A One-And-A-Half-Story House Is Commonly Known As A Flinter’s Hill Train Station and Janiey Lane the Suicidal Train

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Flinter’s Hill Train Station and Janiey Lane the Suicidal Train

Flinter Hill Station is a place I call home some days. Out of work, out of the future, out of the whole damn world, this is the place I’ve found. The people here died long ago, I am the only one left, at least one survivor. It’s not a place where you want to close your eyes and drive away the darkness. No, old Flinter’s Hill is nothing like that. It’s a damn old place, older than the surrounding towns. Flinter’s Hill was here before we all hopped on the old train to civilization, before we settled here and built a colony. Flinter’s share house is in a local cemetery and a big one at that. That cemetery has been here longer than Flinter’s pair.

These trains passing around the joint made enough noise to wake the dead. You cross the boundary of Sydney Rookwood Cemetery and follow the remains of the railway line; You will see the old dead station well enough. She doesn’t get much history because no one wants to remember her and she’s named for locals and history people to never know her, but you follow those train lines, you see old beauty. Of course he doesn’t always appear in line, only occasionally he will appear to those watching from the outside.

You see, right here at Flinter Station, we’ve got a lot of spooks ourselves. They are not the usual type; None of these pop up occasionally and wee bitty little orbs. None of this, Christ I wish there was something here. No, Flinter’s ghosts, well… they’re not quite human, at least not anymore. On top of that, they are angry spooks, angry angry spooky.

I saw them, especially every cold moment before I went to sleep. There’s a girl that walks along the platform, damn cows making the loudest noise you’ll ever hear. This howling, continuous wailing for hours at a time. She is just pacing up and down the platform, wailing, crying and screaming for something or someone.

Annoying but ai’ she’s a pretty girl, at least she’ll be. I’ve made the mistake of looking into those black eyes before and I appreciate you right now, I’ll never do that again. It’s terror that doesn’t get you, no way; You forget you’re looking at a dead body. It is the emptiness that hits you, so hungry, so thirsty with endless pain. He looks at you and pulls you in and you’ve never been so scared in your life.

Let these be my ghost stories, my little ghost stories.

Some days I close my eyes, wish it all away and you can feel that weight on you. The human weight you’ve known all your life, lying on top of you like honey you see, giving you love, but you know you’re alone. You’re barely on your lonesome with a weapon, or barely with a scrap of clean clothing and you’re lying where you can. You know if you open your eyes he’ll be there, laying on top of you because you know it’s his, it’s his goddamn weight and he’s just waiting, playing his own twisted waiting game to drive you crazy. You even try to open your eyes for a whisper and BAM, he’s got you. I thought that after a year or two, I would get used to his games but doubt is the devil’s tool and he is filling my heart and head in abundance.

She’s just a spook, I call her Clara. Not a beautiful name for a beautiful girl?

Flinter’s is a ruin and no one comes here anymore. The trains have all stopped, well, the real ones. These trains have been coming here for so long, they are doing it of their own free will. Metal should not be thought of, it is not supposed to have a soul but this train has. Train No. 961-EF2 or as people around here affectionately called her – Jenny Lane the Wench’s Train, well, that bitch still comes back. If you ever have time you can read the dirty newspapers and garbage spread about this joint about him. You read about his crash, how he carried seventy-seven people on the platform and crushed the one hundred and sixteen on board. The papers read that the driver’s brakes did not respond at all, as the train refused to stop and died.

Yet every night he is here, and you can see people who dress in the old world. Dirty, ratty, excited yet scared to death they ride him every night. It still has that beautiful gray, steel shine on it, on its body and wheels. It’s only when you look at her now that you understand why they call her the Wench’s Train, because all the ladies will ride this beauty, all exclusively, all done up in short skirts and high heels.

Janie Lane’s suicide train was better, she was just a landing ax that took the heads of those on board and hanged herself. You still see him here, you still hear him. Poor old Johnny Lane is our suicide train.

First you hear his horn on the night air, that shrill, mournful blast that sounds like a crying machine in its rhythm. He moves closer to the platform and you see his beautiful eyes, those pink, pearly headlights shining in all colors. People flocked to him, all women and wench. They talk; They smile and laugh as he pulls away. Horns blared and he took off but something went wrong. He’s crying like hell this time and he’s not going to do it. As his cries grew louder, his wheels sent sparks in different directions, his tooting angrier.

You can he is not happy and he is not properly on track. He’s moving too fast, too fast for human error. He doesn’t stop; He wouldn’t stop, not now. He lifted his wheel off the track on the exit side of the platform and hit his head. Half in and half out, he is nothing but a piece of steel and iron. People are screaming everywhere as a part of the train station caves in but all the crying in the world will do nothing. He is tooting, laboring breathing and bleating. Everyone in the neighborhood cares about the people, because no one cares about Zannie Lane the Wench’s Train. Those wenches don’t care; They are too covered in blood to care. Jenny Lane cries our beautiful suicide train to sleep as oil drains from its steel body and its wheels and doors work, they are no more.

Let these be my ghost stories, my little ghost stories.

Here at Flinters Hill, we had another train. A human train if ever there was one. Train No. 84620-ME, a massive iron beast with coal burners, black from top to bottom, from wheels to windows. The driver and passengers all had a name for him – Johnny Ben, Lover’s Train. He was taken off the tracks and placed in a train graveyard two weeks before Johnny Lane derailed.

Maybe that was the key to his sadness and his anger? Maybe he just fell in love.

Other than that Clara is still sneaking around and slowly killing me. The devil in the bowler hat is still smiling and crying, they are still crying. Christ I hope I get some sleep tonight.

Welcome to Flinter Hill Train Station, be careful on your journey.

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