Traintober 2023: Day 31 - Lights Out

Don't Let the Lights Go Out at Crovan's Gate:

The day had ended, and all the engines of the Skarloey Railway were returning to their sheds to rest. Duke had broken down earlier that afternoon, his safety valve popping under all the strain he’d been putting on himself.

“You need to be more careful,” warned Skarloey. Duke raised an eyebrow. “I may have overdone it this time,” Duke admitted with a grumble. “But why are you telling me to be more careful? I saw the number of trucks you were taking.” Skarloey winced – he had taken Duke’s trucks as well as his own, straining his pistons in the process.

“Because… it was only one time,” Skarloey eventually replied. “And we have to be very careful with our health, because if we can’t be mended here in our little workshop… we go over to Crovan’s Gate.”

“I beg your pardon? I only recently came from Crovan’s Gate.” “And it’s a lucky thing you did too,” Skarloey replied ominously. Duke frowned. “You’re not telling me something, Skarloey. We both know that I will find out eventually, so you might as well be honest.”

Skarloey sighed.

“Yes, I’m not telling you something – and for good reason! Crovan’s Gate Works is haunted.” Duke went silent.

The air hung thick around them, the smell of coal, grease and steam hanging inside the poorly ventilated shed.

“Ah,” Duke said at last. Skarloey stared at him in disbelief! “You… think I’m telling the truth?” “I know it,” snorted Duke. “I was around when the Old Iron Bridge was closed; everyone was talking about it up at Peel Godred. This island hides a lot of secrets.” Skarloey chuckled humourlessly at that.

“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “And there’s something that lurks in Crovan’s Gate Works… no… someone.”

The lights outside the shed flickered, and Skarloey frowned. “Those blasted electric wires! Someone needs to fix them. Preferably now – especially with the time of year.” “Why’s that?” asked Duke. Skarloey sighed. “The ghost lurking around Crovan’s Gate is only able to interact with our world if all the lights go out.”

Duke made a noise of exclamation so suddenly it spooked Duncan out of his snoring! “Whaddya… want…” groaned Duncan drowsily before falling back to sleep.

“That explains the floodlight they kept shining in my face,” grumbled Duke. Skarloey went to reply, when the lights outside flickered again, then went dark. Skarloey went pale.

Outside, the wind began to pick up. The lights inside the shed wavered, but stayed on at a low, orange glow, the old oil lamp working as hard as it could to illuminate the darkness.

“Oh dear…” murmured Skarloey. Something outside moved. Across the mainline, Duke swore he could see two blood red eyes open, shifting to glare furiously at them. Sparks shot up into the night from above the eyes.

“Skarloey… what is that?” “An old Wellsworth & Suddery engine,” Skarloey replied. And he told Duke everything.

“In 1933, an old engine was sent to Crovan’s Gate Works to be overhauled to work on the Brendam Branch. He went into the workshops, and that was the last anyone saw of him. That night, a careless workman knocked over an oil lamp. The flames spread all around the wooden walls of the workshop, burning brightly as they reached up for the roof. The old engine awoke, and cried for help – begged, pleading, screamed for someone to come. But no one did. No one could. Skarloey and Rheneas were forced to watch in horror as the engine was burnt until he turned to a smoking hulk. Now, he haunts the yards at night, searching for the workman who sealed his fate.” As if to punctuate that point, the shadow of an engine raced by the shed.

“We’re safe in here, because of our light,” Skarloey said ominously. “But many a workman, coach or truck have vanished when the lights go out at Crovan’s Gate. Don’t get caught over there, Duke. Especially when the lights go out.”

The lights flickered back on, and for a split second, Duke swore he could see the horrific sight of a half-melted engine, face peeling and blistered with eyes blazing full of hatred.

Duke was more careful with himself after that, wary of the spectre that haunted Crovan’s Gate Works when the lights went out.

Back to Master Post

Traintober 2023: Day 28 - Which Way Now?

Lost in the Fog:

The Island of Sodor was hosting a visitor from the Other Railway. The visitor was a large, impressive tank engine who was helping out on Thomas’ branchline.

“I do love getting to pull trucks again,” the engine said cheerfully to Percy. “We don’t to pull trucks on my heritage railway.” “They might be fun, but you do have to be careful,” warned Percy. “Some trucks can be troublesome.” The engine chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, Percy – I’ll be fine!” Percy was doubtful. And yet, to his amazement, the visitor managed the trucks well. The trucks came along quietly, distracted from misbehaving by the songs the engine sang to them.

The visitor really did brighten up the yard every time they passed through. “Did you need a hand?” he offered to Toby as the old tram struggled with a long line of empty ballast trucks heading back for the Little Western. “That would be great,” grinned Toby. “Thank you.” With the visitor’s help, they managed the run in half the time it usually took – and better yet, his sing-a-longs kept the trucks from acting up.

“You really have a knack with the trucks,” mused Duck, watching in amazement as the big engine shunted them into their proper places. “I’m impressed.” “Thank you!” the visitor said. “That’s too kind!”

The visitor grew to be popular amongst all the engines. The speed and dedication they brought to every train won over even the gruffest of trucks and engines alike – not even James could think of a bad word!

Everyone was sad when it came time for the visiting engine to return back to their heritage railway. “Safe travels!” called Percy. “Don’t get lost!” warned Oliver. “Lost?” quizzed the engine. “That isn’t likely, is it?” “Well… no – but sometimes the signalman near Killdane nods off. Make sure you whistle to alert him to your presence.” The engine smiled. “Thanks for the advice, I’ll keep it in mind!” And with that, the engine set off into the setting sun.

Things went well at first – but then night fell. With it came the mist. The mist rose up out of every crevice, seemingly rising up out of the ground itself, swirling around and blanketing everything it touched in an impenetrable wall of grey.

The visitor peered into the darkness, trying to see which town they were passing through. The station signs were obscured – several station lamps flickered and died and a chill danced in the air, winding around the visitor and doing its best to freeze their boiler into ice. The visitor still battled onwards.

“We can’t stop here…” they said, narrowing their eyes to try and spot a familiar shape. “It’s the middle of the mainline. No trains can stop here.” “Then which way now?” asked the engine’s driver. The answer lay just up ahead, where a signal light shone green, piercing sharply through the mist to illuminate the world around it.

“Someone must be expecting us,” hummed the driver. “That’s good!” A station platform appeared on the engine’s left, and they slowed to a stop, waiting for some sort of instructions on where to go. The driver and fireman looked back, and then the driver groaned.

“That stupid signalman! Come on, you need to go remind him that he needs to drop the signal back to red.” “And you?” “I’ll go find us some hot coffee in the station house. This seems like a big station – there’s got to be someone around.” The two left their engine sizzling nicely under the station canopy, heading off to complete their respective tasks.

Normally, this would have been fine – and had the engine been anywhere else, this would have been a routine stop. But the name of the station illuminated by a flickering station lamp was Killdane. “Um… shouldn’t we whistle?” asked the engine. But his crew had already left.

The engine’s eyes darted around. Something felt off about this station. It wasn’t the electric wires running above the tracks, nor was it the eerily still lines of coaches and trucks in the sidings. No, there was something else. Maybe… the second set of points that felt like they shouldn’t be there?

“Oh, why hello there,” grinned a deep, almost gravelly voice from behind the engine. “Um… hello?” The visitor had never heard that voice before. There was no face to put to the sound – this voice was completely new, and it scared them slightly. “What’re you doing on our line?” “I’m waiting to continue on,” the engine replied firmly. “We’ll take you,” the voice replied. Before the engine could question that, they were buffered roughly from behind. There was the deep, almost howling honk of a diesel horn, and the engine was suddenly being shoved forwards, out of the station.

“Hey! You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! Driver!” The visiting engine’s driver sprinted onto the platform, just in time to see the shape of a long train of scrap leave the platform where their engine had previously stood.

The engine tried to apply their brakes – but they couldn’t. They tried to call out for help – but no one answered.

The diesel pushed the poor engine down a long, overgrown path that led down through a bricked path between rows of town houses. The mist was even thicker down here, engulfing the poor engine and making it almost impossible to see what was ahead.

At least, until the mist began to clear around a large industrial estate, littered with the rusting remains of engines. “Oi! You can’t do this!” shouted the engine. “I’m preserved! Preserved!” “No one will come looking here,” sneered the diesel, shunting the engine into a shed. “Your crew can’t save you now, steam kettle.”

The steam engine sat, cold and alone, in the shed. Ahead of them, a pair of massive sliding steel doors were clamped tightly shut. Suddenly, the engine felt a jolt. The scrap trucks had been shoved behind them.

Two identical diesels in grimy green paintwork with wasp stripes oiled up on either side of the visitor. “This time, there’s no escape,” one sneered. The other just shot the poor visitor an unidentifiable look.

The two rumbled backwards again – and then the engine felt another jolt, and they all began to roll forwards. The giant steel doors groaned open, revealing a room bathed in red. Molten slag bubbled on either side of the track, and a giant claw loomed overhead.

“This engine’s not for scrapping!” begged the engine. “I just want to go home!” The claw didn’t stop its descent, lowering down, down, down…

With a sickening crunch, it ripped into the visitor’s boiler, lifting the engine up into the air, and dragging it over to the molten slag.

“Just another poor soul, gone to meet its maker,” sneered Arry. Bert didn’t reply. He just silently rumbled away, a goal set in his mind.

This time, Arry wouldn’t get away.

Back to Master Post