My footsteps creaked and moaned like planks swelling in an old ship as I stepped into the dust-covered study. A bookcase to my left was partially illuminated by the bay window directly in front of me. I stopped and took a moment to slowly inhale the smell of musk and old book pages. The hardwood floor was decayed with cigarette burns and scuff marks surround a rather heavy looking oak desk between myself and the window. A crooked portrait of a man clad in iron armor that I didn’t recognize was displayed along the wall to my right. Id never known my father’s side of the family and I felt strange and out of place attempting to familiarize myself with the layout in property I didn’t feel I belonged.
The news of his suicide came as a shock to me in the form of an attorney calling my cell phone while driving home from my office. My father, James, had left no reasoning; only a key taped to a single sheet of paper with my name and an address written. Now I found myself searching for answers to questions that previously only entered my head on occasion. “Who am I?”. I maneuvered towards the desk and seated myself in a wooden chair. The padding had an impression that led me to believe there had been countless hours spent in the seat. I let my hands lightly explore the top of the desk and feel each imperfection of grain embedded in the wood. My eyes fixed on two drawers on the bottom left hand side. I pulled open the bottom one first and found an old decanter and a glass. Both were slightly yellow, stained from years of containing spirits.
I smiled and gently closed the drawer and retracted the top drawer. The wheels squeaked along their rusty tracks as a leather bound journal entered my view. There were no words on the cover but the pages looked as one might expect. I flipped the cover open slowly to see the worn black script on the inside of the cover: “H. Simmons”. My great grandfather. I pulled out a Marlboro Red 100 as my sweaty palms located my tarnished metal zippo from my coat pocket. I let the flame briefly mesmerize me as I lit my cigarette. Nothing could prepare me as I turned the page to reveal a chapter of his life. My mouth slightly agape as I began reading the detailed words of my blood…his journal.
“My tongue searched the front my my teeth for the loose tobacco leaf from the Regal Oval between my fingertips. I plucked it from the tip of my tongue and discarded it on the hardwood floor of my office. Scattered about on my late father’s desk was the lone envelope, paper serrated from the dull pocket knife I had previously fished out of my slacks. My eyes now glanced beneath my nose to reconsider the pleading case; The Leblanc Manor located off of the Eastern-most coast in Nova Scotia. It read as follows:
“September 30th, 1912
Mr. Simmons,
Two days ago, September 28th, we lost our youngest, Adam, to a disease unidentifiable. This… toxin has left my husband, William, unable to speak. My daughters and I are taking refuge in the guesthouse located on the south side of the property. Please help.
Regards,
Lucille Leblanc”
I took a drag from my cigarette and felt the heat draw nearer between my fingertips as I closed my eyes. The faint crackle of the ash soothed me when on edge. I exhaled through my nose tasting the dry, bitter notes of tobacco while raising my glass of whiskey to my lips. Finger oils and lip smudges stained the glass and I let the liquid sit in a small pool of the tongue for a few seconds before swallowing with delight.
It was with no doubt that this plea had directed its way from hearings of my investigation on Prince Edward Island; a 1908 case that still churned in my head. 6 bodies located in the span of 4 days. The killer was kind enough to leave the rib cages open. In place of the organs was a size-able chunk of rotting whale heart. Proximity of interrogations tightened and led to the suicide of lighthouse keeper, James Macdonald. It never felt like a conclusion, but was received as such.
I leaned back into the worn, wooden chair back…front legs pivoting off the ground from my shifted weight. “Shit.” I sighed out, my words struggling to escape my throat and into the silence as I realized I felt compelled to help…not because I wanted to help, but because I was curious. I slid the drawer of my father’s desk open and peered at my Colt 1903. Loose .32 rounds rolled in the drawer as my hands urgently collected them. I inventoried my firearm and ammunition as I took another sip from my glass.
The cold pane of the window bounced against my forehead as I woke up. The cadence of trains rolling on the railway was always comforting to me. I allowed my hand to drape down my eyes, nose, and mouth once to bring back my alertness. Approximately one day in travels from Virginia. The twilight strained my eyes, but the hue drew me in as I collected a match from my matchbook and brought a cigarette to my lips. There was an overcast threatening the remainder of the evening. The faint image of a mountain range in the distance made me squint my eyes to make out their nearly phantom-like presence. A few generously-sized rain drops now slapped against the pane as exhaled a cloud of smoke. The carriage was occupied by an older gentleman dressed in a brown suit. His wide brim fedora was pulled down and his head limber as he slept, arms crossed. The smell of musky notes from the train car married with cigarette smoke. I fabricated stories about the patron to amuse myself. “Was he alive?” I chuckled to myself. A chain extended from his breast pocket and over his vest indicating he contained a pocket watch. I wondered who gifted it to him or where it came from.
I caught a glimpse of a tunnel winding in the distance. The weather was picking up and new sounds were being introduced at a steady pace. The carriage became a shade darker as the imposing mountain was obstructing the atmosphere. I looked over to notice the man had been studying me. I temporarily locked eyes and entertained a slight nod to which he returned. The rain was becoming more violent…so much so that I almost hadn’t noticed the rhythm of the train slowing. Were we preparing for a sharper turn? I looked behind me at the carriage door just in time for darkness to envelop. We were in the tunnel with the train nearing a complete halt.
The dimly lit car was slowly engulfed by darkness. I patted my inner chest pocket on my tweed coat to reassure the position of my pistol. My nostrils suddenly filled with hot air and sour bourbon. I pulled another match out and struck it against the book. The flames vaguely painted the nearest atmosphere as to my horror; the man’s face was revealed right in front of my eyes.
“Mind if I have one?” The stranger asked as he sat down next to me. I felt the cushion depress and heard an exhale as he took his seat. I pushed a single cigarette forward from the pack and quickly placed the expiring match up to him. As he drew in, I could hear the whistle of his nose push past his poorly groomed mustache. I shook the match out and discarded in a metal tray in the arm rest. My eyes were beginning to adjust and I followed the glow of his burning ash. “Was your destination to the tunnel as well” I asked with a smirk. He reached in his breast pocket and produced a flask that our dancing embers faintly bent around its metallic surface. “Nicholas Eilers.” He responded with a slight chuckle as he tilted the container toward me as an offering. “Henry Simmons.” I raised my eyebrows as though he could see in the darkness and grasped the container. The lid was screwed on tight and portrayed a man that cherished a drink. I removed it and was greeted with the familiar bourbon notes that emitted from his breath. We sat in silence for a moment exchanging the flask and pleasantries without me indulging in the details of my profession or reasoning for travels.
“After the war ended, 56 Yankees lost their way. They vanished without a trace on their trek North. Some say they were swallowed up by the mountains.” Nicholas was staring into the darkness. The sincerity in his voice would have fooled me to think he was deeply connected with each man. I was familiar with the tale, albeit before my time. There was no indication or evidence supporting the claim, but I entertained the conversation. “And you, what do you think became of them?” I inquired under the velvet smoke escaping my lips.
We were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the sliding door of the train car. I could see a figure stumble into the doorway. His staggered footsteps transitioned from the wooden flooring onto carpet. The figure slumped onto the floor with a dead weight that reverberated the seats and partitions. Nicholas moved back in his seat, hands at his sides, almost an attempt at becoming invisible to the situation. “Bring me a light!” I hissed into a whisper as I crouched to the floor while producing my Colt. The sound of a match flaring up was behind me immediately as I moved slowly with caution along the floor. I felt the body and recognized the fabric on a hat to be akin to something an attendant would wear. My fingers grazed down to a warm, damp depression in his chest. I identified 3 puncture wounds in the very least given the poor lighting conditions. “A lantern.” My inebriated ally was clanking about behind me. “No, wait!” I proclaimed. The thought of signaling our positions in a corridor shrouded in darkness entered my head with urgency…but it was too late. The orange globe kissed the walls. Slowly the shadows peeled away from their hiding places and took onto new forms dancing about. I looked back over my shoulder in mild annoyance, but couldn’t blame the look of an innocent man eager to assist in a dire condition. “I want you to move to the back of this car.” I calmly commanded.
He nodded and left the lantern on the carpet and crawled in his hands and knees to the corner of the carriage. I watched him disappear behind the furthest partition and seating. “Not many options.” I knew that moving forward would be a risk not worth taking. I had the disadvantage of lighting as well as surroundings. There were two train cars behind us containing patrons but I could hear no sounds and took note of 5 patrons occupying. My eyes darted around as if the silence would provide a solution. I grabbed the attendant under the arms and seated him up against me, gun still in hand. I temporarily holstered it in my backside while positioning myself underneath his torso to elevate him up in the nearest booth. The weight of his head gave and he slumped down in the booth. I relocated the lantern beside him and took refuge beside the open sliding door. With the door on my right shoulder, and the body positioned in front of me, I waited for the assailant as I clutched the wooden grip of my Colt.
I steadied my breath as I began to hear footsteps creep in the distance from my anticipated direction…”