The Black Train

The Black Train Edward Lee

THE HOUSE OF EVIL

“Cricket was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”

Collier could only peer at the man. “You’re talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”

“Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler’s inn—the Gast House—is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner…”

For Paul Legerski

          PROLOGUE

Gast, Tennessee

1857

thunk!

Morris chopped off the girl’s hand with a hatchet, then guttered laughter. The poor mulatto wailed, her stump pumping.

“What’choo do that for!” Cutton bellowed. He hadn’t even gotten his trousers off before Morris had pulled this move.

Morris had giggled some spittle onto his shabby beard. “She’s mixed, Cutton, a mixed whore. And I paid her a dollar.” He was rubbing his crotch with the girl’s severed hand. “Mixed don’t charge but twenty cents nohow.”

Cutton could barely speak as he refastened his belt. “You’re crazy, Morris! The whore-mother in the other room’s gonna fetch Marshal Braden!”

The girl was shuddering beneath Morris’s spread thighs, entering shock. “Awwwwww, shee-it. Gast owns the marshal, and we work for Gast. We was just havin’ some fun in a whorehouse is all.”

Fun? Choppin’ off a girl’s hand is fun? Cutton tugged a leather string from one of his Jefferson shoes and tied off the girl’s stump. “You’re about as smart as dog puke. This girl could die.”

Morris dropped the hand on the girl’s quivering stomach. “She ain’t gonna die, Cutton. Look, see, I’ll make it right.” He dropped a five-dollar silver piece on the floor.

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch. That’s the last time I go drinkin’ with you,” Cutton raged and walked for the door.

Morris couldn’t believe it. “Ain’t you even gonna take your turn?”

Cutton stalked out of the brothel into dusty darkness. Shit. He’d known Morris a while now; they’d worked the Delaware track together. But it just seemed like that man had turned crazy since they’d signed on with Gast and his rail crew.

Crazy…or evil? he wondered.

Number 3 Street stood dark. On the next block, he could hear they were still drinking at Cusher’s Tavern. But Cutton didn’t want to go back there. They’d ask him how it went.

The door flapped open behind him. Morris, with his kersey work pants back on, implored, “Aw, come on, Cutton. What’s your dander up for? She’s mixed, for God’s sake!”

Cutton walked off. He didn’t care that she was half Negro; it wouldn’t even matter if she were full. Lynchin’ a slave for stealin’ or rape’s one thing, but what he done is just plain ungodly. Cutton loped into more darkness. There was nothing left to do now but head back to the bunkhouse and get some sleep. He’d spent most of the day on his horse, inspecting track and making sure Gast’s slaves were up to speed. Dog tired, I am. All he’d wanted was a quick one with a whore.

Not…this.

“You done with your carryin’-on?” a soft voice stopped him.

Cutton turned at the crossroad. It couldn’t be someone from the whorehouse; that was the opposite direction. He squinted.

More feminine words: “You done or lookin’ for more?”

Cutton’s eyes fixed on the ghostly image: a curvaceous white blur. The shadow of a branch obscured her face.

“Lady, I just walked out of some carryin’-on that I didn’t care for at all,” he said. “Who’re you?”

“Come on!” And then a warm hand grabbed his and pulled.

She led him up the hill, brambles crackling. Nets of moonlight through the trees never quite allowed any detail, but as Cutton hustled behind her, he eventually could tell she was naked beneath the sheer gown.

“You ain’t from the whorehouse, are ya?”

A soft chuckle fluttered. “Just come on.”

Cutton grew half aroused just from the feel of her hand, that soft warmth over his calluses—that, and something more abstract, like anticipation. She seemed desperate as she led on.

“Where are you taking m—”

“Don’t talk! We’ll be at the house in a second…”

House. Something heavy slipped into Cutton’s heart. There ain’t but one house up this hill, he knew. A servant girl? But he’d heard that all of Gast’s house staff were Negroes. “You work for Mr. Gast?” he asked.

“No,” she giggled, “but I’m married to him.”