slid to a different column on the same page where I saw the name of the auctioneer: Clyde Monahan.

“Clyde Monahan. I can work with that,” I said. I knew just who to call too.

Nate came over with his box and set it on the table next to Minnie’s ledger. “If you knew the answer was in your ledger, why’d you have me carrying this long box all this way?”

“Two reasons,” Minnie said. “First, there might be something useful in that box. It’s better to have all the information on hand just in case we need it.”

“And the second reason?” Nate asked.

“Because I wanted you to feel useful.”

That caught me off guard and I let out a quick bark of laughter. Nate gave me a cross look and I tried to make it up to him. “Don’t worry, Nate. I have just the job for you. Practically tailor-made.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to go online and find out everything you can about the train and the railroad that used to be right outside of this place.”

“Yeah,” Nate said with a smirk, “I’m sure somebody digitized forty-year-old train schedules, indexed them, and put them online for the tens of people who might someday care. Probably even gave it an API. You realize the internet isn’t a database of everything that ever happened, right?”

“We don’t need to know everything that ever happened. We just need to find out about the train that used to run past this place—and more specifically the lantern you couldn’t resist touching.”

“Boys!” Minnie said. “Can we get less fighting and more focus?”

After all this time, he still knew how to get under my skin. “You’re right, Grandma. I’m sorry.” I turned away from Nate and rested a hand on the edge of the counter. “Just find what you can, okay?”

Nate didn’t answer, but he pulled a chair over beside the counter and opened his laptop. The glass case full of objects Bessie had said were tainted by sorrow sat at his elbow. I took that as a win.

“Grandma, can you look through all of the receipts and things you brought to try to find any other bits of information you might have about that lantern? I’m going to get on the phone and see what I can find out about Owen Cottrill and that Monahan guy.”

She gave me a brief smile and took her seat at the little worktable beside the register. In a matter of moments she was buried behind a stack of papers and small receipts. Nate was only a few feet away, already staring into his laptop.

I left the two of them working and headed for the front door, passing the coal stove on my way. I paused at the door to look back at them. Between the two of them, it looked like we’d opened some sort of makeshift detective agency. I chuckled and stepped through the open door and stopped beside it. I was still close enough that I could hear Grandma shuffling papers and be there if she called out to me. From there I could enjoy the breeze coming off of the Cherry River. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed.

There were a lot of ways to go about finding the information I needed, but most of them would require too much of the thing that was getting harder to come by: time.

As best I knew, Owen Cottrill was a private citizen. No particular reason anyone in the collectibles business would know his name. I could work the social angle. I did have a couple of cousins up in Clay County. One of them might have known him or someone close to him. That might be a good angle for this, but I figured I’d have better luck going after Clyde Monahan. He ran the estate sale for the Cottrills and Minnie had said he was an auctioneer as well. That put him in a small class of people who were easier to find. More than that, it put him right in my neck of the woods. I knew all the people who would know him.

The phone rang twice and then a loud voice from the other end said, “Hank! How’re you, son? I was so sorrowful to hear about Bessie’s passin’. Believe me when I say the world ain’t had a nicer woman walk its soil than Bessie Parsons. I did a lot of business with her over the years and she was truly a saint of a woman. Now, what can I do for ya?”

All the words came out in one long stream. The man barely stopped to catch a breath, but that was just how Jimmy Doddrill was.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Doddrill. She always spoke highly of you and how knowledgeable you were. ‘Hank,’ she’d say, ‘if you ever need help figurin’ out how much somethin’s worth, you call old man Doddrill. He’ll tell it to you plainly and you can trust his word.’ That’s what she’d tell me.”

“Well, Bessie knew her antiques.”

“She knew people, too.” I smiled. “And I meant to tell you, Lori came to the funeral. Brought us a pie and everything. That was awful kind of her.”

“She’s a single young woman, too. I could put in a good word for ya, Hank.”

“Well, I might just take you up on that someday.” I laughed. “Actually, I was wonderin’ if you could help me find a fella.”

“I sure can try. Who are ya lookin’ for?”

“Name’s Clyde Monahan. Might be out of the business by now and I know it’s a long shot even askin’ you. Minnie told me I was just wastin’ your time even bringing it up. Said I should just go straight to the newspapers and obituaries, but I don’t think she knows how connected you are. Years ago this fella was an auctioneer. He ran estate sales. I don’t know how wide-traveled he was, but I do know he handled a few in Clay County. You ever have any dealings with him?”

“Monahan, you say? Naw, can’t say that name rings a bell with… oh wait. How long ago did you say he was workin’? I think my daddy did trade with a Monahan, but that was back in the seventies. Way before your time, but not before Minnie’s. She should know better.” He paused long enough to laugh and then continued, “Why’re you askin’ about somethin’ as old as all that?”

“Antiques, Mr. Doddrill. Why else would I be askin’?”

“Fair enough,” Jimmy Doddrill said. “Fair enough. Well, I can tell ya right now that Clyde Monahan is dead. He passed goin’ on about three years ago now, I reckon. He left the business to his daughter. Her name’s Allison. I’m happy to give you her number but, Hank, you’ll want to watch out for her. She’s shrewd. If whatever you’re lookin’ for has any kind of money attached to it, she’ll want a piece.”

“That’s good to know, Mr. Doddrill. Not gonna be a problem though. I’m just lookin’ for some information.”

Doddrill laughed. “Boy, don’t you know that’s the most costly thing you can buy?”

“I do know that, Mr. Doddrill. I was hopin’ that she didn’t.”

He laughed again. “Well, you get back to me when you’re deal’s done and tell me how that hope played out. Are you ready for her number?”

He gave me the number, I thanked him, disconnected, and stepped back inside. Grandma had stopped sorting receipts at her table and was staring at me over the stack.

“Couldn’t help hearin’ my name come up. When did I say anything to you about that old coot?”

“You never said a thing, but don’t tell me you don’t believe it.”

She harrumphed. “Still, woulda been nice if you’d asked first.”

“You’re right. And I’m sorry, but it worked. He gave me the number of the person who might know about Clyde Monahan and might still have records about Owen Cottrill. I’m gonna call her…”

“Eh,” Nate said from the counter. “I was wrong.”

I looked over at him. “Wrong? What were you wrong about?”

He turned the laptop toward us. “About how there probably wouldn’t be a lot of information about old trains online. Turns out the people who love trains, really, really love trains. I’ve found at least half a dozen websites devoted to the old B&O Railroad and a couple of Facebook communities for the line that ran right past our door. They called it the Number 4. It ran from Cowen up to Richwood, turned around, and went back to Cowen. Also, I found a mistake on Bessie’s inventory card. She wrote that the trains stopped running in 1987. That’s wrong. The trains didn’t stop running until 1990. A full three years later.”

Grandma pushed the receipts aside. “Now just you hold on. I’m the one who wrote No Line Running on that card and I don’t know what you’re going on about 1990. The trains stopped goin’ through Fenwick in 1987. Anyone who lives here knows that. Just ask any old timer. They’ll tell ya.”

“That’s not what the records I found online say. They all say 1990.”

“I think…” I looked up. “I might know why.” I walked past the stove and turned toward the rows of shelves along the front wall. Behind a row of Mason jars and a bundle of yarrow was an old framed notice.

I shifted the jars aside and pulled the frame free. The paper was sun-faded and frayed at the edges, but the print was still legible behind the glass. It read: INTERSTATE COMMERCE COMMISSION NOTICE OF APPLICATION FOR ABANDONMENT.

“I bought this off a guy up in Webster County three or four years ago. Came out of an old depot. I couldn’t figure out why anybody needed federal permission to stop running a train, so I looked it up.” I carried the sign over to Grandma and Nate so they could see it more clearly. “The railroad could quit running trains through Fenwick before the line itself was officially abandoned, but they couldn’t officially close until Uncle Sam gave them the okay. There’s a whole process to this stuff.”

Nate turned his laptop back around. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe?” I repeated and looked toward Grandma to see if she understood him.

“Maybe these people scanned more than schedules.” He clicked through several tabs on his browser looking for the right page. “I know it’s in one of these. I just saw it.” He slapped the table. “There it is!” He angled the screen so we could see.

“Nate, what am I looking at? Is that a train schedule?” I asked.

“This isn’t a passenger timetable. It’s an employee timetable.”

“What’s the difference?” Grandma asked.

“Passengers use one to figure out when their train leaves. Railroad employees use this one to figure out what they’re allowed to do.” He scrolled further down the page. “It explains it all right here. When a new timetable went into effect, it replaced the old one.”

I looked at Grandma again.

Nate noticed my expression. “What?”

“Vallow.” I said the word quietly. Almost like I was afraid saying his name would make the conductor come back. Maybe I was.

“What about him?” Nate asked.

“My orders remain unchanged.”

Nate looked back at his screen, searching the timetable. “Hold on.” He pulled the laptop closer and read the paragraph again.

“What?” I asked.

“This.” He pointed at the screen. “It says when the new timetable takes effect, any train operating under the old one loses its ‘right and schedule.’ That’s what he means by orders. If Vallow died while the old timetable was still in effect, then as far as he’s concerned, nobody ever gave him anything that superseded it.”

“He’s dead, Nate,” Grandma said. “I don’t think the Interstate Commerce Commission is much concerned with whether ghosts have their paperwork in order.”

I edged closer to the counter. “Don’t you see though? What if it doesn’t matter whether the rules actually bind him. What if the thing that matters is that Vallow believes they do.”

“Okay,” Nate said. “So we know why he’s still following the old orders.”

“That don’t tell us how to change ‘em,” Grandma said.

My eyes went to the yellow notice on the table and I felt my gut drop. “The good news,” I said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel, “is that we still have six days to figure out how to tell a dead man his orders have changed.”

This is something different. I enjoy comics and like making them. So from time to time, I may include short little horror-related (but never extreme) comics like the one above. Do you like things like this? If so, let me know.

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Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week Three.

This week’s newsletter was delayed, but I still plan on releasing my regular edition on Friday. I’ll be back in your inbox in a couple of days with this month’s edition of Found Treasures.

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John

Whether you’ve been with us since that first trip into the cellar or if you’ve only just found your way to Fenwick, I’m glad you’re here.

This story is meant to be read in order, so new readers—or anyone who might need a refresher can catch the previous episode by clicking on the link below.

For everyone who’s following along, I hope you’ll share your theories or ideas about what’s going on here. Thank you for being part of this little community. Now, let’s get back to the story.

The cellar felt colder than usual. No matter. I wasn’t going to be there long. Not like before.

The lantern was where I’d left it, lying on its side. The flour sack that had served as its cowl lay in rumpled folds beneath it.

I gathered the cloth and wrapped it around the lantern the way I’d seen Bessie do it: the left side first, then the right, with the loose end tucked up under the base. The flour sack felt coarse against my hands. As I drew it tighter around the globe, the red flame flickered through the weave. For a second, it lit the words Richwood Wholesale Company before disappearing beneath the next fold.

Minnie had told me how people used to cut old flour sacks into dresses. I wondered if Bessie had once meant to make something for her little girl from this very one. I didn’t let myself finish the thought.

I wound the baling wire around the bundle. It scraped and bit into the cloth, making a soft metallic groan as I pulled it tighter. Three turns should have been enough. I gave it five. Then I tugged at the cloth, checked the bottom, and bent down to make sure no light escaped from the far side.

It looked the way Bessie had left it. I told myself that mattered. I had to believe that it was enough.

Before leaving, I counted the other objects in the cellar. All forty-three were still where they belonged. I counted them again, as if the numbers might change. Nothing else appeared to be disturbed.

I made my way up the stairs and locked the heavy door behind me. It was good to be out of there.

The sock monkey was still lying on the counter where Minnie had left it before Nate took her home. I grabbed it and carried it into the back room where I set it beside the inventory card I’d started. The table back there was larger, and I needed room to think.

There had to be a way out of this. I only needed to see things clearly enough.

I looked down at the monkey. Was it harmless, or did it belong in the cellar beside the lantern? I added the word Handling to the card and wrote: Unknown. Do Not Move. It wasn’t much of an instruction, but for now it would have to do.

I cleared the table and unrolled an old map Bessie had tucked behind a copper fish mold. Why she’d kept it there was one of the lesser mysteries she’d left for me. One edge curled toward the middle, so I weighted it down with one of the Foxfire books. A WPA collection of West Virginia folklore held another corner, and a history of the B&O Railroad lay open beside it.

The map showed the old line running from the railyard in Cowen and heading south through Camden-on-Gauley, Allingdale, Fenwick, and eventually Richwood where it would turn around and head back towards Cowen. I found the place where the Fenwick station had stood and marked it with a red X. What Remains stood across the road from where the station had been and where the Post Office was now.

On index cards, I wrote down the progression that Minnie had described.

SOOT.

WHISTLE.

RUMBLING.

THE MAN.

ONE WEEK.

I pinned the cards in a row across the corkboard that hung next to the back door. Then I began with the indexes, searching the books for any references to Fenwick, lanterns, conductors, accidents, and every variation of ghost train I could think of.

Nothing.

By the time Nate returned, I’d covered the table and half the corkboard without finding a single thing that could save him.

The back door opened before I could put the pen down. Nate stood framed in the entrance with rain on his coat.

“How is she?”

“Asleep, I think,” Nate said. “Tildie came over and sat with her. She didn’t say much.”

That helped, I think. It didn’t make my guilt go away, but knowing she was resting was something. I wanted to ask whether Grandma had mentioned me, but I noticed that Nate was looking at the table. The sock monkey lay beside its inventory card. I noticed that one of its button eyes was loose. Nate’s attention moved past the monkey to take in the map and all of the books that were holding it down. He paused for just a moment when he saw the red X. The cards on the corkboard brought a smile to his face. “Murderboard much? Looks like you’ve been busy.”

It wasn’t quite approval, but I accepted it anyway. I stepped between him and the table and picked up the red marker. If I was going to explain this, might as well look like I knew what I was doing. “I’ve got it all figured out. Three parts. Simple, elegant, almost impossible to misunderstand.”

“That last part feels directed at me.”

Good. He was keeping up. “Part one: keep you alive. Part two: figure out what the lantern did to you. Part three: reverse it. Just have to do it all before the deadline… eh, before next Tuesday.”

“Nice save,” Nate deadpanned. “Can I just point out that ‘keeping me alive’ isn’t really a plan?”

“Keeping you alive is the standard by which every other part of the plan will be judged.”

Nate stepped up to the corkboard and read the cards. “Soot. Whistle. Rumbling. The man. One week.” His fingers trailed over each of the cards until he got to the last one. “And after this?” His finger tapped the ONE WEEK. “Seems like you left out the card after this. You know. The one that would say DEATH.”

“I didn’t forget it. I rejected it.”

“You rejected it?”

I nodded. “That’s right. Rejected. Didn’t fit my plans. I revised outcome.”

Nate looked at me long enough to make me wish I’d chosen a different answer, but I was committed. “Not gonna be an issue. We’ll have it all fixed up before we need another card. Besides, have you priced index cards lately? I’m not going to waste one on an outcome we’ve already canceled.”

Something tugged at the corner of Nate’s mouth. For a moment, he looked like the cousin I remembered, the kid I’d chased through this place. Then moment passed, and he tapped the ONE WEEK card. “No starting date.”

“I know. We assume the worst of the possibilities.” I put my hand on the map where the old railroad bridge crossed the Cherry River just outside. We’d played on that bridge as kids.

“I’ve got a few rules that you’ll need to follow till we get all this stuff sorted. Rule one: you don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I just got back from taking Grandma home.”

“That occurred before the policy took effect.” I tapped the map. “We’re not applying it retroactively.”

“How convenient.”

“Rule two: no driving, climbing ladders, going onto rooftops, and don’t you dare go near the river!” I set the marker down on the table and ticked off the remaining rules on my fingers as I said them, “no handling open flames, and you don’t operate machinery. Don’t even cross the railroad bridge.”

“The railroad bridge? I haven’t crossed that thing since we were kids. What do you think I’m going to do—walk to the gas station for two hot dogs for a dollar?”

“They’re good hotdogs.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Is there anything I am allowed to do?”

“Sit, breathe… maybe eat a slice of that pie Lori gave you.”

“You know people choke on food, right?”

“Look, I can’t do everything for you. Cut it up into really small bites. Come to think of it, we should probably get Lori to come sit with you. That way, she’ll be here if you need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

“That’s not how you treat choking.”

“Then don’t choke. Great. We’re back to the original plan. Thank you for cooperating.” I pinned a new card beneath the other ones. This care read: NO CELLAR. “You’re not going back into the cellar.”

“I own half of this store. Seems like that would include the cellar.”

“Then consider this a temporary injunction filed by the owner of the other half.”

He took the card down. I put it back.

“The cellar didn’t cause this. I’m the one who touched the lantern.” Nate moved the ONE WEEK card farther away from the one that said THE MAN.

“And I’m the one who left the lantern uncovered. Between the two of us, we’ve done a pretty good job at showing why the cellar needs stricter admission standards.” I put the ONE WEEK card back into the right position. “What we know is that Bessie’s daughter wiped the lantern. Her fingers became stained. She heard sounds no one else could hear. A man showed up and told Bessie to get her ready. She drowned a week later.”

“That’s all we know,” he gestured in a way that took in the five cards. “Everything else is just guesswork.”

“Yes. But what we know should be enough to keep you away from the water.”

“None of this proves the lantern caused that child’s death. It doesn’t prove the man arranged it. Doesn’t prove that monkey is anything more than a stuffed animal.”

“Technically, you’re right,” I said.

“Then stop talking like you’ve solved it all.”

I put the marker down. For once, I didn’t have an answer ready. “Look, the fact that we don’t know everything makes these precautions more necessary, not less.”

“My point is that you can’t eliminate every possible accident. Not for a week.”

My voice came out lower than I intended. “Somewhere in all those possible accidents is the one that kills you. I’ve got to figure out a way to stop that one from happening.”

“Let’s stick to what we’re good at,” I said, tracing the vanished railroad with my fingertip. “I’ll take people. You take records.”

“I’ll track down the Clay County collector, call around Fenwick and Richwood, and find out whether any of the old railroad people are still alive. You find out when passenger service ended, when freight stopped running, and who worked that route. Employment records, accident reports, maintenance reports—anything the railroad left behind.”

Nate looked from the corkboard to the stack of books. “You’re giving me all the tedious work.”

“I’m giving you work that let’s you lean into all those computer smarts you learned in California. You do that part and I’ll deal with the people.”

I pushed the sock monkey’s inventory card to the side, revealing the one that had started all of this. I tapped the drawing I’d done of the lantern. “Nate, we’ve all got gifts, and I need yours. If that lantern belonged to the railroad, it should have some kind of number or a mark that identifies it in some way. If it has a number, there’s a record. And if it’s got a record, I know you can find it.”

Nate took the notebook where I’d started to record information I thought might be important. I kept going on and trying to fill him in on everything I thought was important. I was still talking about freight manifests when I noticed that he’d stopped listening. He was facing the wall. The one that was on the same side as where the Post Office was and where the old train station had stood. His head was cocked to the side the way a dog does when it’s listening.

“Nate!”

He looked at me like he was waking up from a dream. “When did Minnie say the trains stopped coming through Fenwick?”

“Nineteen eighty-seven. Why?”

He kept listening.

“Because I can hear a whistle.”

I stopped talking.

At first I heard only the rain smacking against the back window. Outside, I hear a passing car on its way to Richwood. The tires hissed over the asphalt. “Where?” I asked. “Can you tell how far away?”

Nate shook his head. “Sounds like it’s somewhere over where the station used to be. I don’t know. It’s... close enough to hear, but still kinda muffled.”

He pressed his thumb to his finger, rubbing at the soot. “I heard it on my way back from Minnie’s too. It went quiet for a while, but now it’s started again.”

I couldn’t hear anything.

Nate tilted his head to the side. “I think I can make out something other than the whistle now. It’s like clattering sound. Wheels crossing over timbers and scraping against metal.”

I glanced at the cards: WHISTLE. RUMBLING. THE MAN. I heard three sharp knocks at the back door. Without thinking, I opened it before asking who was there.

There was a man I’d never seen before. He stood on the back steps in the rain. He wore a dark wool coat and a conductor’s cap that he’d pulled low over his eyes. The coat’s buttons were made of brass that had gone dull with age. In one hand he carried a battered leather folio. Before we could say anything, he pulled a watch, that hung from a chain, out of a pocket to check the time.

The most striking thing about his presence was the overwhelming smell of creosote and machine oil. Nate’s coat had been dripping wet when he’d come in from the rain, but somehow this man’s uniform was completely dry.

He entered the room without asking.

“Hey buddy, you can’t just walk in here,” I said. “We’re not buying anything you’re sellin’.”

The man didn’t smile. Instead, he opened his folio and consulted a form. “Which of you is responsible for outgoing freight?”

“We don’t have any outgoing freight,” I said. “We’re not shipping anything.”

The conductor consulted his form. “Nathaniel Parsons?”

Nate started to answer. “No.” I glared at Nate. “He’s not available.”

The man looked past me and stared directly at Nate. His gaze dropped to the hand hanging at Nate’s side and settled on the soot staining his finger.

“Tender confirmed,” the conductor said.

It felt like the room was getting smaller. “Who confirmed it?”

“That mark,” he gestured to Nate’s hand with a nod of his head, “constitutes acceptance.”

Nate looked at me. “What consignment?”

The conductor gestured toward the soot-stained finger. “Nathaniel Parsons.”

My cousin’s name hung in the air, and the joke I wanted to make… well, it wasn’t time for jokes.

I put my hand on Nate’s arm. “He isn’t freight. He’s a person.”

The conductor made a note on his form. “Our line only deals in freight. Passenger service at Fenwick has been discontinued.”

“Nate’s not going anywhere. He’s not traveling. We refuse shipment. The station has been gone for decades. They tore it down years ago! Even the tracks have been pulled up. There’s nothing here for you to collect.”

“Travel is not required. Collection has been scheduled.” He turned a page. “Tendered freight cannot be refused after entry. Fenwick remains a designated collection point.”

“The line closed in 1987,” I said.

The conductor was unfazed. “My orders remain unchanged,” he replied.

I said, “You can’t collect a person. You just can’t.”

His pen didn’t stop. “Classification is not my concern.”

Nate went still. He had that focused look. Same one he had when we were kids trying to solve some puzzle he couldn’t set down. That’s how Nate looked at the conductor.

“What railroad?” Nate asked. He was probing now. Looking for a solution.

The conductor kept his silence.

“Which route?” Nate continued.

The conductor’s pen moved, but he didn’t speak.

“Who authorized the collection?”

No answer.

“Who’s the receiver? Who are you shipping it to?”

The man checked the form. “Consignee unassigned.”

The conductor started to close the folio.

“Can we dispute it?” Nate asked.

“Objections are noted after presentation,” the conductor said, reaching into his leather folder and pulling out a form. The paper looked decades old, but the name across the top had been typed in fresh ink: Nathaniel Parsons.

He signed the form and tore the top sheet free. Then, he punched one corner with a metal instrument. The snap was loud. It was like a gunshot in the dark. You’re not expecting it and then boom. Nate hissed. He pressed his stained finger into his palm. I swear that for a second or two, that soot stain got even darker.

Then the conductor laid that notice right on the map. He put it down right on top of my red X. He examined it for a moment and then straightened it out a bit and said, “The consignment is to be presented at the Fenwick platform next Tuesday at 9:14 p.m.”

“He won’t be there,” I said.

“Failure to present the freight at the appropriate time will not cancel collection.”

“You’re not taking him.”

The conductor looked at me. It was the first time he bothered to make eye contact with me.

“You are not listed on the consignment.” He closed his little book and then checked his pocket watch one more time like he needed to know how long he’d spent talking to us. Then he turned toward the back door.

“Wait,” I said. “What is this?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped back out into the rain. I followed a second later, but the steps were empty. The path around the back of What Remains that followed the river around the building was empty. There weren’t any footprints in the mud, no cars passing by and no sign of a man walking down the street. He was just gone.

When I stepped back inside, Nate was standing next to the map. He stood there just staring at the yellow notice.

I closed the back door and locked it. For a second, neither of us said a word. The rain continued to pound away roof overhead. The clock ticked. Nate shifted his weight and an old floorboard creaked.

“Don’t touch it,” I said. I don’t know why I said it, but it didn’t feel safe in that moment.

“But, you wanted me to examine the records.” He said it with a smile.

“Yeah, but I meant records that hadn’t been hand-delivered by a dead man.”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was enough to lighten the mood a bit. I got the old Kodak that Bessie had sometimes used for new arrivals and photographed the notice where it lay over the red X, then again from lower down. The flash reflected sharply off the paper, but I took two more in case the first one didn’t come out.

The paper was thin, softened at the folds. The preprinted ink was old and uneven. It had faded a bit. The name at the top, Nate’s name, looked like it had been typed this morning.

“Baltimore and Ohio Railroad,” he read. “Form 12-C. Route: Cowen to Richwood. Origin: Fenwick. Place of presentation: Fenwick platform. Consignment: Nathaniel Parsons.”

“Who’s it going to?” I asked.

He looked at the line beneath his name: “Consignee: unassigned.”

“Consignee is the person who’s gonna pick it up, right?”

“Yeah. It’s for whoever is receiving the shipment,” Nate replied. “What does it mean if you don’t have a receiver though?”

No one said anything for a moment, but I couldn’t take the silence anymore. I finally said, “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t sound good.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I could tell he was nervous, but it was good to see him fall back on trying to solve the problem. He copied it all down into his notebook and circled the part about the consignee. Like he was going to come to it later.

“So I’ve got seven days,” he said. “Just like Bessie’s daughter.”

I looked at the board. Suddenly that card that read ONE WEEK felt a lot more menacing. Before this moment, it had belonged to Minnie’s story. Now it was a coming deadline that meant something to us.

I took the card down and wrote the date seven days from now under the words ONE WEEK. Then, I added 9:14 PM under that. These newest words were written in letters that were more crooked than the ones I’d originally written. I pinned it back where it belonged.

Then, I noticed something at the bottom of the form. A signature in small, slanted letters.

E. M. Vallow. Below that name was a number: 417.

Nate copied that into his notebook as well. Now, we had an exact time, the conductor’s name, and what looked like an employee number. It wasn’t a solution, but it was a start… and at least that was something.

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Next in Written Ward

Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week One.

Next week, I have an interview with where we discuss his story

Gibberish

Father and Sun

Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth, before the time of affliction come, and the years draw nigh of which thou shalt say, “They please me not”: Before the s…

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3 years ago · 90 likes · 48 comments · Scoot

Before you leave, Which detail from this episode do you think Hank should pay closest attention to… and why?

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Much of the story in What Remains takes place—or finds its origin—in an antique store. I love antique stores because they represent a selective attempt to save the past. They are places devoted to curation. They don’t accept just any piece. Not everything is worth saving. Someone has looked at each item and decided, yes, this belongs on the shelf! It’s worthy of preservation.

But preservation isn’t only about old objects. It can also be about stories, ideas, and people worth bringing into your life.

That is the idea behind Found Treasures, a monthly column where I’ll share things I’ve enjoyed and believe deserve your attention. Sometimes the treasure will be a book or a film. It might be someone else’s newsletter, another creator, or simply a person I discovered on Notes whose posts I really like.

Whatever—or whoever—I choose, this space will be devoted to drawing your attention to something I believe is worthy of your consideration.

Welcome to Found Treasures.

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Kent Peterson

Today, I would like to draw your attention to . Kent lives in Superior, Wisconsin, and I found him through Substack Notes. I enjoy his posts because he seems entirely comfortable being exactly who he is.

Sometimes you encounter people who seem compelled to keep talking or doing something simply to avoid silence. Kent doesn’t strike me that way. I’ve never met him. I don’t know him. I could probably walk past him on the street without recognizing him (his avatar is a cartoon sketch) but I would miss him if he stopped posting.

He begins each day by sharing a picture from his neighborhood and reporting the weather conditions. The man lives in Wisconsin, so weather is a legitimate concern. The subject might sound boring, but I actively look for these posts each day, especially as winter approaches. They remind me that weather can be a meaningful consideration rather than just a little icon on your phone.

Here’s an example of one of his weather reports.

Kent also collects old manual typewriters. Sometimes he simply adds them to his collection. Other times, he repairs them. When we’re lucky, he’ll explain how he fixed an old model or why he prefers one typewriter over another.

It’s not something I would expect to find interesting, but I enjoy reading his accounts. I think it’s because they tend to be short and provide just enough information to hold my attention. He knows when to shut up, and that’s a great quality. It’s also one I’m still trying to learn.

This post about a 1969 Adler Tippa S is a good example.

Kent’s Substack

1969 Adler Tippa-S

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3 months ago · 43 likes · 9 comments · Kent Peterson

One of the things I enjoy most about Kent’s posts is his photography. He’s an avid cyclist, and he frequently takes pictures during his daily rides. He captures beautiful scenery, remarkable weather, and wildlife that most people never stop to notice. You can find numerous examples in both his newsletter and on Notes.

His post about photographing fog is representative of the images he shares.

Kent’s Substack

Fog Photography

Once again it was foggy on my morning bike ride. I managed to take a few pictures that kind of capture the haze…

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3 months ago · 54 likes · 12 comments · Kent Peterson

What I appreciate most about Kent is that he seems comfortable in his own skin. Nothing feels optimized. His posts aren’t carefully planned or staged. He’s just a guy sharing the things he genuinely enjoys, and that’s what makes him worth following.

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Next in Written Ward

Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week Four.

Next week, we’ll be back with another installment of my serial featuring Hank Shaw and Nate Parsons as they try to unravel the secrets of the antique stores they’ve inherited and the mysterious objects locked away in its cellar.

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Whether you’ve been with us since that first trip into the cellar or if you’ve only just found your way to Fenwick, I’m glad you’re here.

This story is meant to be read in order, so new readers—or anyone who might need a refresher can catch the previous episode by clicking on the link below (Do Not Clean Glass).

For everyone who’s following along, I hope you’ll share your theories or ideas about what’s going on here. Thank you for being part of this little community. Now, let’s get back to the story.

Nate was still waiting for an answer.

Part of the reason I’d spent so much time in the cellar was that Minnie objected to any study of the objects. At all. It wasn’t safe, she said. They were locked away for a reason. I didn’t have the training.

Maybe she was right about all of that. But none of it changed the fact that the cellar had fallen to me. Whether I liked it or not, I was the one expected to keep these things locked away. If I didn’t learn what they were and what they could do, sooner or later something bad was going to happen.

I looked at Nate’s finger and realized that the bad thing was already here and, once again, I didn’t have the answers I needed.

It was Tuesday. I hoped the store would be quiet enough for us to speak privately.

“Come on, Nate. We’re going to have to talk to Grandma.”

I felt four years old again. Off to confess some terrible sin.

We emerged from the cellar to find Minnie in the back room, surrounded by the men and women who stopped in frequently enough that you’d think they were part-time employees.

Regulars. That’s how I always thought of them, but they were something more. They were friends. People who had known Bessie and Minnie for years… some had known them for decades. Now, they’d come to express their sorrow, share fond memories, offer support, and, of course, bring the death food. Someone dies, you just have to bring a casserole. Might as well be a rule.

I closed the heavy door behind me and quickly stepped in front of Nate. Conversation came to an abrupt end as every eye turned to us.

Nate shifted to one side. I moved back in front of him. “Stop moving,” I muttered. “And keep that hand down.”

“Say his name and the Devil appears,” Minnie said to much laughter from her gaggle of friends. Jackie Monroe, from the Post Office across the street, laughed so hard that I thought she was going to pass out.

“We were just talking about you boys,” Minnie continued. “Carl Sizemore, here, hadn’t heard that Bessie had willed What Remains to you boys.”

I nodded to Carl. “Yes, that’s right. Bessie asked us to take care of the place.“

“I’ve lost my father’s watch.” The words came out matter-of-factly as if he expected them to have some kind of meaning to me. When he realized I wasn’t going to answer a question he didn’t ask Carl said, “Bessie would’ve known what to do to get it back. I can’t help but wonder if she passed any of that on to you, son?”

“I’m sorry, but—“

Then I saw Lori Mullenax. She was walking right toward me and wearing the most beautiful smile. I think she even had on a new dress. I’d never seen her wear yellow before.

“Hi Hank,” Lori stepped around me. “Nate, I brought a pie for your family. I know how terrible this loss is and I just had to do something to maybe make things a little easier. It’s cherry. Do you like cherry?”

She held out the pie and Nate reached for it with the wrong hand.

Minnie’s eyes widened. All of her attention fixed on the soot staining Nate’s finger. Before she could say anything, Dessie Collins worked her way over to us. Her cane tapping its way across the worn floorboards.

“Do you boys plan on sellin’ the place,” she asked, “or are you gonna give it a go and run it yourselves?”

I could feel Minnie watching me.

“I want to honor Bessie’s dying wish and keep the place,” I said.

At exactly the same moment, Nate said, “We’re going to get things stabilized and reassess our options.”

Nobody else seemed to notice our contradiction. Minnie was still staring at his finger.

Minnie cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I’m feeling a little worn down. Would you mind if we continued this tomorrow? I think I need to lie down for a while.”

Tildie Bragg, who had to be in her late seventies, stepped forward and began shepherding everyone to the door.

“Come on, now. Let’s give this family some time to themselves. Minnie needs a nap.” She caught Lori looking back at Nate. “And you can stop mooning over that boy and get on outside. You’ll find out how weariness sneaks up on a person when you get to be my age.”

The room filled with goodbyes and promises to come back soon. Friends and neighbors left, but the covered dishes stayed behind.

Tildie was the last to leave. She paused with one hand on the doorframe and looked back to Minnie. “I don’t know what those boys have done, but don’t be too hard on ‘em.”

“Why do you think—“ I began. “How do you know we did anything?”

Tildie looked at me as if I’d just denied that the sky was blue. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she was getting ready to say something, but then she shook her head and stopped. I thought the matter was over but a mischievous smile crept across her face.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said. “Just young. For all your faults, this town—and this store in particular—needs young people. That Mullenax girl certainly thinks so.” She turned back to Minnie. “Don’t run them off. I couldn’t bear the melancholy performance Lori would put on.”

The door closed behind her.

As soon as the bell stopped ringing, Minnie crossed the room and seized Nate by the wrist. She held his hand beneath one of the overhead lights, turning it until the stained finger was fully exposed. Then she looked at me.

“I told you not to go messin’ around in that cellar. That’s not a place where you work.”

“Grandma, I have to understand what those things—“

“I won’t hear it. You didn’t believe me, and now a big fat gobbler has come home to roost. I told you this would happen. I told you, Hank!” Her voice broke as she said my name.

She released Nate’s hand as if it had burned her.

“What did you do?” she demanded. “Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

I helped Grandma over to the seats by the coal stove. She lowered herself into the old rocking chair. It was the one that Bessie had always favored. Seeing Minnie in it made Bessie’s absence hit home in a way that it hadn’t before. Felt permanent now, I guess.

Nate and I took the rigid ladder-backs across from her.

Once she was settled, I told her everything that had happened in the cellar. At first, she listened without interrupting. By the time I reached the lantern though, she had gone still.

“Let me make sure I understand,” she said, “You grew up here. You spent years watching how Bessie treated that cellar. I specifically told you not to spend any more time down there than you had to, and you still decided to ignore all of that.”

“Grandama—“

“But you didn’t stop there. You undid all of the precautions that Bessie herself had put in place. You untied the baling wire?”

“Yes.”

“You unwrapped the lantern?”

“I pulled back enough of the wrapping to see it. That’s all. I didn’t stand it up, and I didn’t light it.”

“You did enough.”

“I know I should have listened.” I leaned forward. “But you recognized the stain the second you saw it. I saw the look on your face when you saw it. There’s something you aren’t telling us.”

She shifted in Bessie’s chair but didn’t answer. She looked at me for a long time. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something but then her gaze returned to the soot on Nate’s finger.

“Won’t wash off, will it?” she asked him.

“No. Doesn’t matter how much I scrub. It’s still there.”

I covered one of Minnie’s hands with mine.

“What’s going on?”

She looked toward the back of the store. “Nate, do you know the storage closet beside the back door? The one just off from the cellar?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Open it and reach onto the top shelf. You’ll find a box there. Bring it to me.”

“Grandma, Nate might be in danger. We don’t have time to—“

“Hank.”

She said it the same way she had when I was a boy and had stepped on her last nerve.

“I need you and Nate to do exactly what I say,” she continued. “I know exactly how much time we have.”

I didn’t like that answer, but it was the first one she had given me. I nodded to Nate and he went for the box.

He carried it back and set it on the end table beside the rocking chair. The smell of mildew escaped as soon as Minnie opened the lid. Inside lay a homemade sock monkey, gray and white, with a fuzzy ball on top of its head.

“Whose was it?” I asked.

“It belonged to Bessie’s little girl.”

Nate and I looked at each other.

“You didn’t know,” Minnie said. “Of course you didn’t. Bessie never spoke about her, and it was never my story to tell.”

Her eyes moved once to Nate’s finger.

“Until now.”

“Then tell us,” I said. “But tell me what this has to do with Nate.”

“Hank, you’re a good boy, but I need you to let me speak.”

“I’m trying to keep him safe.”

“I know.” She tightened her arms around the sock monkey. “I am focused on Nate. But first you need to understand our family history with that lantern.”

Minnie ran her thumb along one of the sock monkey’s seams. “That lantern came into our lives when the baby was two years old. No—she would’ve been three by then. Bessie had heard about a collector up in Clay County who died under circumstances she didn’t like. I never did catch the particulars, but she’d traced that lantern’s history right back here.”

“Do you mean she traced it back to Fenwick?” I asked.

She nodded. “It had been used on the B&O line that ran through town. Ran right past this store. The train station used to be right across the road next to the Post Office. Passed through here every day back then.”

“If Bessie thought it was dangerous, why bring it home?”

“She didn’t know. Not then. Not for certain. She was suspicious, and she meant to find out.” Minnie looked down at the monkey. “I wish she’d left it in Clay County.”

The stove gave a soft metallic click as it cooled.

“One morning, Bessie left the lantern sitting on a table while she went into the back room. The baby found it. It was too heavy for her to carry, but she wanted to see what was inside that blackened globe. So she wiped at the glass.”

Her eyes moved back to Nate’s hand.

“When Bessie came back, the baby’s fingers were stained with soot. Just like yours are now.”

Nate rubbed his thumb against the blackened finger. “And it wouldn’t wash off?”

“No.”

I reached for the pencil on the end table and pulled a scrap of paper toward me. At the top, I wrote one word:

Soot.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“For a while, nothing. Then the baby started hearing a train whistle. She’d stop whatever she was doing and listen, even when no train passed. Sometimes she’d imitate it for us.” Minnie’s voice softened. “‘Woo-woo,’ she’d say.”

Underneath that first word, I wrote:

Whistle.

“After that came the rumbling. She said it sounded like a train passing over the joints in the rails. Well, she didn’t say those words, but that’s what she was describing.”

Rumble.

Nate leaned toward her. “Could you hear any of it?”

“Not a thing.”

Minnie shifted in the rocking chair. The monkey remained clasped against her chest.

“Then a man came into the store. We’d just opened the store and I remember I’d worn my red dress because I wanted to look good for our opening. We’d never seen that man before and thought he’d come from out of town for our opening. He was polite. Courteous, even. But he spoke only to Bessie.”

“What did he want?”

“He told her he would return in one week to collect the child. Said Bessie was to make her ready for departure.”

My pencil stopped above the paper.

“What did Bessie say?”

“What could she say? Neither of us understood him. We thought he was confused, or touched in the head. Before we could get any sense out of him, he was gone.”

I added another line.

The man. One week. Make the child ready.

“We were worried,” Minnie continued, “but we didn’t know what we were dealing with. We didn’t know how frightened we ought to be. So we kept the baby close and tried to get through the week.”

“And the seventh day?” I asked.

Minnie’s arms tightened around the monkey.

“The seventh day was wash day.”

Back then, she explained, wash day meant hauling two number-two galvanized tubs into the front yard. One held hot, soapy water and the washboard. The other held clean water for rinsing.

“We took the baby outside with us. There was no chance we were letting her out of our sight that day. She stayed right there in the yard, playing with this monkey. Tossing it into the air, catching it, running with it. She was happy.”

Minnie brushed a fleck of dust from the monkey’s head.

“I had an old bedspread from McClung Hospital. That was the original hospital there in Richwood. Used to be right there on Main Street. I’d brought it home when I was a candy striper because they were going to throw it away. It had one little moth hole, but otherwise it was good—and enormous. When we finished washing it, I needed Bessie’s help getting it up onto the line.”

She paused.

“We had it stretched between us, one of us at each end. Just as we started pinning it down, a wind come whistling off the mountain. I’ve never heard another wind like it. It caught that bedspread and tore it straight out of our hands.”

For an instant, something almost like a smile touched her face.

“We chased it across the yard. Both of us laughing, because we must have looked ridiculous and neither of us wanted to wash the fool thing again. We finally caught it and managed to keep most of it out of the mud.”

The smile disappeared.

“Then we turned around.”

I set the pencil down.

“The baby was gone. We dropped the bedspread and ran back to the tubs. We called for her. Then we started screaming.”

Minnie stared past us, into a yard that had not existed for nearly seventy years.

“I saw the monkey first. It was floating in the rinse water.” Her fingers closed around the doll. “The baby was at the bottom.”

No one spoke.

“We think the monkey fell into the tub and she went in after it.” Minnie said. “That’s all we ever knew.”

For a while, none of us spoke.

I sat there with my hands between my knees, searching for something to say. Something that wouldn’t sound small and useless.

Minnie wiped her eyes with the heel of one hand. When she spoke again, the grief in her voice had hardened into anger.

“What galls me is that neither of you paid attention to the instructions on that inventory card. After the baby died, I went back and underlined the warning about cleaning the glass. I thought if I called attention to that one thing, surely anyone who found the lantern would understand.”

“It’s my fault,” Nate said, “I never even saw the card.”

“No,” I said. “I unwrapped the lantern and left it where you could get to it.”

“And I’m the one who cleaned it,” Nate replied. “Honestly, I wanted to see what was inside that globe. Same as the baby.” He looked at his finger. “There was a little red light in there.”

His voice trailed off.

Minnie’s hand tightened around the arm of Bessie’s rocking chair.

“Wait,” I said. “You underlined the warning after the baby died. Did you add the other note too?”

“What other note?”

“‘No line still running—1987.’ I haven’t been able to figure out what it means.”

For a moment, Minnie looked confused. Then recognition settled over her face.

“That was the year the trains stopped going through Fenwick. I added the note because I thought it might matter to somebody someday.”

“You thought that if the line had closed, whatever came for the baby couldn’t come back.”

She looked down and then in a small voice said, “I hoped so.” When she looked up again her eyes moved to Nate’s finger. “I believed that for thirty-nine years.”

She looked exhausted. The anger had gone out of her, leaving her folded into Bessie’s chair.

“Nate, help Grandma get home,” I said. “I’m going to go through the files again and maybe check Foxfire or the WPA collections to see if I can learn anything about this conductor guy. It’s possible that date means something. I just can’t put my finger on what yet.”

I gave Minnie the most confident smile I could manage.

“We’ll figure this out,” I said. “I promise.”

She studied my face long enough for me to know that I hadn’t fooled her.

Nate rose and offered her his arm. Before leaving, Minnie placed the sock monkey on the table beside me.

“You don’t want to take it?” I asked.

She looked down at it.

“No.”

After the door closed behind them, I took a blank inventory card from the drawer and laid it beside the monkey. I stared at both for a long time. Was the monkey an artifact, or only a toy that had been present when something terrible happened? Had the lantern changed it? Did it need to be locked in the cellar, quarantined somehow, or left alone?

Bessie would have known. She would have known what protections to put around it and what warnings to leave for the next person, I couldn’t even decide if I needed to add instructions for handling.

I had unwrapped the lantern. I had left it exposed. Because of me, Nate had made the same mistake a three-year-old girl had made sixty-eight years earlier. Now Minnie had been forced to relive that morning while facing the possibility of losing her grandson too.

Not for the first time, I wondered whether Bessie had made a mistake in leaving What Remains to me.

The inventory card was still blank.

I couldn’t say what the monkey was. I couldn’t say whether it was dangerous. But leaving no record at all felt worse. I picked up my pencil and began to draw.

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Next in Written Ward

Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season. We are in Week Three.

Next week I’ll introduce a feature I’m particularly excited about called Found Treasures.

Before you leave, Which detail from this episode do you think Hank should pay closest attention to… and why?

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Each season will bring together original fiction, Spoken Ward, and Found Treasures, with an intermission before the next season begins.

Spoken Ward is devoted to discovering good short fiction and exploring what makes it work. In each episode, I’ll share a story worth discussing, talk about why it caught (and kept!) my attention, ask its author a few questions, and close by asking them to recommend a story by someone else.

Found Treasures is my more personal recommendation shelf. It’s where I share things I’ve found that I’m especially glad to know about. It might be a book, film, creative project… anything really. Even an interesting person on Substack Notes. Whatever it is, I’ll tell you why I enjoy it and point to something its creator does especially well.

This season also introduces What Remains, a new serial blending some of my favorite genres: supernatural suspense, Appalachian gothic, and quiet horror. It centers on an inherited antiques shop in Fenwick, West Virginia. In the weeks ahead, we’ll encounter some of the dangerous objects kept beneath it and follow two cousins who have inherited rules they must obey but don’t fully understand.

You’re at the beginning. No previous reading required.

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I’m starting to understand why Bessie didn’t write everything down. It’s not about laziness or being careless. Some things just get harder to put on paper while it’s all still happening. But I’ve made a promise. I’m going to leave behind a better record than the one she left me, if for no better reason than to help the next poor soul avoid the mistakes that have already been made.

I don’t want to write that my cousin, Nate Parsons, is going to die. Truth is, I don’t have to. The soot stain on his index finger says it for me.

The guy hadn’t been back to West Virginia in nearly ten years. Then he moved home to Fenwick, and within two weeks he’d managed to get himself marked for death. How do you even do that?

Mostly, the stain tells me what a fool he is, though there’s no use saying it now. What matters is finding a way to save him. And I don’t know how.

I keep telling myself Bessie would have left instructions if she’d known something like this could happen. At least, that’s what I would have believed before all this started. Now I’m starting to understand why she might not have.

Let me stop talking around all of this and just tell you what happened.

The cellar beneath What Remains was older than the shop above it. That morning, I went down the stairs the same way I had every day since Bessie died. I paused on the third step just like she’d taught me. She always said that the cellar would announce itself if I’d stop to listen. The cold earth, the smell of old pine, and the trace of lamp oil that had seeped into those beams decades before I was born—it was all exactly as Bessie had left it. Exactly the same as the first time she’d taken me into the cellar back when I was still a child.

Those were the things I paid attention to while I stood on that third step. If anything was ever different, it meant something was wrong. And given the stuff in the cellar, any wrong was bad wrong.

I stepped off the last stair and made my way over to the workbench. My grandmother Minnie still hates that I set it up down here. She insists her sister would never have allowed it. A workbench means you intend to stay awhile, focused on some task. Bessie would have agreed with her: the cellar wasn’t a place where you did your work. The cellar was the work.

I understand their thinking now. They have good reason to treat this place like it’s radioactive. But that morning, I didn’t believe I had the luxury of keeping my distance.

I switched on the green-shaded lamp and took a long drink from my coffee. I set the mug at the far edge of the workbench. It was the same spot I always used. Whenever I took out Bessie’s inventory cards, I liked to spread them across the bench, especially if I was comparing one object against another. I wasn’t about to risk staining one of them because I’d gotten careless.

The lantern waited on the nearest shelf, wrapped in flour-sack cloth and lying on its side. I crossed to it, untwisted the baling wire, and peeled back the cloth. A faint smell of lamp oil rose from the bundle. The brass frame was black with age, and soot coated the globe so thickly I could barely see through it.

While I was there, I let my eyes travel over the rest of the shelves. Everything looked as I’d left it the day before. Still, looking wasn’t the same as counting. Given what Bessie had stored in that cellar, I should have made certain all forty-three objects were accounted for before doing anything else. That’s what I’d been taught to do, but the count could wait today.

I left the lantern lying uncovered on the shelf and returned to the workbench. The locked cage stood immediately to its right. There wasn’t much inside, but what it held was among the most important things Bessie had left to me and Nate.

I unlocked the cage, pulled out the wooden card box, and set it on the bench. The cards inside were arranged by inventory number. I thumbed through them until I found the one I needed: WR-1948-017.

I laid the card beneath the light. Bessie had dictated the original entries to Minnie, who typed them onto cards nearly the size of a sheet of paper. I’d considered copying everything into a journal, but that would only create another record for someone to find—or overlook. So I’d started adding my observations directly to Bessie’s cards. There was plenty of room, and it kept everything we knew in one place.

Under Handling, Minnie had typed two instructions: Do Not Light and Do Not Clean Glass. Only the second had been underlined. In fact, it was the only underlined phrase on any of the forty-three cards.

Why that warning?

Farther down, Minnie had typed another note: Flame visible when no fuel present. Beneath it, Bessie had added something in ballpoint pen: No line still running ~1987.

I understood the typed note, or thought I did. “Line” almost certainly meant the railroad. But what did a dead rail line have to do with a flame that burned without fuel? And why had Bessie added the year?

I picked up my old number-two pencil and began sketching the lantern in the empty space beside her notes.

Truth be told, I was a little bitter. I’d spent my childhood working at What Remains, helping Bessie in whatever ways I could, but I’d never possessed her gift. Grandma Minnie kept the books and handled the ordinary work of keeping the shop open. I carried boxes, swept floors, and did whatever else Bessie asked of me. She taught me some of the stranger parts of her work. I was always the helper. A witness rather than a practitioner.

I resented that. I wanted the secret knowledge—the magic and wonder of it all—but it had never been mine.

I’d witnessed what Bessie could do time and again, whether she was mixing a poultice for a child with a winter cough or making a charm against the evil eye. Some people around Fenwick called her a granny witch, though never to her face. Mostly, they just came when they needed help.

People around here had depended on her. Now that I was running What Remains, some of them had begun looking to me. That scared me. I’d inherited her rules, but not her understanding. Back then, I was just trying to figure it all out before someone got hurt.

Then Nate came downstairs.

“Hank?” he called.

“I’m over here.”

Nate stepped around the corner and found me working on the drawing. He studied it for a moment, then looked toward the lantern on the shelf.

“Ya know, your cell phone has a camera. You could just take a picture.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you drawing it?”

“Because a picture shows me what it looks like. Drawing makes me see it.”

While I was speaking, Nate turned and walked over to the shelf where the lantern lay on its side. He reached toward it, and I thought he meant to stand it up.

“Don’t. Bessie’s card says it has to stay lying on its side.”

Nate withdrew his hand but leaned closer. “There’s a red glow inside the gl—hold on. Might just be something behind the soot.” Before I understood what he meant, he dragged his index finger across the globe. “This thing is a mess.” He looked down at his grime-darkened finger and wiped it across his denim jeans, leaving a smear. “It’s brighter now. See?”

He stepped aside. Through the streak he had cleared, I saw a small red flame trembling behind the cracked glass. I was on my feet in an instant. “Why would you do that? I’ve told you not to touch the things down here!”

“Calm down. All I did was clean it a little bit.”

“I know. That’s the other warning on Bessie’s card. Do not clean glass. It’s even underlined.”

Nate paused at that news, but only for a second. “Well, nothing happened to me. I’m still okay. Judgment did not fall from the heavens or something. I do wonder where the light inside there is coming from, though…” He leaned closer. “It’s so strange.”

“Nate, this is serious!” I said as I grabbed his hand to inspect his finger. It was still covered in soot. I led him over to the workbench where I kept some rubbing alcohol for cleaning. I poured some on an old rag and wiped at his finger. The stain remained. On the shelf behind us, the lantern burned a little brighter.

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Next in Written Ward

Written Ward follows a four-week rhythm during each season:

Next week brings the first episode of Spoken Ward. What Remains will return in week three.

In the meantime, I’d like to know: Would you have cleaned the glass? You can reply to this email or leave a comment below.

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To that end, I began writing a novel about an antique store named What Remains. The store is located in the place where I spent my childhood: Fenwick, West Virginia.

Since I’ve always been a fan of the more fantastical side of storytelling, the story features an old woman with the gift (or curse) of psychometry. That’s a fancy term that means she’s able to learn about significant moments from an item’s past by touching them.

Some of the stories she discovers are hopeful. Others are bittersweet. A few are unsettling in the way a ghost story told around a campfire might be. More uncanny rather than frightening.

The heart of this novel lies in those stories.

I’ve spent more than a year writing those stories. It’s largely why this newsletter has been relatively silent during that time. And yet I feel that this silence was ultimately a good thing. I’ve spent all of that time thinking about what this newsletter should be.

Over the past year, I’ve realized that this newsletter, Written Ward, isn’t really about technology, nostalgia, books, or even fiction. They were different ways of exploring the same idea. It’s about preservation. That’s the theme I’ve been seearching for all this time.

Writing my novel, What Remains, helped bring this idea into focus. It gave me a clearer understanding of what Written Ward is meant to be.

This newsletter is about stories that endure. It’s about the unseen, unnoticed people who create meaningful work. It’s about the objects we keep even after they’ve outlived their usefulness because they remind us who we used to be.

That’s what Written Ward is about.

Each month, we’ll step through the front door of that antique store. Many weeks we’ll join Hank Shaw in his attempts to catalog and understand the strange objects his great-aunt Bessie locked away in the cellar. He sketches them, studies them, and tries to figure out why they were hidden in the first place.

Then, we’ll follow those objects backward through time.

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Along the way, I’ll share books, films, newsletters, and creators whose work deserves a wider audience. I’ll sit down with writers to talk about the stories they’re telling and why they matter.

Some months, we’ll linger with a single artifact. Other times, we’ll leave the store behind entirely and follow a longer tale to see where it leads.

If you’ve ever wondered about the people you see in old photographs, or tried to imagine what made items in a box of keepsakes special, I think you’ll feel at home here.

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Welcome. The shop is open.

Meet Red. That’s a picture of him from fifteen years ago, when we brought him home from the shelter. We were still strangers to him back then.

We are strangers no longer. Now, his muzzle is gray and he moves a little slower. Back then, he forced my routine to change. Now he is the routine.

Red came into our life because my daughters wanted a dog more than anything. I was the holdout who finally gave in. Soon the girls will be leaving for college, but I’ll still have the dog—and the daily walks his presence has forced on me.

I don’t enjoy walking this dog. He stops constantly. Every blade of grass demands investigation. Every morning, he wanders into my office and gives me the look—the one that means he’s ready to go out. I’ve learned it also means that it’s around 10 a.m. Time to allow myself to be inconvenienced.

One such morning, I’d just finished picking up Red’s poop when my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from my dad. I finished tying up the plastic bag and answered.

My dad and sister were on the call. We said our hellos and shared our weather reports. Dad loved hearing about the weather. Then my sister and I spoke about our day so far—how we’d spent our morning and what we had planned. After that, it was Dad’s turn to speak. He looked away from the camera, swallowed, and when he came back into frame, he told us about a doctor visit and some test results.

I’d always kept in touch with my dad, but phone calls had been a weekly thing. After that FaceTime I decided to make a point of calling him every day. And so that was added to my routine. Every walk with the dog came to mean another phone call with Dad.

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The changes came slowly but consistently. Pauses grew longer. Words became harder to find. More and more I would have to call over and over while he struggled to answer. Sometimes he would answer but forget to hold the phone up to his ear, and we’d spend the entire phone call trying to understand one another. Each new call felt like a game of chance. Who would answer today?

One morning he answered with, “The helicopters are back.” His voice was low. Almost like he was afraid of being overheard.

I glanced into the brilliant blue of an early morning sky several hundred miles north from where he sat and said, “Really?”

“Those people are up to something. I see them. They’re doing something over in those woods.”

Red stopped to raise his leg. I waited and tried to think of how to respond. Finally, I asked if he’d heard from my sister and that was enough. He started talking about her.

Each call brought something different. Sometimes he’d be fully coherent, and other times silences would drag on while I waited for him to find words. Some conversations never really progressed beyond the two of us repeating the word hello to one another.

As Red and I approached an intersection, he fixated on some smell. The dog would not move. He had to know what scent was lingering in those blades of grass.

I didn’t mind, because I was caught up in an investigation of my own. I was trying to get my dad to repeat himself clearly enough so that I could understand him. I pivoted and navigated back to the topics he handled best: the weather, the news, and past memories.

On one particularly cold morning, I was shocked to discover that my dad had been involved in a series of meetings with Elon Musk. I’m not quite sure what those meetings were about or how they happened, but the outcome was that Elon was going to send a significant amount of money to both my sister and me. As of today, I have not received this money or heard from any of Elon’s representatives. I am, however, grateful for the comfort this thought seems to have provided for my dad at a time when he was clearly worried about his children.

On my way back home, I ran into my neighbor and his wife as they were out for their morning walk. We stopped and spoke for a while. After we’d said our goodbyes, I realized that I hadn’t spoken to Dad that day. We used to FaceTime almost every day, but we’d had to switch to audio-only phone calls because he had such a hard time understanding how to answer a video call. For whatever reason, though, I decided to try to FaceTime him that day, and he managed to answer on his first try. This was a hopeful sign, because it meant he was having a good day. And he was. I’d caught him shortly after he’d finished his breakfast. He asked several questions about me and my family. He wanted to know what was going on in our lives. It had been so long since we’d spoken.

I’d made it back home. Dad waited while I took the dog off his leash and put him in the house. Then I sat down on our front porch to continue our conversation. I wanted to spend every moment I could speaking to him while all of him was still present. We spoke for several more moments, and I asked him if he had any big plans for the day. He never had plans. His daily schedule consisted of making it to his recliner and watching TV or nodding off, but sometimes that question would reveal a trip to the doctor that I hadn’t heard about. He looked at me with a big grin on his face and said, “I’m going home now.”

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The dog had walked into my office every morning for two months. This time when he gave me the look, he had to wait while I put my AirPods in and started the latest podcast episode. Then we went through our morning routine of attaching his harness and heading out.

There’s a place just outside my property line where my home Wi-Fi and cellular signals get mixed up. I’ve learned that I need to wait until I pass that handoff area before I call Dad. Otherwise, the call will sometimes drop. The dog and I made our way to this location. I know we’re there because that’s where the mailbox Red loves to mark is located.

I paused the podcast and pulled out my phone. My finger automatically went to the Call icon, but I pulled back before touching it. I stared down at my dad’s contact picture. I don’t know how much time passed, but eventually I felt Red pulling on his leash. Time to go. I squeezed the stem of my AirPods to begin playing the podcast again and wiped my eyes.

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I first encountered this idea of being weird from Seth Godin’s blog. Later, I purchased his book devoted to the topic and fell in love with the idea. I can’t recommend this book or the follow-up book, Tribes, strongly enough.

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Dre seems to have come to these conclusions by her own lived experience. She makes many of the same points that Godin makes in his book, but presents them in a way that’s more concise. I hope you’ll enjoy this episode and that you’ll take us up on the challenge that I issue at the end where I encourage people to share their true, authentic, and weird selves and to tag both myself and in the post.

Your Thoughts Matter

Hey everyone! I wanted to begin by telling you how impressed I am with this community. You folks are really smart. Seriously—every comment, every response, and all of our interactions on Notes have shown me that time and again. I’m regularly amazed by the insightful comments you make during our conversations. And that’s exactly why I’d like to bounce something off all of you today.

Earlier this week, Amazon emailed me to announce they’re shutting down Kindle Vella, their short fiction initiative. I had high hopes for it, but it never quite hit the mark for me. But it got me thinking about something bigger…

What if we could jumpstart fiction right here on Substack? What would it take for us to transition from these nascent beginnings to a thriving, robust community? I’ve got some ideas (which I’ll share below), but first, I want to be clear that this isn’t a monologue. This is a conversation.

Here’s what I’m proposing: take a look at my plan below and let me know your thoughts. Better yet, if you’ve got a completely different vision, why not write it up on your own newsletter? I'd love to read it and share it with others.

Vella, we hardly knew ya…

Before we dive into our plan, I want to give credit where it's due. Though Kindle Vella didn’t work out, they nailed one thing: making stories discoverable. The way they showcased their fiction really put the spotlight on the stories themselves.

They didn't stop at just one way to feature stories. As you can see in this Top Faved showcase, they created multiple discovery zones throughout the platform. Each section was carefully designed to help different types of stories shine—from monthly favorites like these to other high-performing works that caught readers' attention.

Take a look at their Featured row below. Whether these titles were chosen by algorithms tracking performance (most likely) or human editors (less likely), this prominent placement served an important function: it put carefully selected stories right where readers could find them.

Romance Wins Again

One genre stood out on Vella: romance. No surprise there—romance leads the way, just as it always does.

What makes romance readers special? They’re incredibly adaptable. While some genres have rigid expectations—fantasy readers who demand 500-page epics, for instance—romance readers are different. They’ll embrace any format, any length, any platform... as long as the story delivers what they love. Short fiction? Sure. New distribution method? They’re there. Brand new platform? They’ll give it a shot, especially if it means following their favorite authors.

This flexibility isn’t just a quirk—it's a superpower. Romance readers’ willingness to explore new formats and platforms keeps the genre innovative and thriving. Where they go, other genres often follow.

The Vellys

As shown below, Kindle Vella ran a writing competition with significant prize money at stake. The path to winning combined reader popularity metrics with final selections made by a judging panel.

Here were the basic requirements for entry:

A Plan for Substack

Here’s where I see an opportunity: Substack could step into this space. We already have a growing community of short and serialized fiction writers. And soon, many successful authors will be looking for a new platform. The timing couldn’t be better to invite them into our community.

The Dream

Maybe we can get a patron to put up 25,000 dollars in prize money. Maybe I'll find pirate treasure in my backyard too, but who knows? Anything’s possible.

The tech world has a history of unexpected benefactors, and here’s one such story: Marc Andreessen began following an account on what was then called Twitter. The account, Truth Terminal, was run by a dedicated AI chatbot. As the chatbot gained a large following, the researcher needed to upgrade his servers to handle the increased workload. When Andreessen heard about the need, he gave the researcher a bitcoin to cover the costs. At the time, Bitcoin was trading at around 50k. Given Bitcoin’s current value, we’d only need about 25% of a single coin to hit our target. Yes, it’s unlikely, but you never know who will take an interest in your work.

If you want to watch or listen to the exchange, the link is below. Marc starts talking about it at 25:04 in the recording.

Chris Best

Marc Andreessen on the front foot

Marc Andreessen helped define the web as we know it, has founded multiple billion dollar companies, and is a legendary VC and champion of the tech industry. His firm is also an early backer of Substack…

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2 years ago · 67 likes · 12 comments · Chris Best

The Stackys

The following is a bit of wishful thinking, but let’s assume we do find a sponsor for this contest. Since the goal is to attract both authors and new readers, we want to make this contest as straightforward as possible. We’ll reach out to existing authors on Substack, but also leverage the fact that fiction authors tend to frequent the same online spaces which gives them non-Substack networks where they can speak about and promote the contest.

Each author would receive a unique signup URL or referral code that their audience could use when creating a new account1. At the end of the contest period, Substack would tally up who brought in the most new people—it’s that simple. No complicated point systems or user types to track, just pure growth. The authors who generate the most signups will be our winners. Substack will recognize the top performers (three? five? ten... however many we decide) with prizes.

• The Core Goal: Drive platform growth by leveraging existing authors’ networks and influence. Instead of complicated metrics or weighted systems, success is measured purely by new signups generated.

• How Authors Participate: Each participating author receives a unique referral code or signup URL. They can share this with their audience across any channel—social media, their newsletter, word of mouth, wherever they have reach.

• Simple Tracking Mechanism: When someone creates a new Substack account using an author's referral code, that author gets credit for the signup. Additionally, if an existing Substack user helped recruit that author to the platform, they also receive credit. This creates a multi-level reward system, similar to a pyramid scheme: users who recruit authors who then bring in many new readers can qualify for monetary prizes.

• Contest Duration: A defined timeframe (like 30 or 60 days) gives authors clear parameters to work within and maintains momentum throughout the competition.

• Selecting Winners: At the contest’s end, the authors who generated the most signups are identified through their referral codes. The top performers receive part of the 25,000 dollar prize money.

I referenced the $25,000 figure because that’s what The Vellys established, but realistically, a smaller amount could just as effectively motivate many authors. While established writers might expect larger sums, there’s a vast pool of aspiring authors out there who would be energized by even a $500 prize. To get things started, an annual contest with a total prize pool of $10,000 (divided into first, second, and third place awards—or however many tiers the contest has) could create significant momentum.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A More Pragmatic Approach

The dream of an external savior swooping in to revolutionize fiction on this platform is alluring, but ultimately unrealistic. Our best path forward lies in taking action ourselves.

The good news? Writing networks already exist and thrive in digital spaces. Authors gather on Kindle Forums, in private Facebook groups, and countless other online communities. Many of you likely have connections to established authors—perhaps through family, old friendships, or past collaborations. Consider introducing them to Substack, not necessarily for full-length novels, but for shorter works better suited to this platform. Substack offers unique opportunities in this realm.

This is especially relevant for those of you embedded in the romance community. As writers familiar with Kindle Vella, you know talented authors who'll soon need a new home when that platform closes. Why not show them what Substack has to offer?

Every fiction writer who joins strengthens our collective presence here. While external support would be welcome, our success depends on the community we build ourselves.

Your thoughts?

Now it’s your turn—I want to hear your thoughts. Drop a comment below and share your perspective. What parts of this plan resonate with you? What might need rethinking? I’m genuinely curious to hear what you think.

Leave a comment

What’s Next?

I’m working on an illustrated story that I will be publishing to the Drawing Room section of this newsletter. That should go out sometime later this week. It’ll be a short piece of about 500 words, but with illustrations on each page. This is an effort to determine how well Substack is able to present formats similar to pulp style magazines that I grew up with or the Eastern inspired light novel.

I'm excited to tell you about some changes coming to the newsletter in 2025! This past year has shown me what matters most to you through your comments and engagement. You've helped me see which topics really resonate, and I want to dig deeper into those areas.

As the newsletter grows, I want to make sure you get exactly what you want to read. That's why I'm adding topic choices - a simple way for you to pick what shows up in your inbox. Think of it as picking your favorite parts of our weekly conversations.

Below, I'll show you how to choose the topics you want to follow. You can keep getting everything, or choose just the topics that interest you most—it's completely up to you.

I'm looking forward to sharing more with you in the coming months. I know your time matters, and I want to make sure every newsletter is worth your while.

Managing Your Reading Experience: A Quick Guide

One of the things I love about Substack is how it lets you customize your reading experience. My newsletter spans four distinct sections, each with its own focus:

Story Compass: Fiction and Found Favorites - This is where I share my original fiction where ordinary moments take unexpected turns. I also use this space to explore stories, book recommendations, and things I want to recommend.

Spoken Ward: Conversations, Craft & Community - This is where I sit down with creators to explore their work and process, discussing everything from newsletter strategies to creative decisions.

Stack Cartographer: Mapping the Newsletter Frontier - Occasional observations about the evolving Substack ecosystem, analyzing trends, and trying to understand the best tactics for this platform.

Drawing Room: Sketches, Comics & Visual Stories - This is where I share my illustrations, comics, and sketches, offering glimpses into both finished pieces and works in progress.

While some readers enjoy the full spectrum, you might find yourself particularly drawn to specific sections. The beauty of Substack's section-based subscription system is that you can tailor your experience to match your interests.

How to Customize Your Subscription:

1. Visit my newsletter's home page while logged in

2. Look for the toggle switches next to each section title (they appear as orange buttons, like in the image below).

3. Click any toggle to switch it off for sections you'd prefer not to receive

4. The switch will turn grey when you've unsubscribed from that section

5. Your changes save automatically!

Pro tip: You can always preview what you're getting (or missing) by clicking on any section name (while on the homepage) to see past posts from that category.

Think of it like customizing your own magazine – you get to keep the sections you love while skipping the ones that aren't your cup of tea. And remember, there's no pressure! You can adjust these settings anytime, and toggling a section back on will instantly restore your access to that content.

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I’m hoping many people will join me in using the livestream feature as a way to tell us about the books they enjoy enough to keep on their shelves. It would allow all of us to get to know one another better and maybe find some new books while doing so. For example, I’ve always been curious about the many books that has behind him while recording his videos.

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This is a short 7 minute video where I walk through some of my favorite books. The books on that shelf are either poetry or some piece of classical fiction. During the livestream I mention my favorite poem by Edmund Vance Cooke.

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How Did You Die?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight -- and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

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During the livestream, Anthony asked about strategies for serializing fiction. has written two guides that may be helpful for these questions. The first one is here and contains good, general advice for writing on Substack:

Write More with Simon K Jones

Quickstart guide for Substack fiction writers

Updated October 2024…

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4 years ago · 216 likes · 79 comments · Simon K Jones

The second guide is more tailored to the process of actual serialization and that is located here:

Write More with Simon K Jones

How to write serialised fiction

This is a 22 chapter rough guide, taking you from understanding the core form of serial storytelling, through plotting and themes, character creation, plot twists and much more, all the way through to hitting the ‘publish’ button. There’s even a chapter all about how to cope when people say nasty things about your writing…

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5 years ago · 96 likes · 36 comments · Simon K Jones

Thank you , , , , ., and many others for tuning into my live video with and ! Join me for my next live video in the app.

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I wanted to have on because he has a Masters in Business Administration and I felt like this would give him unique insight into ways that people can differentiate their newsletters. This is an important topic because it helps define the qualities that make your newsletter stand out and distinguish it as a unique place to visit.

I love talking about topics like these and Scoot always makes for a great conversation. I hope you enjoy this video. If you have any thoughts or ideas, please feel free to comment below. I’d love to hear them.

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Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning into my live video with ! Join me for my next live video in the app.

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Here’s a link to the story that was mentioned during the interview:

Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning into my live video with ! Join me for my next live video in the app.

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