those years away, completely cut off from Earth-normal conditions; who knows what shape the train’s passengers will be in? Physical or psychological? The shock of the return might be enough to kill them.”
“So…you’re saying we should try and stop them coming back?” said Laurie, frowning.
“I’m not sure that’s an option any more,” said JC. “Not with so much pressure building behind it for so long.”
“Then what do all the manifestations and things here mean?” said Laurie.
“Simple,” said JC. “Someone, or Something, was disturbed when the volunteers started changing things in the station, and it has been working ever since to drive everyone else away. It doesn’t want things to change enough for the train to be able to return; or, failing that, it doesn’t want anyone here when it does.”
He broke off; and they all looked around at the wedged-open main door and the platform beyond. Slow, steady footsteps were advancing down the platform from the far end, heading straight for them. Heavy, regular footsteps, not hurrying, taking their time. As though whoever was responsible wanted them to be heard, for the people hearing them to have a chance to get away. There was something off, something not quite right, about the footsteps. Too loud and too heavy for any single man to make; and each and every echoing tread seemed to linger that little bit too long, as though every step had something of eternity in it. A sound that was always there, even when you couldn’t hear it.
A dark figure walked past the window. It looked like a man, but its movements were wrong. It took too long to make its movements, as though the body wasn’t affected by things like gravity or inertia any more, as though it accepted no authority but its own. A human shape, broken free of the ties of this world. And though everyone in the room only saw the dark shape at the window for a moment, they all thought the same thing.
It looked like a man, standing tall and slender and proud, dressed like a proper gentleman of Victorian times. A smart, even elegant, outfit, but…hard worn, as though it had been put to use for much longer than it should have. A middle-aged man, with a grey, sad face and fixed, staring eyes. His arms hung unmoving at his sides, the pale, long-fingered hands twitching slightly. For all his stillness and silence, there was a dreadful urgency to the man. You couldn’t not look at him; by being there, he weighed so heavily on the world that he drew all the attention in the room. Because simply by being there, he was the most important thing in it.
“See?” Laurie said quietly. “The head. Look at his head.”
They looked, and they saw. The top part of the ghost’s head was gone. Missing. As though someone had sawn the top of his head right off, directly above the bushy eyebrows. A very neat cut, with not a single jagged edge; a very professional job indeed.
JC moved slowly forward, and the ghost didn’t react. It stood there, glaring at them all. Step by cautious step, JC walked right up to the ghost, until he was face-to-face with it. JC’s breath steamed thickly on the bitter cold air, but no breath moved from the ghost’s lips. JC lifted himself up onto his tiptoes, and looked down into the ghost’s cut-open head. And then he stood down again and carefully backed away from the ghost, never taking his eyes off it.
“Well?” said Happy.
“Well,” said JC. “That’s…really quite interesting, actually. There’s nothing inside his head. His brain has been removed.”
TWO
LAST CALL FOR THE DEAD
“Removed?” said Melody. “You mean surgically?”
“Could be,” said JC. “Or it’s the most extreme case of trepanation I’ve ever seen.”
“What?” said Laurie.
“Where you drill a hole in your head to make yourself smarter,” said Happy. “Trust me, it doesn’t work.”
“Hold everything, shout halleluiah,” said Melody. “I think I know who that is. I’ve seen that face before…in an old photograph. Nothing to do with this case…another case altogether…Yes! Got it! People, we are looking at someone who used to be very famous indeed. This is all that remains of that great Victorian medium and spiritualist, Dr. Emil Todd!”
“You never forget anything, do you?” said Happy, admiringly.
“The name rings a vague bell,” said JC, which was his way of saying he’d never heard of the man but was willing to admit that Melody had. “Still, a dead Victorian medium, and a missing Victorian train. Has to be a connection. But why is he here now?”
“Ask him,” said Happy.
“You ask him,” said JC. “You’re the team telepath. Look inside his mind and see what this is all about.”
“I can’t,” said Happy, frowning. “And not because there’s a whole bunch of fresh air where his grey matter used to be. This is a really powerful manifestation, and it’s very powerfully shielded. I wouldn’t even know this ghost was here if I couldn’t see it standing there scowling at me, and I do wish it would stop doing that.”
“You really think you can get answers out of that thing?” said Laurie.
“Why not?” said Melody. “It’s a ghost. Most of them only stick around because there’s something they need to say to someone. Even if it’s simply
“You can leave now, if you wish, Mr. Laurie,” said JC. “You shouldn’t have to deal with things like this. Coping with ghosts is our business. We’re trained to deal with things that go Boo! in the night.”
“No,” said Laurie, after a moment, staring steadily at the ghost before him. “Now I’ve seen what it is, up close, it doesn’t seem that scary, after all. It’s a man, isn’t it?”
“Or what’s left of one,” said Happy. “That’s all ghosts ever are, really—people with unfinished business. If you weren’t scared of a man while he was alive, why be scared of him once he’s dead? Even when they walk through walls, or rip their own heads off, they’re only indulging a thwarted theatrical streak.”
“So why is this man running around with his head empty?” said Laurie.
“Because that was the last important thing that ever happened to him,” said Melody. “A ghost’s shape and aspect is determined by its most significant memories.”
“And
“Is this figure what the other volunteers saw, Mr. Laurie?” asked JC.
“I don’t know,” said Laurie. “Maybe. I never saw anything like it before, and I’ve been around here longer than most.”
“Why isn’t he saying anything?” said Melody.
“He’s a Victorian gentleman,” said Happy. “Probably waiting to be properly introduced.”
The ghost of Dr. Todd stood very still, glaring at them all impartially. JC stepped forward again.
“What are you doing here, Dr. Todd?” he said carefully. “What holds your spirit here? Is there anything we can do to help?”
The ghost didn’t speak, didn’t move. His eyes didn’t blink; his mouth remained a flat grey line. He might have been alone in the room.
“This is like when we have an argument,” Happy said to Melody. “And you go stomping around the room, being mad at me but refusing to say what’s wrong because I’m supposed to know. And I never do.”
“There’s no blood on the doctor’s face,” JC said thoughtfully. “Which suggests that the…rather dramatic cranial damage occurred sometime after his death. Ghosts usually like to show off their death-wounds, especially if they’re a bit gory.”
“They do?” said Laurie.
“Oh sure,” said Happy. “Ghosts are all about the show. Bunch of drama queens.
“It could be surgical,” said JC. “Given the neatness of the job. How did Dr. Todd die, Melody? Do we know?”
“According to the records I am accessing right now,” said Melody, from behind her bank of instruments again,
