The Beast on the Tracks Read online

  Copyright 2019 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  First published: November 2019

  A railroad runs straight through the heart of Sobolton. Even through the cemetery. Everyone knows the railroad is abandoned, that no trains pass through the town. Everyone, that is, except those who hear the call of a ghostly whistle late at night.

  Late one night, two very damaged individuals meet at a party. Milly is haunted by an accident in the forest, while Richard is running from the consequences of a terrible mistake. As the stars above Sobolton burn brighter than ever, the forces of fate seem determined to push Milly and Richard together. Or is the beast on the tracks simply reaching out and trying to draw them closer?

  Soon, Milly and Richard discover the horrifying truth about the beast, and about its endless hunger for blood. Trapped in the clutches of a powerful evil, they search for a way out. But will their escape require them to make the ultimate sacrifice? And what dark force lurks in the heart of the beast itself?

  The Beast on the Tracks is a horror novel about two people who have done terrible things, about an evil force that reaches from coast to coast, and about the possibility of redemption.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Yes

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two

  No

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Part Three

  Either Way

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Part Four

  Destination

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Part Five

  All Change

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Beast on the Tracks

  Prologue

  Tonight...

  As soon as I set eyes on her, I know: she's the one. This is meant to be.

  She's standing in the kitchen, slightly separate from the rest of the party. Most people are in the front room or the hallway, or on the balcony, but she's next to the fridge and she looks... isolated. Different. Of course, standing in the kitchen at a party is not so unusual. I've done it myself plenty of times. When you hate parties but feel compelled to go to them a lot, you always gravitate toward the kitchen. So I understand her, I get her, and that's a good thing. Wow, we haven't even made eye contact yet and we already have so much in common.

  I just need to not be creepy about this.

  I know I can be creepy, I just have that slightly 'off' manner. That goes away when you get to know me properly, but first impressions are everything and I can definitely seem a little intense. So as I loiter in the hallway and continue to look through at her, I'm already trying to think of ways I can go through there and introduce myself. We need a 'meet cute', as they call it these days. Girls like a good story about how they meet you, don't they? Something to tell their friends and family when they introduce you. Something to maybe tell the grandkids some day. Everyone's a sucker for a story.

  She looks so perfect. I need to be careful with this one.

  At the same time, I'm already inching forward, through the crowd in the darkened hallway and toward the light of the kitchen doorway. It's like I can't help myself. If I had an infinite amount of time, I know I could come up with a really witty opening line, but time is pressing and I need to be quick. Already, she's sipping at her can of beer with all the insouciance of someone who's considering skipping this rather lame party. Does she have a hundred other invitations all lined up for the night, or would she rather be home in her slippers and PJ's? She looks cool, but in a detached kind of way, like she doesn't really need the hassle of being at a party tonight.

  We are so perfect for one another.

  I need more time, but I'm still shuffling toward the doorway like a moth to a flame. Dammit, sometimes I'm my own worst enemy. People are bumping against me and occasionally pushing past, and yelling at one another, and generally being sloppy drunk, but somehow I'm managing to phase them out of my awareness as I focus fully on the girl at the fridge. I keep telling myself that I'm going to think of some way to be sophisticated here, that I'm going to think of the absolute perfect introduction, but – as I reach the doorway – I know that I'm running short on time. I just need to come up with the perfect first line, the perfect way to introduce myself. I won't get a second chance at this, so I need to get it just right.

  “Move, moron!”

  Suddenly I'm shoved hard in the back. I stumble forward, into the kitchen, and half fall against the table. I drop my can of beer and it lands on the table, and it immediately falls and starts spilling. I grab it and set it upright, but I've already lost about half. Bent over the table, I feel a flicker of anger in my chest.

  “Someone's had one of mine,” I hear Rob Foster say as he and his buddy start rooting through the fridge.

  Looking across the kitchen, I see that the fridge door is wide open now. I freeze, looking around to see where the girl has gone, but there's no sign of her. Has she gone? Did the arrival of these neanderthal numbskulls cause her to hurry away? I wouldn't blame her, but then she might be gone forever. All my hard work and careful planning might hav been for naught, and I hold my breath as I listen to the sound of Rob and his fellow idiot rifling through the fridge.

  Finally they slam the fridge door shut and turn to head back through to the front room, carrying six-packs of beer as they go.

  “Next time don't block the door, dumbass,” Rob says to me with a grin.

  He and his friend leave the kitchen, and for a moment I'm lost for words. Looking over toward the fridge, I realize that there's no sign of the girl. She's gone. One moment of brutality has sent that fragile, beautiful creature spinning off into the winter's night with no hope of return, and I let out an admittedly maudlin sigh as I start coming to terms with the fact that I'll mo
st likely never see her again.

  “Nice puddle.”

  Startled, I turn and see the girl standing next to the doorway, watching me with a puzzled, curious smile on her face.

  “Your beer,” she continues. “You spilled some when those neanderthals shoved you out of the way.”

  Turning, I look at the puddle of beer that's now spread all the way to the other side of the table. My mind is racing, but for a moment I genuinely don't know how to react. Finally, however, I realize that bending over a table is probably not a good look, so I get to my feet. All I need is to come up with some cool retort, something snappy and witty that'll salvage the situation, and then I'll be right on track. Of course, with each passing millisecond I'm starting to look more and more like a complete idiot.

  “I don't even know why I'm here,” she says eventually, breaking the silence. She seems nervous, but she's smiling. She has a beautiful smile. “Peer pressure, I guess. You know when someone begs you to go to a party with you, absolutely begs you, and then ditches you after about half an hour? What's that all about, huh?”

  I try to think of something to say.

  “Sorry,” she adds, “I'm disturbing you. I didn't mean to. Please, go about your business.”

  “No, I'm fine,” I reply. “Thank you.”

  I wait for her to say something, but after a moment I realize that she seems to be doing the same thing. This is where most people would come up with a witty comment, but instead I stand like an animal caught in the headlights. The problem is, the more I think about how I'm not saying anything, the less likely I am to actually come up with a humorous quip or a jolly observation. I'm really in a downward spiral here, I'm circling the social drain, and I'm starting to think that the whole situation is completely irretrievable.

  “Someone should wipe that up,” she says, heading to the cooker and grabbing a dishcloth, then making her way past me.

  I turn and watch as she starts wiping up the mess on the table.

  “Right, yeah,” I say, flinching slightly as I realize that I should have done that. “Sorry, I didn't think.”

  “It's no biggie.” She works carefully, and for a moment I'm mesmerized by sight of her hands as she expertly manhandles the dishcloth. I don't mean this in a critical way, but I think her fingers are just slightly longer than average, although that might be an illusion caused by the bright red varnish on her nails.

  There are no rings on her fingers. In fact, she doesn't seem to be wearing any jewelry at all, which is good. I prefer plain, unadorned girls.

  “There,” she says as she finishes wiping up the spill, “no harm done. My mother would be so proud of me. I come to a crazy party, and I spend my time cleaning up in the kitchen.”

  She takes the dishcloth back to where she found it, then she finishes her beer and pops the can into an already overflowing recycling bin.

  I should say something, but all I can think about is the fact that I didn't wipe the table clean myself. Why didn't I think of that? This girl must think that I'm completely helpless, and I know from experience that helplessness is not a good look. Girls like a guy who seems to be in control, whereas I tend to hold back and wait to see how a situation plays out first. Even now, even though I know I'm aware of this failing, I don't understand how to fix it. I look around and try to see something I can use to my advantage, something to take control of, but really there's nothing. It's just a kitchen.

  “I'm heading off, then,” the girl says.

  I turn to her, and I realize that I've failed.

  “Nice to meet you,” she continues tentatively, with a faint smile. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the party. It's just not for me.”

  “Sure,” I reply, nodding as if I understand. Which I do. I think.

  “I'll be going this way, then,” she adds, pointing toward the door that leads through to the hallway. “This party's just not for me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah.”

  She stares at me for a moment, as if she's waiting for something. This kind of thing happens to me so often, and I'm still really bad at coming up with answers. Some people just seem to have witty, intelligent sentence pop into their heads from nowhere, whereas all I can think is that I must look like a complete idiot. I guess maybe I'm just doomed to always be like this, to overthink myself into a complete silent wreck. And, at the same time, to make myself seem even creepier than before.

  “See you around, then,” she says, before turning and slipping out of the room.

  And she's gone.

  What's wrong with me. Left alone in the kitchen, I start to think of all sorts of vaguely amusing comments I could have made. Now that she's gone, the tension has been lifted and I feel much more like myself, but of course it's far too late for me to actually rescue the situation. It's as if there are two of me: there's the version of me who can be charming and amusing when he's left alone to think of things to say, and then there's the version of me who clams up in company and can barely get out two words. Sometimes I think I'm just doomed to always be like this. Sometimes I think I'll never be comfortable with another human being.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I turn to see that the girl is back, leaning through the doorway and grinning at me.

  “Wanna come with me?” she asks.

  I stare at her.

  “You're clearly not having much fun here either,” she continues. “I'm gonna walk home, I live over near Eden Hills. I was just thinking, if you're heading that way as well, we could walk together.”

  I swallow hard.

  Why is my throat so dry?

  “Never mind,” she adds, “I'm sorry to have bothered you. Please, enjoy the rest of the -”

  “Wait!” I stammer, taking a step forward.

  Her smile grows. She must think there's something wrong with me.

  “It's okay,” she continues, “I didn't mean to put any pressure on you. It's just that most people live in the Eden Hills direction and I thought you looked like maybe you weren't going to stick around either. So we could walk together, that's all.”

  “Right,” I reply, although my mind is racing as I try to work out how a cool person would respond.

  “It's not a trick question,” she adds. “Do you want to leave this party right now and walk home with me? Yes or no?”

  YES

  Chapter One

  Milly

  Tonight...

  “Yes,” he replies, although he looks a little shocked by his own decision.

  I wait for him to come over to me, but he seems totally frozen in place. I like him, he's silent in a quirky kinda way, but he also seems totally socially awkward. In fact, I'm starting to wonder whether he's ever been to a party or talking to a girl before in his life. It's a good job for him, then, that he has that kind of hot, fish out of water aspect to his character. Because that's enough to make me stay interested.

  “Milly,” I say, stepping fully into the doorway and reaching a hand out toward him.

  “I'm sorry?” he replies.

  “My name,” I continue. Man, this guy is bad at smalltalk. Was I this bad when I was starting out? “I'm Milly.”

  “Oh.” He hesitates, and then he steps forward and reaches out to shake my hand. Even now, he seems nervous and unsure of himself.

  “Has anyone seen a ferret?” a voice shouts in the corridor. “My ferret got loose! Has anyone seen Elmo?”

  “And your name is...?” I have to ask, ignoring whatever's going on out there in the rest of the party.

  “Right! Richard!”

  “Richard. Cool.”

  We finally shake hands, and I can't help but notice that his skin is so smooth and soft. I always hate it when men have tough, calloused hands. I mean, I'm not a snob, I don't have a problem with people who work hard for a living. In fact, in some ways, I really respect that, but smooth skin just feels so much more manly. I want to ask if he uses lotion, but I figure that might be a tad too personal at this early juncture.
Still, I let my hand linger on his for a moment, enjoying the experience.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I pull my hand away, worried that I got a little carried away just now.

  “For what?” I ask.

  He hesitates, and it's clear that he doesn't know. Great, a spontaneous apologiser. I guess that can also be kind of cute.

  “So,” I continue, “this party is lame, and lame parties are the worst. Honestly, this whole night is sapping my will to live, and I need to get out of here before I bump into another idiot. I mean, I don't want to pressure you. If you're having a good time -”

  “No!” he blurts out. “I'm not!”

  I can't help smiling. I had this Richard guy pegged as being awkward from the moment I first realized he was watching me from the hallway, but he's seriously the most awkward person I've ever met in my life. He's going to be a real challenge, but I like challenges and I like awkward people. When you get through their weird exteriors, there's always something interesting underneath.

  “So?” I say finally.

  He stares at me.

  “I'm going to find my coat in the front room,” I tell him, figuring that he needs just a little more prodding. He needs a schedule. “I'll meet you outside in the driveway in five minutes. Is that a deal?”

  Chapter Two

  Milly

  Five years ago...

  “She wants to be a what?”

  “Ask her,” Mom says with a grin as she takes a drag on her cigarette. “Go on, just ask her yourself.”

  Dad turns to me, and I can already see that he thinks this is pretty funny. I wish Mom had never told him about our conversation from earlier, although I know it's too late now. I turn and look across the yard, and I clench my teeth as I try to hold back tears.

  “She wants to be a teacher, huh?” Dad says, his voice positively dripping with scorn and derision. “How does a girl who doesn't know anything, think she's gonna get a job as a teacher?”