THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
It was a dreary, cold day, but the cast iron stove kept the passenger car warm. Outside, cobblestone streets covered with orange and red leaves started to appear as they approached the town. She glanced around, wondering why the train wasn’t slowing down. As the locomotive hurtled past the depot, she and the other passengers stared wide-eyed through the windows at…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)
The cold autumn day had turned dreary. I smoothed my wool dress as I sat, eager to arrive at my destination. My fingernails trailed over rough bumps carved into the wood of my seat-tick marks, as though someone had counted how long they’d ridden the train. Being confined to the limbo of this journey was wearing on me. Especially among the pesky vagrants of third-class.
The porter fed a cast-iron stove. A roaring red flame warmed the passengers as we rumbled along. Outside, cobblestone streets covered with orange and red leaves appeared as the train approached the next town. The engine’s whistle announced we were nearing the depot.
My eyebrows drew together, confused. Why weren’t we slowing down?
As the locomotive hurtled past the depot, I stared wide-eyed through the window at a large group of cross-wielding priests. There was a collective gasp from the passengers as the red-faced men shrieked at the train, crosses held high, as though condemning us all.
The poor sap behind me sniveled. I turned to find him rocking in his seat, muttering, “I want off. I want off…”
I scowled. Did he need the stop we just passed? Perhaps the engineer thought it unsafe with those vulgar priests.
A watchful unease settled over the passengers, who returned to staring out their windows. Aside from the clickety clack of the train and the crackle of the fire, the crazed mumbling behind me became the only noise from the otherwise hushed carriage.
I flagged down the porter. “Might I trouble you for a different seat? The gentleman behind me is about to drive me to insanity.”
The porter chuckled, “Can’t say I blame him based on where he’s headed,” he said, then asked for my ticket.
Frowning, I presented it to him-T.T.H. Express printed boldly across the top.
The porter’s eyebrows raised. “My, my, you shouldn’t be here with these commoners. A woman of your station deserves the finest accommodations.”
I nodded. Of course I did. Grabbing my furs, I sneered at the crazed man.
Following the porter down the aisle, I was glad to be rid of the deep scratches marking the tops of the backrests and the “HELP ME” carved into the carriage door.
The upper-class coach was gorgeous, with an ornate, brass-covered stove and high-backed armchairs.
The porter led me past everyone to the frontmost seat, nearest the brass stove.
As I settled, I asked, “Why did we skip that last stop? Surely those priests were protesting something? Is there another railroad strike?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes as he nodded. “Something like that.”
“How many stops until we arrive at my station?”
“Five,” he said. “Best if you don’t look outside before then,” he added, pointing to a velvet curtain hanging in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.
“I will do what I please,” I said with dismissal.
The whistle sounded for the next station. Regardless of the porter’s suggestion, the curtains remained open.
The stove’s fire dimmed to a glowing orange as the train slowed. Despite the early hour, the town held an unusual darkness. At the stop, I cringed. Furry black splatters covered the buildings.
Was that…mold?
The train doors opened. Several people exited. I was glad I wasn’t one of them.
Our next stop wasn’t much better.
As the whistle blew, the train slowed and the stove’s fire turned yellow. Outside, swarms of bugs crawled over every available surface. I recoiled in horror. The depot shifted with movement as the bugs scuttled over one another.
Why was I riding this train again? My memory of getting on was hazy.
At the next station, the fire became white. As passengers exited, they could only walk for so long before they immobilized-frozen where they stood.
My nerves prickled. Perhaps I didn’t want off.
When the fire turned blue, the train stopped again. Cult symbols in sticks and twine hung from windows. Dead bodies lined the cobblestones.
I was shaking now, desperate to go home.
My breath stuttered at the next stop when the fire turned black. Bodies hung from exposed rafters at the depot. Those who exited ambled straight to their own nooses and hung themselves.
The train began to roll again.
That was five stops. Mine was next.
I scanned the car. Empty.
Gathering my skirts, I hurried to the third-class carriage, only to realize I really was the last passenger.
What awaited me at my stop?
Heart pounding, I rushed back to my seat and stared out the window.
There was a hiss as the whistle pierced the air.
The fire in the stove went out.
The train screeched to a stop at the depot, the entire town blazing with an inferno I could already feel through the window.
Sweat beaded as the porter approached me, grinning. “Madame Prime Minister, this is your stop.”
I shook my head. “N-No, surely there’s been a mistake.”
“There is no mistake, I assure you. This is your special place.”
I screamed as he grabbed me. My nails broke as I clawed the chairs, scratching the wood as he dragged me away.
The door leading out whipped open. With a satisfied smirk, he shoved me through.
I tumbled down the stairs, landing painfully on searing cobblestones. The train whistled, hissed, and left the station.
Whimpering, I scrambled up and faced the fiery depot, curling my blistering hands.
A blood-chilling sign heralded the town:
“Welcome to Hell-a special place has been reserved for you.”
