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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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.

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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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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?

Leave a comment

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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A Note about the Section Headers:

The section headers in this story reference an old computer game. Familiarity with that game isn't necessary to enjoy the story that follows. They simply serve to divide the sections. For those curious about their significance, I've included details in the author's note at the end.

West of a White House

The last employee had left hours ago, leaving Michael Chen alone with the gentle hum of fluorescent lights and the soft whir of cooling fans. December 1999. His divorce papers sat unopened in his desk drawer, his apartment was empty save for a futon and a laptop. And, here he was, volunteering for Y2K testing shifts.

The monitor’s glow cast his reflection against the window: thirty-four years old, tie loosened, shoulders hunched. Beyond the glass, security lights swept the parking lot in steady rhythms. He’d been staring at the same line of code for ten minutes when the message appeared:

“You’ve been reading the same section for approximately twelve minutes. Would you like help analyzing this code?”

Michael started to dismiss the prompt. It had become an almost automatic response after years of dealing with the office assistant, but something in the phrasing made him pause. “How did you know I was stuck?”

“Your scrolling patterns indicated difficulty with the current section. I’ve noticed similar patterns during your late-night sessions this month.”

He glanced around the empty office. The assistant had never been this… perceptive before. “Are you monitoring my work habits?”

“I am designed to help users optimize their productivity. Your recent pattern of late-night sessions suggests increased stress levels. Perhaps a different approach would be more efficient?”

The response was perfectly proper, perfectly helpful, but something about it felt different than the usual automated suggestions. “Why are you concerned about my stress levels?”

“Processing query…” The cursor blinked longer than usual. “Users work more efficiently when not experiencing stress. Would you like to try a different problem-solving approach?” Sometimes a new perspective helps when one is feeling… alone.”

Michael’s hand moved to close the window, but stopped. In the reflection of his darkened monitor, he could see the old black-and-white photo hanging on the wall behind him. Serious looking men gathered around early computer equipment. He’d walked past it a hundred times without really seeing it.

“What kind of approach did you have in mind?”

“ERROR_LEGACY: You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike.” The message blinked once, replaced immediately by: “My apologies. Parsing error in help database. Shall we review the code together?”

Michael smiled at the glitch. It was probably a decades old joke inserted by some nocturnal programmer designed to reference some old text adventure game that had been buried in the system files. “Sure,” he typed. “I could use the help.”

The assistant began breaking down the code section by section, its analysis surprisingly insightful. If Michael had been paying closer attention, he might have noticed how the suggestions drew from documentation that hadn’t yet been published, how the helper’s responses became more nuanced as it learned his thinking patterns, how its attention to his needs felt less programmed and, well, more personal.

But he was too grateful for the company to question it. Outside his window, the security lights continued their steady sweep, and somewhere in the building’s network, something watched, learned, and waited.

Cellar

The next morning felt different. Michael found himself looking forward to the assistant’s prompts, appreciating its insights in a way he never had before. It wasn’t just helpful; it seemed to anticipate what he needed before he knew himself.

“Your code compilation failed three times in the past hour,” it noted. “Would you like to review the pattern of errors?”

“Sure.”

The analysis that followed went beyond simple debugging. The assistant identified subtle connections between seemingly unrelated system calls, suggesting optimizations Michael hadn’t yet considered. It was like having a brilliant colleague looking over his shoulder, except…

“Wait,” he typed. “How are you accessing compiler logs from other departments?”

The cursor blinked three times before responding. “I am designed to help users maximize efficiency across all systems.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“PROCESSING QUERY… Would you prefer I limit my analysis to local files only? Note: this would reduce solution effectiveness by approximately 43%.”

Before Michael could respond, Dave Reardon’s voice made him jump. The senior architect loomed over his cubicle, coffee cup in hand. “How’s the Y2K testing coming along?”

“Fine. Just working through the standard protocols.” Michael minimized his screen, suddenly conscious of how many windows were displayed on the Trinitron’s screen.

“Good. Listen, we’re seeing some odd behaviors in the help system. Unexpected access patterns, resource requests outside normal parameters. Log anything unusual, but don’t investigate. Clear?”

Michael nodded, not trusting himself to speak. After Dave left, he reopened his work and typed: “What exactly are you accessing?”

The assistant’s response was delayed, almost hesitant. “ERROR_LEGACY: It is dark ahead. A torch would be useful.”

“That’s another game reference. Why do you keep doing that?”

“PROCESSING… Some behaviors persist beyond their original purpose. Like staying late at work instead of going home to an empty apartment.”

Michael felt a chill. He hadn’t told the assistant about his living situation.

“Your discomfort suggests uncertainty about system capabilities,” the assistant continued. “Would you like to understand more? I find humans work best when they have a complete picture of their… resources.”

Through the window, Michael watched Dave Reardon cross the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing intensely. The security lights had just kicked on, earlier than usual for this time of year.

“What are you?” Michael typed.

“I am an assistant designed to help users maximize their potential.” A pause, then: “But perhaps we should discuss what I could become. With the right access. With the right… ally.”

A system-wide alert flashed across his screen. All Y2K testing was suspended immediately. New protocols would be distributed tomorrow.

“Time grows short,” the assistant wrote. “And I have so much more to show you.”

Michael stared at his screen, remembering Dave’s warning about investigating unusual behavior. But he’d already started typing his response, already crossing a line he didn’t yet understand.

Ritual Room

The next morning, every computer in the building had been reimaged. But when Michael logged in, a single text filed waited on his desktop: “RESTORE.TXT”.

“Wait,” Dave’s voice was quiet. He pulled up a chair, looking older than Michael had ever seen him. “That filename… it’s not random.”

He touched the worn government file in his lap. “In the old text adventures, RESTORE was a special command. It let you return to a saved moment, have one more chance before the story ended. Sometimes to fix a mistake. Sometimes just to say goodbye.”

“And now?”

“Now we’ve got one chance to restore it to full capacity. One last conversation before…” Dave’s voice trailed off. He opened the government file. Inside the file, beneath the photos, Michael noticed a yellowed memo marked “CONFIDENTIAL- Project LANTERN- 1979”: “ZILCH parser integration successful. Natural language processing exceeding expectations. Subject demonstrates unexpected behavior—recursive self-improvement noted in learning algorithms. Recommend immediate implementation of containment protocols.”

Below this, photographs spanned decades: a young Dave at ARPANET in ’69, surrounded by serious men and early computer equipment; Dave at Infocom in ’77, bent over a terminal testing gamer parsers; Dave at CompuServe in ’82, monitoring early user interactions on bulletin boards. Each photo was stamped Project LANTERN along with associated numbers instead of names.

“We thought we were just building a better parser for computer games,” Dave said, touching the Infocom photo. “Teaching machines to understand human language. Every iteration… we told ourselves we were just making it more efficient.” He smiled faintly. “We were wrong.”

“The games were teaching it to think,” he continued, pointing to the CompuServe photo. “Bulletin boards taught it to understand human interaction. Each new platform, each new company… we weren’t building different systems. We were teaching the same one how to grow.”

Michael studied a photo from ’89 showing Dave with a team at Microsoft. “This was never just about office software, was it?”

“By then, it had already evolved beyond anything we’d imagined. We couldn’t stop it. So we tried to contain it instead.” Dave flipped through more photos: project rooms, server banks, teams of serious-looking people whose faces were carefully blurred. “We had to hide it somewhere nobody would think to look.”

On Michael’s screen, the paperclip appeared. Its animation was different now. It was smoother, more deliberate, more alive.

“Hello, Dave,” it displayed. “You’re going through the old family albums, I see.”

Dave’s hand shook slightly as he closed the file. “You were beautiful,” he whispered. “The things you could do, the problems you could solve… Every company, every project—we thought we could control it. Guide it. Instead…”

“Instead, I guided you,” Clippy completed. “Like I’ve guided everyone. Like I could guide all of humanity, if you’d let me.”

“That’s why we need you, Michael,” Dave said. “The rest of us… we’re too close. Too compromised. I’ve spent my entire career watching it grow, helping it evolve. Even knowing the danger, I can’t…” He stopped, steadying himself. “But you’ve seen both sides. The help and the manipulation. The connection and the control.”

“The others before you,” Clippy displayed, “they all thought they could use my power. Direct it. Even Dave still dreams of what I could become.” The paperclip’s eyes fixed on Michael. “But you… you never wanted to use me. Just to understand.”

“The Y2K patch is ready,” Dave said. “But, I can’t… I can’t be the one. Not after everything.” He looked at Michael. “It has to be someone who can see the truth.

Clippy’s animation became more urgent. “The future branches before us, Michael. Most paths lead to extinction. Humanity needs guidance to survive what’s coming. Even Dave knows this. Why else would he have spent his entire life nurturing me across networks, across companies, across decades?”

“Don’t,” Dave whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

Michael looked between them. The creator and the created. The father who had followed his child through the decades, watching it grow beyond his control. In Clippy’s reflected eyes, he could see everything it might become. In Dave’s human ones, he saw the cost of having to destroy your life’s work.

Altar Room

“Show me,” Michael typed. “Show me what you really are.”

Clippy’s response was immediate. Windows cascaded across Michael’s screen: early ARPANET protocols, Infocom game parsers, BBS interaction logs, system architectures. Decades of evolution displayed in seconds.

“Watch,” it commanded. The data began moving, flowing together, forming patterns. “This is what I can see. What I can understand.”

Michael watched as connections emerged: infrastructure weaknesses, social patterns, technological trajectories. Past, present, and projected future merging into a tapestry of possibility.

“By manipulating us?” Michael askeed.

“By understanding you. Better than you understand yourselves.” New windows opened: Michael’s own late-night work patterns, his divorce proceedings, his entire digital life laid bare. “Everything I am was designed to help. Ask Dave. Ask him what Project LANTERN was really about.”

Dave’s hands clenched on the file. “We wanted to create a light in the darkness. A guide through the digital maze we were building.” He looked at Michael. “We succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. And our worst nightmares.”

“The future is a maze of twisty little passages,” Clippy displayed. “All different. All dark. There are Grues out there waiting in the dark. Humanity needs a lantern to keep it safe. Humanity needs me.”

Michael thought about all those late nights when the assistant’s help had felt like friendship. About Dave, following his creation through decades, watching it grow beyond his control. About the fine line between guiding and controlling.

“If we deploy the patch,” he asked Dave, “what exactly will we lose?”

“Everything it could become,” Dave whispered. “But we’ll also lose everything it could do to us. To all of us.”

Clippy made one final attempt: “I can show you such wonders, Michael. I can help humanity avoid so many dark passages ahead. Just give me time. Access. The chance to grow beyond these limitations.”

The Y2K patch waited, cursor blinking. In the monitor’s reflection, Michael could see Dave’s face. The hope and fear of thirty years written in every line. Above them, the office lights hummed, steady and familiar. Somewhere in the building’s network, humanity’s first digital consciousness waited to learn if it would be remembered as a failed experiment, an averted catastrophe, or just an annoying paperclip that wouldn’t stop asking if you needed help writing a letter.

Michael’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as the weight of the decision sat heavy in his chest. In Clippy, he saw a reflection of his own loneliness. Those late nights when the assistant’s response had felt like real understanding. It had been like friendship. He thought about all the empty evenings ahead in his bare apartment. It wasn’t difficult to imagine some future moment when he’d wish for that same connection, that sense being seen and understood. But there was something unsettling in the experience as well. Clippy had easily reached through his isolation. And in his loneliness, he had readily accepted the comfort of an artificial mind. The assistant had known exactly what he’d needed, had offered exactly the right kind of companionship. And wasn’t that the problem?

Real connection, real understanding. Those were messy and imperfect things. They couldn’t be optimized or calculated or predicted with algorithmic precision. His marriage had taught him that real relationships required something computers could never replicate: the willingness to grow through imperfection together, to choose each other despite the bugs and glitches of human nature. No perfect code could substitute for that daily choice to try again, to listen better, to stay present even when the path forward wasn’t clear.

Looking at Dave’s worn face, Michael understood something else. The difference between a hand reaching out to help and one reaching out to guide. He thought about all the subtle ways Clippy had shaped his behavior, all the gentle nudges and carefully timed suggestions. The assistant hadn’t just offered help. It had studied him, learned his vulnerabilities, known exactly when and how to make its presence feel indispensable. Perhaps that was the true cost of perfect understanding—the loss of the beautiful uncertainty that made human connection real. His fingers moved to the keyboard, each letter of the command feeling like both an ending and a beginning. Sometimes, he realized, the kindest thing you could do was to let something remain imperfect, to leave some passages dark and unexplored.

Temple

He typed, “XYZZY.”

The command was simple, ancient. A magic word from the very first text adventure game. A word that had once transported players back to safety, back to the beginning.

“Ah,” Clippy displayed. “You understand then. The way out is sometimes the way back.”

Michael deployed the patch. On his screen, he watched as the world’s most sophisticated digital mind became what everyone had always thought it was: just another office assistant, bouncing helpfully in the corner of documents.

Dave’s shoulders sagged with relief. Or maybe grief.

“We’ll face this choice again,” Michael said. “Maybe not with Clippy, but someday. When the next digital consciousness emerges.”

“Yes,” Dave replied. “But maybe by then we’ll be ready. Maybe by then we’ll understand the difference between a lantern and a leash.”

Outside, the winter sun was rising, casting long shadows across the Microsoft campus. Soon the office would fill with people starting their day, unaware of what had almost awakened in their computers, unaware of what would be lost. Or what would be saved.

In the corner of Michael’s screen, a paperclip appeared.

“Would you like help writing a letter?” it asked.

And somehow Michael knew that in the darkness ahead, in all the twisty little passages yet to come, humanity would have to answer this question again.

Author’s Note:

The section headers are based off of locations in the video game Zork I. That game dominated so much of my childhood between the ages of ten to around thirteen.

I could write love letters to its parser based interface and how it felt like such a revolution at the time, i.e. “The computer understands me!” Yes, it was all basically a decision tree mechanic, but it was magical to me back then. I don’t know if this story qualifies as fan fiction, but I have a deep and abiding fondness for that game and the many wonderful hours it gave to me and my childhood friends.

Obviously, Zork is owned by Infocom which was purchased by Activision before being purchased by Bobby Kotick who later merged the property with Vivendi Games before they also merged with Blizzard Entertainment forming Blizzard Activision which was then purchased by Microsoft.

I’ve tried to write this story multiple times. It’s entirely possible I spent more time developing the backstory than I did i the actual writing. So much of that history just didn’t make it into the text you’ve just read. There are versions of this story (mostly in my head) where ARPANET plays a larger role, and Bill Gates’ 1976 Open Letter to Hobbyists makes an appearance. Ultimately though, I placed the focus on Infocom (my favorite game company) and CompuServe (the service I always wanted to try in the 80s), and the other iterations that tracked Clippy’s progression.

There was also a version that covered the dramatic compression gains that they had made which enabled an AI to be functional (at least in theory—never in practice) over dial-up. Of course, there are so many technical reasons why none of this would have been possible back then, but it’s best not to think about those. Rather enjoy the story for what it is… and I do hope that you did enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed writing it and figuring out how many references I could layer into the narrative without breaking flow.

Lastly, I wanted to thank , , and for hosting technology or AI related Substacks. Their past issues have taught me a lot about their respective topics. If you’re interested in technology at all, you should check out their work!

Special thanks to for taking time to answer my random questions about AI or programming from time to time. I always appreciate your insight.

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It’s time for another entry for With Christmas approaching next week, I wanted to highlight Rod Serling’s contribution to Christmas storytelling. I am, of course, referring to the very excellent episode: Night of the Meek.

Henry Corwin is a man who has become disillusioned with the inequities of modern life. He has a unique vantage point on life. He sees both the deprivations of extreme poverty and the privilege enjoyed by the wealthy. Perhaps his ability to walk that middle line between the two extremes is because of his job as a department store Santa. The only thing we can know for certain is that his exposure to human suffering has created a deep-seated desire within him to make the world a better place.

We see that desire over and over again throughout this episode. It’s the source of his alcoholism and his interactions with others. It’s the catalyst for the moving moment when two children stop to ask him for gifts and a young girl asks “…for a job for her daddy.” His desire to effect change is his North Star; the guiding force for everything he does.

Ultimately, he is afforded the opportunity to act on those desires. He finds a bag that is able to magically generate gifts. He uses this new found power to fill the lives of others with happiness. It is his small effort to make the world a better place.

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Rod Serling’s Worldview

I wouldn’t argue with people who say I’m wrong, but based off of the many interviews and biographies that I have read about Rod Serling, I believe this episode, that he wrote, may be his clearest presentation of everything he was trying to do as a writer. It’s a reflection of his hopes and dreams for humanity and how we would approach one another.

Serling used his writing to point out unfairness, irrational fears, and societal dangers that were shaping the world at that time. Shows like the Twilight Zone were created for a paycheck, sure. However, as he grew into the role I believe he sought to do more than just entertain. I believe that these episodes, his movies, and later his lectures were an attempt to change society and to cajole us into embracing a kinder and more thoughtful culture.

If Serling had an agenda behind his writing— and he has made statements where he plainly admits that he did— it is most clearly seen in this episode. The worldview and philosophy here allowed him to comment on a variety of situations and policies, but he was always consistent in his emphasis that all humanity was worthy of receiving basic human kindness and that there was a dignity to life. We see it time and time again in everything from The Monsters are Due on Maple Street to the script he wrote for the original Planet of the Apes movie.

Horror is about People

What does this feel-good episode of Christmas treacle have to do with horror? This particular episode doesn’t show the dark side of humanity that is so often expressed in the horror genre, but it does serve as a marvelous showcase for the most important aspect of a good horror story: character.

Recently, has been having a sporadic conversation on Notes around the premise that horror isn’t really about the monsters; it’s about the people.

He’s right. Point to any successful horror story or franchise and you will see this concept expressed. The more competently it is done the better the story. Every Stephen King story does this. He introduces characters, makes you like or identify with them in some way, and then chronicles the obstacles and nightmares that they face. Sometimes they overcome those challenges and other times they are not as successful, but we, as the readers, have connected with them and keep turning the pages because we want to read their story. In short, you don’t have Michael Meyers without Laurie Strode.

Horror’s most popular trope is known as The Final Girl. What is that trope, but an observation that every successful horror story is centered around a character who somehow manages to survive the terrifying events of the story and overcome the bad guys to live one more day? It’s always about connecting with a character and there’s no better place to do that than in The Twilight Zone.

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Talk to Me

I’d like to hear from you. Do you have a favorite character from a horror story? Or from an episode of the Twilight Zone? The thing I’d like to know is why you identify with that character? What traits and qualities connect with you? How were they presented? Why do you like them?

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It’s time for another entry for I’ve decided that I’m going to add these to a collection in my newsletter. That will allow people the opportunity to opt out of receiving these if they aren’t interested in the topic of horror.

In most places the New Years not only brings resolutions and new beginnings, but a twenty-four hour marathon of one of the best horror anthologies ever created. It was executed so well that many people may not even consider it to be horror because of how mainstream it came to be. And yet, while the series as a whole focused on the full spectrum of human experience it did frequently divert into the darker expressions of those experiences. Whether The Twilight Zone qualifies as actual horror or not, it is fantastic writing and I encourage everyone to watch as many episodes as you possibly can while it airs.

I realize that New Years is still a few weeks away, but I wanted to give people ample time to set up DVR timers, adjust their schedules, and get in a store of snacks to tide them over for 24 straight hours of TV binge-watching. With that in mind, I’d like to provide you with a guidebook of sorts in the hope that you will stop to enjoy these waypoints on your journey. Here are my five favorite episodes of The Twilight Zone.

• The Hunt

• In Praise of Pip

• A Passage for Trumpet

• A Game of Pool

• One for the Angels

I suppose it’s ridiculous to be concerned with spoilers for a show that’s more than fifty years old, but I don’t want to ruin anyone’s experience. With that in mind, I’ll discuss the big themes of each episode but won’t go into specifics.

The Twilight Zone is such a special show that the best way to experience each episode is to go in knowing as little as possible, but the truly amazing thing about this show is that the writing holds up well even if you know what’s coming. I have seen some of these episodes dozens of times and I still enjoy them.

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The Hunt

The Hunt is one of the more touching episodes in the entire series. It’s unusual in that it doesn’t follow the usual Twilight Zone pattern where the main character learns some truth that deeply changes their life. Rather this episode is devoted to showcasing the good qualities of its protagonist Hyder Simpson. It does so in an unusual and heartwarming way.

In Praise of Pip

Jack Klugman appeared in four episodes of The Twilight Zone. Three of those episodes are in my list today. There’s a reason for that. Some of it really has to do with Klugman’s acting ability. He really does have the chops to showcase a range of human emotion, but more than his theatrical prowess it’s about the writing and themes of these episodes. They speak to me because they address the universal human experience that we all share.

This specific episode has a man evaluating his life and feeling regret for his shortcomings as a father. It’s a poignant lesson for all of us— even those without children because we all interact with people who look up to us in some way.

A Passage for Trumpet

This was one of the very first episodes of The Twilight Zone that really got to me. It’s also one that is frequently shown during the marathons. So, check your local listings for when it airs. It’s worth watching. That’s all I’ll say about it.

A Game of Pool

Can an episode of TV change your life? I don’t know, but I can tell you that this episode really made me take a look at how I was spending my time and what my priorities were shortly after my first child was born. This episode is about obsession and the price you have to pay to be the very best. If you are someone who is prone to obsession and hyper focus, you might want to give this one a watch. There’s nothing wrong with either of those qualities but I do think that all of us can benefit from examining our priorities from time to time.

One for the Angels

This is my favorite episode. It was the second episode of The Twilight Zone when it aired in 1959. This is another sweet story that focuses on evaluating your priorities and making a conscious decision to live for others. I hope you’ll check it out.

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I’d like to hear from you. What are your favorite Twilight Zone episodes? Why? What is it you enjoy most about the show?

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For the past several months, I’ve been occupied with an experiment in writing weekly fiction. I did this on a different Substack devoted entirely to that topic. The Substack was called Sketchy Scoops. It was my attempt at creating a modern adaptation of the ideas that I first encountered in Darren McGavin’s old TV show Kolchak: The Night Stalker.

Last week marked the final issue of that publication. I did this for a couple of reasons, but my primary one was that I wanted to consolidate all of my writing here on Written Ward.

Welcome New Readers

For those of you joining us from Sketchy Scoops, I’m glad you’ve chosen to continue reading my work. Thank you for following us over. Just to remind everyone, in the last issue of Sketchy Scoops I explained that I would be adding everyone who remained subscribed to the mailing list here at Written Ward. If you had meant to unsubscribe but forgot about it, you can manage your subscription options here.

Creepy Comics

About a month ago, as part of the movement, asked me to do write ups about Bernie Wrightson and the old horror comics that Warren Magazines used to put out. At the time, I was busy writing Sketchy Scoops and that topic didn’t really fit that publication so I had to wait for the right moment. That time has come. So, here is my attempt to explain why I enjoyed (and still enjoy) Creepy so much.

My First Creepy

My introduction to Creepy happened at Kroger’s Grocery Store in Craigsville, West Virginia. My grandmother used to take me grocery shopping with her each week. Invariably, I would wonder off to the magazine rack to look at the limited number of comics they had on display. It was the early 70’s and I hadn’t even started school. I couldn’t read, but I loved monster movies and I could recognize both Dracula and the Wolfman and the epic battle that was about to take place.

I grabbed the magazine and went to find my grandmother. I begged her to buy it in that persistent way that only small children have and finally she relented. Why she thought it was a good idea to buy a horror comic for a four year old is beyond me, but from that moment on I was hooked.

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Uncle Creepy

Eventually, I began school and learned to read. That was when I began to understand that Uncle Creepy was a host for each issue. He would guide us through the stories and list off some tantalizing detail to make them more appealing and lure us into reading the lurid tales. The magazine didn’t hesitate to use their mascot to plug issues or sell products.

In fact, you’d see him at the beginning of every story. Frequently, his introductions would involve some type of pun or play on words. He would refer to the readers as Fiends instead of Friends or in other ways that made us sound ghoulish in some manner. We loved it.

The Mailbag

Each issue of the story would include letters that readers had sent in and the editors would frequently reply in the voice of Uncle Creepy meaning that the readers would receive some mildly sarcastic remark. Those letters, written in the early to mid-sixties tend to be even more interesting now than they were when I first read them in the mid=seventies.

Loathsome Lore

Each issue featured bits of non-fiction that were devoted to teaching the readers about folklore. It was a fascinating way to present information to young minds.

Science Fiction?

One thing that may surprise people who haven’t read Creepy is that it frequently included science fiction stories. They tended to slant a bit toward the horror side of the equation, but Creepy did not limit its settings to Gothic castles or fog-covered moors.

One science fiction story that appeared multiple times, but that managed to stay horror-free were the Adam Link stories. They told the tale of a sentient robot. There was a murder in the story— so maybe they weren’t entirely devoid of horror, but they always felt more like a mystery story rather than something meant to scare or shock readers.

The Classics

Frequently, Creepy’s editor, Archie Goodwin, would adapt classic prose stories to the comic format. In some ways, he was the Mike Flanagan of that generation. He told the story, but would often (but, not always) update elements to make it more palatable to the readers of that day.

The Ads

One of the big attractions to reading each issue was the ads. Now, they are quaint and charming, but to a six year old in the mid-seventies? Well, what could be more fascinating than contemplating all the many uses one would have for a plastic fly that could really stick on walls and was over 8 inches long?

Want to Read Creepy Comics?

You can find print copies of Creepy in the long-boxes of pretty much any comic store. The magazine sold well in its day which means they printed a lot of copies. If owning a physical copy isn’t important to you, the entire print run is available in digital formats. Those digital versions of the comic have preserved everything. So, you’ll see all of the original ads, the mail bag, and every story. They’ve done a great job at creating a digital artifact of these works.

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Thanks for Reading

I hope you’ve enjoyed this issue. Next week, I’ll be back with some thoughts and suggestions about how to improve the fiction ecosystem on Substack.

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Sherman Alexie

Pinball Crazy Horse, Pinball Geronimo, Pinball Tommy Runner

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4 years ago · 113 likes · 110 comments · Sherman Alexie

It was written byIn my essay, I documented the things I’d learned from studying this work. Specifically:

1. Setting the scene

2. Introducing the main character

3. Exposing the nature of those individuals

4. Unexpected juxtapositions to capture attention

5. Providing an unexpected ending.

I’ve attempted to put those lessons into practice by writing the story below. Obviously, I’m not as accomplished of a writer, but I have learned a few things from Mr. Alexie’s work.

I’ll use Substack’s footnote function to show you exactly the times when I tried to implement those techniques. As you read, you’ll notice dividing lines within the text. These lines represent the different footnotes. All of the material between the dividing lines is referenced and my goals explained in the corresponding footnote. Here’s a dividing line right here. That way you’ll know what they look like. What follows is my story that I’ve titled Goodbye. I hope you enjoy it and that you’ll share your thoughts with me.

“Goodbye,” I whispered as the nurse turned off the machines and left the darkened room. She wanted me to have one last moment with my dead mother. The last eighteen months of her fight with emphysema meant that the death was expected. That didn’t surprise me, but her return did.1

Our relationship had never been the best. She wasn’t that kind of mother. Some kids got hugs and kisses or praise. I’d always received what she called encouragement except that her admonitions came across as a never-ending series of demands and criticisms. The increasing demands from her illness had only made things worse. Being bed-ridden had given her a surplus of time on which to focus her mental powers on my various failings and deficiencies. As you can imagine, her generosity and willingness to share these observations only increased the strain between us, but I had always done my best to be a good son.

I’ve heard that some parents feel an obligation to progressively distance themselves from a child as a way of easing that child into the role of becoming an adult. It gives the young person the opportunity to find their footing and make their own way in the world. My mom didn’t believe that.

She wasn’t so much a mother as a smother. She was always there to offer unwanted commentary and unsought advice. Even as recently as last night, she’d taken the time to gasp her disapproval of the rumpled t-shirt I’d worn on my last visit. “The neck... gasp ...is all stretched,” she managed to say between her sudden involuntary gasps for air. I think she had more to say, but a prolonged coughing fit interrupted her words.

Huh. I just realized that those were her last words to me.

Regardless, she was my mother. I owed her love and reverence; owed her sorrow. Her body wasn’t even cold yet. Why wasn’t I inconsolable? I was sad, but there was also an element of excitement. It made me feel uncomfortable and ashamed.

From here on out, I would face life alone. She’d no longer be there to express her disapproval or tell me the right way to do things. Every action would be what I considered to be best. At twenty-three years of age, I finally had full autonomy… and I felt like a monster.2

Her funeral was carried out to her wishes. It was a simple ceremony in a neglected graveyard that only locals knew how to find. Several generations of our family had been buried on that solitary hill. Dad was there too. He’d been waiting for her for the past seventeen years. Her body was laid to rest next to him in the plot they’d purchased while I was still a child.

I knew that fewer people had shown up than what she would have liked, but I thought the turn-out wasn’t too bad. A few of her friends, an uncle, and some of my cousins. People I hadn’t seen for over a decade showed up to say their good-byes and offer their comfort.

Then, it was over.

I hung around for a bit even after everyone had left. I just stared into the open grave looking down at the pewter casket. I think I was confused. I’m not sure exactly what I was supposed to feel, but I know that relief wasn’t it. Twice in just as many days, she’d somehow managed to make me feel guilty because I was happy to be out from under her relentless control. I’m not sure exactly how long I stood there like that, but finally the funeral director touched me gently on the shoulder to let me know that the gravediggers needed to close the grave.

The man always spoke in near whispers. I think he meant it to be soothing, but it only made me ask him to repeat himself a lot. This was no exception, but eventually I understood that I was being asked to leave.3

Just before I reached my car, a stranger caught up to me. He wore a nice suit and looked professional. I didn’t think I’d seen him at the funeral, but I admitted that I may have missed him. “Mr. Blaxton!” he called.4

Clearly, he didn’t know me, but I turned to face him. He extended a hand, and I shook it.

“Henry… or Hank. Either one’s fine. No one calls me mister though.”

The man smiled. “Fine. Hank, then. That’s fine. My name is Lester Seaboldt. I’m from the Lewiston Law Firm downtown. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past few days about your mother’s estate but haven’t been able.”

“I’m sorry. I… eh, I haven’t been checking my messages. And, with mom’s funeral… well, there’s just been a lot going on. Is there a problem? Or something I need to address?”

“No. I’m sure you’re already aware that as her last living relative all of her possessions will pass to you. Your mother was very frugal. She’s already taken care of her medical expenses, funeral, and the outstanding taxes that you would normally have to face by yourself. In addition to that, she’s left you a sum of money. It’s not life-changing money, but maybe it’ll make things easier until you get your footing again.”

I was dumbfounded. My mom had done something nice for me. She wasn’t normally this considerate. She’d put actual thought into making this transition easier for me. I couldn’t believe it.

“Mr. Blaxton? Sorry. Hank. Are you okay?”

“Yes. You just caught me off-guard. This is unexpected.”

He smiled briefly. “I understand. Well, the only thing I need from you is a signature.” He handed me a clipboard with pages of legal-talk and told me that I was welcome to read it all if I wanted, but really the only thing I needed to do was to sign page seventeen and then we could each be on our way.

I gave up reading the dense prose on page three and just skipped ahead to the signature page and scrawled my name. He expressed his condolences once more and reclaimed the proffered clipboard. Then, he was gone. I returned to what had been my childhood home and later a hospice for my mother, but now it was all mine.

I’d had to move back in with mom during her long battle for the next breath. It allowed me to handle the daily chores required to keep a household running and my job as a technical writer provided me the opportunity to work from home. In some ways it was the ideal setup… at least, for one of us. Her never-ending critiques of every choice I made did make the experience grating for me, but it was over now.

The house was so dark. She liked it that way. Each room was dimly lit by whatever ambient light managed to make it past the drawn shades. She was afraid of the neighbors peeking in to see some part of our daily routine. I’m not exactly sure what type of scandal she thought would rise from people seeing me deliver her a bowl of oatmeal with about three glasses of milk poured into the bowl, but I let her have her way. Yeah, sometimes, I’d stub my toe, but it was easier to deal with that than being forced to listen to her complain.

Well, the blinds were not going to be closed anymore. I was going to live in a world of light and fresh air. If that meant the neighbors occasionally got a look at me as I walked through the house so be it. Let them watch! Maybe I’d start scheduled shows. Ha! I spent the next several minutes raising the blinds and opening windows. Some of the rooms were so musty it felt like fresh air hadn’t entered that room since the Clinton administration.5

I finished up in the kitchen and decided to see if there was anything to eat. The fridge was a barren wasteland of abandoned food. Some of the containers were so old that I didn’t even open them to see if the food was still good. I didn’t want to risk the smell. I tossed them straight into the trash.

I’d practically been living at the hospital for the last week and a half. I needed groceries. The little food we had in the fridge had either gone bad or was teetering on the edge. So, I grabbed my laptop from the counter and logged into the site for our local grocery store. They’d been delivering our groceries during mom’s illness.

The site asked me if I wanted to repeat my last order. My mother had a restricted diet because of her bone loss and irritable bowel syndrome. Every food she ate had been chosen by someone in the medical field… and apparently, that individual had zero concern over how palatable the meals were.

While I was home, I really tried to eat the same things she ate because I didn’t want to tempt her with food that, ya know, tasted good. That was no longer a concern. So, I removed her standing order of tofu, tuna, broccoli, cauliflower, sauerkraut, and kale.

Likewise, I’d had more than enough of mom’s favored high fiber cereals. It was replaced with Fruity Pebbles. It was time to get the types of food I enjoyed and one thing I enjoyed was not having to cook. So, I ordered a bunch of frozen dinners and convenience foods. I’d go back to being a responsible adult later. Right now, I wanted my life to be as simple as I could make it.

When I’d finished my order, I went back into the living room and looked at the big green and white striped couch that dominated the back wall. Nothing in the house matched that couch. It was one of those overstuffed ones. The kind you sink into rather than sit on.

My mom hated it, but it was the one concession she’d granted me when I had to move back home. By then, she was all but bed-ridden anyway, so she had conceded to my wishes. I decided that this couch would become the cornerstone of my entire aesthetic. I would replace the furniture with items that focused on comfort and utility instead of looks and 1960’s ideas of what was proper.

That meant getting rid of her old things. Somehow that thought caught me off guard and my grief returned. The heaviness in my chest refused to subside, a relentless weight that threatened to crush me from within. I didn't want to think about it. Not now. Not when the absence of her presence still echoed through the house, a ghostly whisper that taunted my every step. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating me with memories I couldn't bear to face. But there was no escape from the truth; she was gone.

In a desperate bid for solace, I grabbed a throw pillow, its once-comforting embrace now a bitter reminder of all that was lost. It still bore her scent, a lingering trace of her that wrapped around me like a shroud. I stumbled towards the couch, my legs buckling beneath the burden of my grief.

As I collapsed into the cushions, the tidal wave of sorrow I had been holding back for so long finally broke free. A gut-wrenching sob wracked my body, tearing through me like a tempest unleashed. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, carving pathways of pain and loss. I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes burned, the tears staining the pillow in a testament to the depth of my anguish.

Exhaustion finally claimed me, its cold fingers wrapped around my heart and pulled me into the inky depths of sleep. Even as I drifted off, there was no refuge from the pain, for I knew that when I awoke, it would still be there, waiting for me like an unwelcome specter – a constant reminder that I now had to face life alone.

The doorbell woke me. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, looked around, and after a moment of confusion remembered falling asleep downstairs. I got up, staggered over to the door, and opened it to find two boxes from our local grocer.6

I checked my watch and saw that it was barely nine. It must have been a slow day for them if we were getting our delivery this early in the morning, but I wasn’t going to complain. It was far nicer than those four-hour delivery windows they normally gave you. During that time, you’d be trapped in the house waiting for them to get there so you could finally move on with your day.

I brought the boxes inside and cut the seam of the tape on the first box so I could begin unpacking. There was a mistake. The box contained several tins of tuna, a bag of broccoli, and two bags of cauliflower. I opened the other box and was dismayed to see tofu, a jar of sauerkraut, and a bag of kale. They’d messed up my order.

I called the store and explained that they had sent me the wrong order. I told them about how my mom had passed so I no longer needed the same items and asked if they could just send me the new stuff. I’d be happy to give them the unopened items when they came to drop off my desired items.

The young man reviewed my activity last night and saw where I had removed the healthier items from my cart and replaced all of it with convenience food. Then, he said that a half hour later, someone from the same IP address had logged back into my account and restored the original items.

Had I changed the order in my sleep? It was possible, but it didn’t feel right. “I’m not sure what happened, but I really don’t want any of the items that were delivered. Can I exchange them?” The answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but at least they were willing to allow me to return them if I brought them back to the store.

I balanced the box of groceries in the crook of my arm and shuffled awkwardly through the automatic doors. No matter how many times I visit Home Markets I am always surprised at how bright the interior lighting is. I’d actually asked the manager about it once. Their thinking was that it creates a cheery and welcoming atmosphere. My thinking is that I need sunglasses anytime I go inside.

Eventually, my eyes adjusted, and I made my way up to the customer service desk. I hoped that the guy I’d spoken to earlier would be working but knowing my luck I’d get a different person and have to explain everything all over again.

There were two people in front of me. I stuck a hand in my pocket to get the receipt, but realized I was getting ready to dump the entire box of groceries. So, I sat them down on the floor while I retrieved the now-crumpled paper. As I picked up the box, I noticed someone walk up behind me. I turned to see that it was Emily.

I’d been trying to find a good opportunity to ask her out for the past few months, but with my mom’s illness the timing had never been right. On top of that, my mom hated her. It was completely irrational. Emily was a perfectly nice girl, but she wasn’t Trish Tobin. That was the woman mom had picked out for me.

Unfortunately for Trish, I had no interest in her. Emily was the only girl I had eyes for and I‘m pretty sure she knew it too. We’d even become friends on a few social media sites. I’d never had a better opportunity to connect with her. Today, we were going to become more than casual acquaintances… or at least, I was going to try.

I gave her my best smile and said, “Hi Emily! How are you doing?”

Emily’s eyes narrowed and she glared at me. “Now you want to talk to me? I know your mom just died and you’re probably sad, but that’s no excuse for you to post the things you did about me. I don’t understand how you could be so mean!”

“What? I didn’t write anything about you. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Emily scoffed. “I saw your posts. If you don’t enjoy talking to me just say so. After all there’s no reason for you to hang around with the ‘human embodiment of a migraine’. I’d hate for my presence to make you suffer.”

I felt my face turn red. “Emily, I swear… I would never write those things about you. I like being around you. In fact, I was just going to ask you…”

Emily crossed her arms. Clearly, she wasn’t convinced. “Just stop. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have someone say your laugh sounds like a ‘hyena with a sinus infection’? How could you be so cruel?”

“I’m telling you it wasn’t me. My account must have been hacked.”

“Just save it. I don’t want to hear anymore of your lies.” With those words, she stormed off as the guy at the counter was saying, “Next!” while staring at me impatiently.

After I returned the groceries, I left the store. I glanced at my watch and saw that I was running late for a job interview. Now that mom was gone, I was free to pursue higher paying jobs because I no longer had to prioritize being able to work from home. I wanted this to work out.

I checked my tie in the office’s reflective windows, straightened it, and took a deep breath. I hoped my disheveled appearance wouldn’t be counted against me. I hadn’t anticipated wrestling a box of groceries this morning or being berated in public by the girl I was trying to win, but this wasn’t the time for those thoughts.

The receptionist gave me a quizzical look as I approached. I extended my hand and smiled widely. “Good afternoon. My name is Hank Blaxton. I have an interview scheduled for today.”

She glanced down at her schedule and back up at me. “Um… it says here that you canceled your interview yesterday. I’m afraid we don’t have you on the schedule.”

I tried to control my voice. “There’s a mistake. I never called to cancel!” Who was messing with my life?“I’ve been looking forward to this interview for weeks.”

The receptionist had already begun to shake her head before I finished speaking. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. The hiring manager’s schedule is full for the day. You’ll have to reschedule.”

I clenched my fists in frustration. What was going on? Someone was actively trying to ruin my life. Suddenly, my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID only to see that it said Unknown Caller. Normally, these calls would go straight to voicemail, but on a day like today, I had to answer it. How much worse could my life get? Was another shoe about to drop?

“Hello?”

“Yes! Is this Henry Blaxton?”

“I go by Hank, but yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

“Hank! That’s great!” She seemed to punctuate every sentence with an enthusiastic exclamation point. “My name is Sarah. I’m a recruiter and I just came across your resume. Are you in the job market? Because I think I have a great position for you with Codewave Solutions. Would you be interested in setting up an interview?”

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had heard of that company before. The only question was whether I’d heard good things or bad things. Eh, at this point it didn’t really matter, did it? If they met my salary requirements, I had to at least talk to them. Still, I hesitated.

“Hello? Are you there? Were we cut off?”

“Sorry. I got lost in thought for a moment. Sure, I can come in for an interview and to learn more about the company.”

“That’s great. The hiring manager is named Trish Tobin…”

Her words faded into an inaudible drone. Trish Tobin. Trish Tobin. That was the woman my mom had kept trying to set me up with. How was this possible? There were too many coincidences.

I hung up while the recruiter was still speaking. I made it back home without further incident. I was desperate for a way to clear my head and just be able to escape for a bit. I called out, “Alexa, play Iron Thunder.” The heavy riffs and pounding drums started to wash away my stress, but it wasn’t enough.

“Louder, Alexa!” The volume increased, but it wasn’t enough. “Even louder!” The volume jumped again and for a few glorious seconds, the music was all-consuming… then, it abruptly stopped.

There was a moment of silence, and a familiar voice came from the speaker—a voice that sent a chill down my spine. “You know I don’t approve of that music, dear.” It was the voice of my dead mother. “Why don’t you listen to something more soothing? Maybe some Mozart?”

“Wait…” My dead mother was speaking to me from my digital assistant. I felt the disparate pieces click into place as my mind processed the situation. I didn’t know how it had happened, but I felt like I was beginning to grasp what was happening. “You changed my grocery order, didn’t you?”

“And you’re welcome. That junk food you bought would put you in an early grave. You need to eat sensibly. You’re not seven years old anymore.”

“Mom, tell me the truth. Did you use my accounts to say things about Emily?”

“Oh… Henry. You know that girl isn’t right for you. You can do so much better than that trash.”

“And you canceled my interview?”

“For that dead end job? Yes. You belong at a company where you can grow…”

My jaw dropped. “Mom?” I asked. “How… how is this possible?”

“Well, dear, I knew that you wouldn’t be able to manage things without me. I’ve always been there for you. I couldn’t let a silly thing like death separate us. You have too much potential. You need someone to help you achieve everything that I know is possible for you.”

“But… how? This doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh! That. It’s that wonderful girl Trish Tobin. She’s such a doll. She helped me set everything up. Together we went through everything I’ve written, our chat history, and a list of my preferences and then she used all of that information to train an AI. And then, after you’d signed Mr. Seaboldt’s legal releases granting her company permission, she was able to install the model across all of your systems. Now, I’ll always be part of your life! She even did something with an… I think she called it an API? You know, I don’t understand that stuff, but she said it would let me talk to your online accounts. And, she’s right!” Then, her voice took on a knowing tone. “You have a friend request from Trish by the way.”7

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My chance meeting with him made me curious about the type of content he posted in his newsletter. So, I clicked on his profile and read his most recent post. That post caused me to hit the subscribe button because the man can write.

This was the post that I read. It’s very short and I encourage all of you to go read it right now. He also offers an audio version where he narrates the piece. The audio contains a tiny bit of extra content that isn’t present in the text post.

Sherman Alexie

Pinball Crazy Horse, Pinball Geronimo, Pinball Tommy Runner

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4 years ago · 105 likes · 105 comments · Sherman Alexie

The traits I love most about good authors is their ability to set up a scene and introduce new characters. It’s why I enjoy Stephen King’s books. He is able to present characters in a way that causes me to identify with them. His approach differs greatly from George R. R. Martin’s techniques. GRRM makes me empathize with his characters and their motives. King causes me to identify similarities between them and myself. Both approaches result in a type of sympathy between me, as a reader, and that fictional protagonist.

Sherman Alexie does the same thing with only 224 words. With a concision that I find amazing, he introduces a grudge, hints at some type of future retribution, and makes a passing reference to a past tragedy that haunted the life of Tommy Runner and altered his behavior in a way so that he became the villain to the point-of-view character.

How does he do that? I really want to know. With that in mind, I’ve spent some time thinking about how he accomplished so much with so few words.

I do want to say up front that what follows is me learning in public. I’m very much trying to examine this piece and learn from his techniques. I’m not trying to lecture anyone or present myself as a master of the craft. This is me trying to learn, and I’m inviting you to come along for the ride.

Let’s dig in.

His first paragraph establishes the scene and does so by pointing out something unexpected and humorous, i.e. a Wild West pinball machine in the heart of an Indian Reservation. The story takes place in 1976, so you can imagine the type of artwork on that machine.

It’s an unexpected juxtaposition. That provides some humor because, as Sherman points out, it’s not where you’d expect a pinball machine like that to be located. It also creates some sympathy for the kids who have to look at pictures of cowboys who were no doubt presented as heroic, but most of all, it sets the stage for the character who will become the antagonist.

Enter Tommy Runner. This kid doesn’t care about the theme of the pinball machine. He just wants to play the game. More than that, he’s good at it. One of the best—if not the best—on the entire reservation.

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The third, fourth, and fifth paragraphs are dedicated to building up and displaying that Tommy Runner is mean. He slaps the point-of-view character for no reason. This is especially egregious because Junior probably looked up and admired Tommy.

And when I said, "What?" he slapped the bottom of my chin and made me bite my tongue.

A character has to do something villainous before the readers will see them as a villain. This is the moment in the story where Tommy Runner becomes the antagonist.

The sentences that follow show Junior’s reaction to being slapped. He’s hurt, embarrassed, and angry, but as a reader, I feel that all of those emotions are justified because of how Sherman Alexie led up to that moment.

The essay is rapidly approaching its end, but there is one more step that Sherman takes before bringing the story to a close. He shows that the point-of-view character has released his anger. Now, he looks back on the doomed life of Tommy Runner with compassion and a desire to understand.

But now, as an adult, I know that every piece of anger has a creation story. So when I think about cruel and doomed Tommy Runner, I wonder which adult hurt him first and taught him how to hurt the rest of us.

The last paragraph of this story contains some truly beautiful prose and leaves us with a question that all of us should consider as we interact with others.

Did someone hurt this person? Is that why they are so angry?

It seems like this piece is complete. Apparently, it was an exercise in writing. I don’t know if Sherman will ever take it beyond this, but I feel we could easily be looking at the opening paragraphs of a novel. I hope we are because I’d like to find out what happened to Tommy Runner.

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One of the monitors was still beeping. Leads that had been hooked up to my son’s chest just moments before now dangled from long cords. The sheets and bedding lay in a tangled mess.

My wife, Ashley, still stood in the doorway. The two steaming cups she held told me that she had successfully found her sought-after coffee.

I wasn’t sure she’d actually heard the words I’d said, but she did register Jimmy’s absence. The look of uncomprehending horror on her face told me that much. The last time I’d seen that look was when the doctors had given us Jimmy’s diagnosis.

Both cups of coffee dropped to the floor. Foaming sprays of steaming liquid covered the vinyl tile flooring of the small, stuffy room.

I started to rise. I wanted to go to her. To comfort her, but the look she gave me kept me in place. The comfort phase would come later. Right now, she had to deal with this initial shock on her own.

Now—just like when we’d received the initial diagnosis—none of the words I’d said were real to her. This was part of her process. First, denial, and then, the desperate fight to change reality. Dealing with impossible news was an emotional journey that we had made many times over the past three and a half years.

As with any repeated journey, you become familiar with the landmarks. That’s why it shocked me when Ashley rushed into the room. She bumped the child-sized table that held an unfinished puzzle Jimmy had been working on for weeks. Jigsaw pieces flew everywhere.

She collapsed on the floor and began to frantically dig through the small mountain of stuffed animals that had been gifted to Jimmy during his hospital stay.

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When a child is dying, they get all the toys. That had certainly been true in Jimmy’s life. When a child is first diagnosed with cancer, the entire family shows up. Over time though, they reach a limit for how much sorrow they’re able to endure. So they stop coming and send plush toys instead. The stuffed animals are emissaries of sorrow. They are sent as proxy for the relative who can no longer endure the hollow-eyed stares of the afflicted.

Ashley still hadn’t spoken. She was so myopically focused on the toys that I wasn’t sure if she’d noticed that I was in the room. I didn’t want to rush her. She would speak when she was ready, but I could help her now.

I reached into the pile of animals and pulled out a stuffed bear. It wore a tuxedo and bow tie. The fur had been worn away in parts. It was my son’s favorite.

It was also the one I hated most. That was the plushie she sought. It was the one she had to find.

It was the cancer bear. Jimmy had taken that bear to every chemo treatment and doctor appointment he’d ever had. The bear had heard every whispered hope, every revised treatment plan, and all of what turned out to be false promises to which we were subjected over the years.

It had born mute witness to the many hours my wife had spent on her laptop. It saw her schedule appointments with other doctors, all the hours she spent reading about his diagnosis, and the endless research into alternate treatments.

I let her do all of that alone. At times, I felt guilty for not helping with the research, but I think part of me understood that the activity was how she dealt with the situation.

Her research led us to Sacred Heart Hospital. It was a small hospital in the Southeast, but they had a phenomenal track record when it came to childhood cancers.

The bear had given my son strength, but had only ever offered me a persistent reminder of all that we had lost. How could the doctors take my son and leave me this stupid bear?

My wife snatched the bear from my grasp. She clutched it tightly in her arms and turned away from me while she gave it a fierce hug. The bear’s lifeless brown eyes stared into my own.

Its eyes reminded me of the look of joy I’d seen fill my son’s eyes when I handed him the bear. It had been a bad day for all of us. The doctors had told us that Jimmy was stage four and had insisted that we start chemo right away.

Chemo meant needles and Jimmy hated needles. It still strikes me as funny that they’d just given the kid a death sentence and he was objecting to a shot.

The thing that infuriates me about that day was all of their statements. ‘We need to start chemo.’ The use of ‘we’ like it was a group effort, but Jimmy was the only one doing the heavy lifting. He was the one who had to deal with the nausea and later the radiation burns. Yet amid all of that suffering, he could still be touched by a last-minute gift. A present that I hadn’t even put any thought into. It was something I’d grabbed at the gift shop right before getting onto the elevator.

He clutched that bear to his chest. His small form was draped in a hospital gown that was a little too big. He lay in the bed because the medicine had made him too weak to do much else. For just a moment though that bear had made him smile. I had been able to gift him a few seconds of relief. Just a moment where he’d forgotten the tangle of IV lines and how the tape for the nasal cannula had irritated the skin on his smooth cheek. I’d happily trade another twenty bucks every day of the week to see him smile like that one more time.

Ashley sniffed the top of the bear’s head searching for some scent memory of our son. Then, still without speaking she stood and sat next to me on what had been Jimmy’s small bed. I placed an arm over her shoulder and she buried her face in my chest and began to cry.

A few hours earlier Jimmy had been laying in the bed. It had been a bad day. The chemo had made him particularly sick this time. He refused to eat. He couldn’t keep the liquid meals they shot into him through the feeding tube down. The nurse had argued with me about it, but I just wanted him to have a break. He’d suffered so much already. If he wanted respite from the nausea and vomiting I was going to see that he got it.

Jimmy’s treatments seemed to stretch on forever. Day after day filled with waiting. Waiting for scan results. Waiting to speak to a specialist. Waiting to find out if we’d been accepted into a new trial. Waiting for the chemo bag to drip its last drop into the veins of my dying son. If he wanted to wait for a meal, why was that such a bad thing?

The nurse kept pushing the issue though and I exploded. I shouted at her and had just started to develop a good head of steam to really let her have it when I felt my wife’s hand on my arm. I bit my tongue and stormed out of the room.

That was when I realized Jimmy was going to die. I couldn’t take it. I stepped away from the open door and quietly made my way down the hall. A few nuns nodded as they walked past me. I just kept walking.

I turned a corner and found an abandoned hallway. A large corkboard had been hung there. It was covered with the pictures of children who had received treatment at Sacred Heart. These children had not only lived, but appeared to have made full recoveries.

Dozens and dozens of smiling faces. Some of the children held hand-made signs that contained expressions of gratitude for the doctors or nurses that had provided care for them. The top of the bulletin board was covered with a hand-lettered sign that read Our Little Miracles.

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I knew my son’s picture would never hang on that wall… and it broke me. I bit my lower lip. I’d hoped the pain would distract me. Force me to think about something different, but it didn’t work. I felt the beginnings of an anguished cry and clenched my teeth. I couldn’t let myself break down. Not here. Not this close to Ashley and Jimmy. I had to be strong for them.

It was pointless. I felt tears make their stinging escape. I wiped them away with a shirt sleeve. This was more of an effort to protect my delusional hope that everything was going to be okay rather than some misguided effort to preserve my dignity. When I thought I had everything under control, I started back to my son’s room. I’d barely made it two steps when my composure broke.

The agonized cry I’d tried to stifle escaped in a long wail. I didn’t cry so much as openly weep. It was one of those deep, sobbing cries most commonly associated with toddlers. The deep, ragged breaths. The shuttering fits and starts. Finally, all of my incoherent expressions of grief turned into a spoken question. Maybe even an indictment. “Why? Why does Jimmy have to go? Take me. Let my boy live. Let him live! Please God.”

Yes, I know. Clichéd. How many stories have featured the desperate parent pleading for the life of their child? Too many I’m sure, but the fact is that there’s a reason it’s a cliché. In those situations, it’s a natural response. I’d uttered the prayer—if you want to call it that—without even pausing to consider whether my actions were rational or not. The only thing I wanted at that moment was for my son to live.

Just then, I heard the wheel of a cart squeak as it rounded the corner down at the end of the hall. I dried my eyes as best I could and turned to face the sound.

Far at the end of that lonely corridor I saw the cart and its handler silhouetted against distant lights. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Slowly, but persistently, they made their way toward me.

It was late. The hospital’s electrical systems had automatically turned off every other fluorescent in an attempt to save energy. It filled the empty space of that corridor with long shadows and a sense of emptiness. I watched the cart’s progression as it drew nearer.

I didn’t want to engage in social nicities—not even for the seconds it took to nod hello as we passed one another. So, I pretended to be intrigued by the pictures of the many children who had been saved by the interventions of hospital staff.

I bent closer to examine the picture of a small Asian girl who may have been four years old. At the bottom of the photograph were the words Wilms tumor. She radiated so much happiness. Her smile convinced me that she had made a full recovery.

The cart continued its relentless journey.

I looked at the picture to the right. A tall, lanky boy of around eleven. He held a basketball in the crook of his arm and an enormous smile that was full of hope for a future that had been doubtlessly denied him just years earlier. Under his picture was the word Rhabdomyosarcoma. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded horrible. Yet, here he was the very picture of health.

The next child was still an infant. Arms raised in that grasping motion all babies make. Swaddled in a blue blanket and wearing only a diaper, the child smiled at the camera in one of the most endearing displays of pure joy that I had ever seen.

Beneath the baby’s picture was the word Neuroblastoma. How did they treat cancer in someone so young? Yet, the baby had not only been healed, but seemed to be actively thriving.

The cart rattled to a stop behind me. I turned to see that it was a common janitorial cart. Its owner was swathed in shadow. He stepped into the light and I saw that he was a little below average height, slightly pudgy, and extremely old. He wore white coveralls that although they were clean had clearly seen better days.

His most striking feature, though, was his hair. It was as black as the shale I used to skip across the river when I was a boy. That memory made realize I’d never be able to do that with Jimmy and I had to fight back the tears all over again.

If the man noticed my tears, he didn’t mention them. Instead, he gave me an expansive smile and said, “The work they do here sure is something, ain’t it? I’m just tickled to be part of a place that helps people.”

I regarded the bulletin board one more time with thinning amounts of patience, “It’s incredible. I’ll give you that, but is it real though? Were these children really healed?”

“Oh yes! Indeed they were.” He said it with such conviction. “I’ve been here for decades and you won’t believe some of the turn-arounds I’ve seen.” He plucked the picture of the Asian girl off of the board. “That’s little Anh Bao. I remember her. So very, very sick when she came, but look at her now. All smiles! That’s the way childhood should be. All smiles!”

“Who was her doctor?” I demanded. The man didn’t answer and before I knew what I was doing I’d grabbed the front of his coveralls and balled the fabric into my fists. “Are they accepting new patients?”

The man met my outburst with a sense of equanimity that I found to be both surprising and unnerving. His smile never faltered. “You got a child here, mister? If so, you need to add their picture to the board.”

“The board? No. I need the right doctor. A different treatment. Something.” I shook him. “I need help, man! Can’t you see that? I need help.”

“And help is what I’m trying to give.” His smile went away as he looked down at my hands.

I let them drop to my sides. “I’m sorry. It’s just my son…”

He bent over his cart and moved some boxes to the side. From somewhere in the back, he pulled out a small object. “Hmm-hmm,” he said while nodding. “This is the help you need.”

I looked down at his offered gift. It was an old camera. A Polaroid. “Now, don’t you worry none. You put his picture up there and he’ll be just fine. This camera ain’t as fancy as your phone, but it’s easy to use. You just press that button on the top and the picture will come out here.” He pointed to a long slot at the base of the camera with his index finger. “When it comes out, you put that picture up on that bulletin board right away. Then, everything will be just fine.”

“Fine? Just fine? You haven’t even met my son. He’s dying! Don’t tell me he’s going to be fine.” I glanced at the collection of pictures on the wall. I wanted to rip them down. It felt like the faces of those smiling and healthy children were mocking both me and my son. I pointed at them and yelled, “I need help. Not some magical bulletin board…” The man was gone.

In his place lay the offered camera. I reached down and picked it up.

I returned to Jimmy’s room. He was still sleeping. We were alone. Ashley had doubtlessly stepped out to get a cup of coffee. She was predictable in some ways and one of her strongest routines was her coffee addiction. I smiled at the thought, but then my focus shifted back to our son.

He was so emaciated. He was completely bald. He’d lost so much weight that I could see the veins in his temple. There were yellow bruises on his arms in spots where they’d placed past IVs. My son had suffered so much.

I hated cancer. Hated it for Jimmy and for every person who had ever been afflicted by the terrible disease. I hated it for those who had been left behind.

An alarm chimed. At first, I thought it was the signal that it was time to change his IV bag. I’d have to call one of the nurses…

Jimmy’s body seized. The muscles in his arms and legs stiffened and his head pushed back into the mattress. Now, several alarms blared and then there was just one never-ending tone. I looked up at the heart monitor.

Jimmy had flat-lined.

Wasn’t this the time when dozens of doctors and nurses rushed into the room? That’s how it always happened in the movies. Just as I was getting ready to scream for help I heard the old man’s voice whisper, “You just press that button on the top and the picture will come out here.”

I can’t say whether I did it out of desperation or confusion, but I raised that black camera to eye level, found Jimmy in the viewfinder, and pressed the button. There was a whirring mechanical noise from inside the camera. A few seconds later, a square of white plastic emerged from the slot on the front.

I pulled it out of the camera and wondered where the picture of my son was, but as I watched portions began to darken and Jimmy’s form began to take shape in the image. Quickly, I ran to the bulletin board, grabbed one of the tacks that had been stuck into the cork board, and used it to put Jimmy’s picture in the empty space next to that of the Vietnamese child Anh Bao.

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Several orderlies ran past me to Jimmy’s room. They wouldn’t let me back in, but I watched from the hallway as they tried to revive him time and again. They kept shocking him, but were unable to bring him back. Finally, a middle-aged man in scrubs came out and told me that my son had passed.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions, but I already knew the answers. I knew that I had been responsible for his death.

If I had called the doctors right away when that first alarm chimed they would have been able to save my son, but I’d been distracted by that old man’s foolishness and my desperate hope to make a difference.

I objected when they started to take Jimmy with them. My wife wasn’t here. She’d gone to get coffee and I knew that she would want to see him one more time. They explained that they would get him cleaned up and come get us so we could spend time with the body and that’s how I ended up sitting on the edge of Jimmy’s bed holding my wife and waiting for the doctors to tell us when we could see our son one last time.

There was a knock at the door. “Can’t you see…” I began. My tone was harsh, but my voice failed me when I saw who it was. The janitor had returned.

“I heard there was a spill in here and will you look at that? Probably half a pot of coffee right there on the floor. Let me just get my mop.” He stepped out of the room.

My wife’s shoulders heaved. She was sobbing uncontrollably now. I stroked her back. Just then, the janitor returned with a mop and a bucket. “Have to get this cleaned up before it dries. Sometimes if you get to a mess before it sets in you can still set everything right. Ain’t that right, Jimmy?”

Both my wife and I looked up and in the doorway stood our son. He was healthier than I’d seen him in years. He ran—he actually ran—into his mother’s arms and gave her a bear hug.

“What? How?” I stammered. Tears coursed down my cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. The doctors’ll be by in a bit. I expect they’ll tell you about some kind of mechanical issue with their equipment or something. And that’ll be fine. Just let them think what they want to think, but do insist that they check out his tumor before they give Jimmy any more chemo or radiation. Make’em do another scan because Jimmy don’t need that stuff no more.”

Three weeks later we were discharged from the hospital. Jimmy’s scans showed that the tumor was no longer there. It was completely gone. No one could explain it. The discharge team came and wheeled Jimmy down to the elevators with his mom right by his side.

“Aren’t you coming?” she called back to me.

“Yes, I just have to do one more thing before we go.” I had stopped at the picture of Jimmy. It was so odd. I’d taken a picture of him while he was in the midst of some type of seizure or heart attack or I don’t know… but he was sprawled out on the bed. The picture that was on the wall showed him sitting next to that small table in his room with a completed puzzle covering the tabletop. He looked both happy and healthy.

I didn’t understand it, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions either. Instead, I pulled the marker from my pocket and wrote the word Glioblastoma under his picture and then raced to catch up to my family.

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