Welcome back to The Stain, an ongoing serial set in the world of What Remains, from Written Ward.

I had originally planned on wrapping this serial up in six installments, but it appears there’s just a bit more story here. Still, I think things are coming to a close. It will probably be finished by the seventh installment.

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

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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Next in Written Ward

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

- Week One — Original Fiction: A new installment of What Remains

- Week Two — Spoken Ward: A short story worth discussing, what caught my attention, a few questions for its author, and another story recommended by that author

- Week Three — Original Fiction: The next installment of What Remains

- Week Four — Found Treasures: A personal collection of things I’m glad to have found and people whose work I think deserves attention

That rhythm will continue throughout the season. I’ll announce the season finale and the following intermission in advance.

Section divider in the form of an inked quill pen.

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Until next week. Mind the rules!

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