Reflections of Place

“Even The Dead Tell Stories.”- Marcus Sedgwick- ‘Revolver‘

I  know I’ve never talked much about my childhood and I don’t ever talk about my little brother. But after I tell you this story you’ll understand why I never talk about him and you’ll understand why I never talk about the railroad tracks. 

It was a longtime ago, I was 9 he was almost 5, it was October.

The railroad tracks were always off limits, yet that was probably one of the most alluring parts of it. The rails ran on a high bank above our backyard. Trains came and went from town, we were never really sure where all you could go if you hopped aboard, but we could imagine. 

There were always tales of horror, the ghost that walked the tracks at night- you would only see the light from his lantern shining. The lantern illuminating the track would swing back and forth leaving a trailing arc of light, but never a visible figure walked with the light.

In the fall, around the campfire, someone would always tell the story of the woman who lost her life when she was pushed from the train and she too would roam the tracks after dark and you could hear her crying and sobbing; her haunting cry echoing down the track.

Those tales around the campfire were what drove my little brother to explore the tracks. I saw him as he slowly crept out of the yard and up the bank. I probably should have followed him sooner but I didn’t want him to know I was watching. Not following him closely, that was my first mistake. 

I did follow him, and I watched him creep along the tracks – walking on the rails as if they were a tightrope. Pretending to be a skilled tightrope walker with his arms spread out, side to side, balancing. Then he heard the train whistle and he slipped. The train sounded its warning as it approached town, two long bleeds. It was still a few miles away but getting closer and then I heard him call my name, he saw me. I saw him lying there along the tracks- he screamed – “I’m stuck!” I ran towards him and I could see his foot trapped under the rail, in his tiny shoe.

The train is rumbling down the track. The horn blares twice more growing louder as I quickly try to untie the laces of his shoe. My hands tremble, I feel the vibration of the track. My hands will not cooperate. The horn of the train continues, so I know they see us on the track. I hear the wheels on the train hiss, screech, hiss, screech. The train is trying to stop. My second mistake, I’m unable to loosen his foot from his shoe, I wrap my arms around him and pull and pull. I hear the ripping sound, I lose my balance as the train rushes by. I fall backwards landing on my back, the weight of my brother’s body, or the weight of most of my brother’s body rests on top of me.

Dead weight, but he is screaming. I’m on my back clinging to him. I see the chunks of red being thrown by the train and I hear the thumps bouncing off the tracks, to the train, to the tracks. My heart thumps louder than the pieces beating against the train. I hear the sounds of flesh and bone whacking the train and bouncing off the rails again and again. My ears ring from my brothers screams. I finally manage to stand up holding him in my arms. The train comes to its screeching halt just beyond the point where my brother lost his footing. 

I see shredded and scattered on the tracks the red chunks of my brothers foot mashed and spongy with traces of his favorite shoes. He cries because he has lost a shoe, still too numb to know he has lost a foot. I didn’t know then but my third mistake would be when I handed his bloody, limp body to the man from the train. I watched as he carried my brother aboard the caboose. I see their shadowy figures in the door as the train pulls away. I chase the train. Defeated I jump from the rail bridge into the icy river. I never set eyes on him again. Still to this day, on an October evening I return to the river. It is no longer icy. Then I hear the night train… I hear wailing as it spills from the caboose. It is my brother screaming. His pain floats with me down the river, and he always calls my name. 

Be Well. Stay Safe. Much Love.
Story & Photos: © 2020 Molly Cox