The Black Train

Sute nodded.

“And I guess they were transported to a separate detention camp…”

“In a sense, you could say that. It’s a harrowing story, Mr. Collier, and probably not one you’d like to hear in detail on a beautiful day such as this. You’re a celebrity, after all, and it’s wonderful to have you in our humble town. I’d hate for such a story to spoil your stay.”

Collier smiled. “It’s some ’ghost train’ or something, then, right?”

A curt “No.”

This guy is ticking me off now, Collier thought.

Sute shed some of the grim cast, and raised a finger. “But if you like ghost stories, I’ll admit, a few of those are touched on, too. Some nifty little stories about the house.”

The house, Collier stalled. The Gast House. “I knew it all along! So the inn’s a haunted house. I knew Mrs. Butler was bluffing…”

J.G. Sute’s broad face turned up in a grin. “Well, I’m on my way to lunch now, Mr. Collier, but if you stop by tomorrow I’ll tell you some of the tales.”

Collier wanted to bang the books over his head. “Come on, Mr. Sute. Tell me one story about the house. Right now.”

Sute drew on a pause—of course, for effect. “Well, without sounding too uncouth, I can tell you that many, many guests of the Gast House—dating back quite a spell—have reported a curious…influence. A, shall we say, libidinous one.”

Collier squinted at the thick mustachioed face. “Libidinous—you mean, sexual? ”

The schoolmarmish cashier frowned over her glasses. “Please, J.G.! Don’t start getting into all that now. We want Mr. Collier to come back, not stay away forever!”

Mr. Sute ignored the crotchety woman. “I’ll only say that the house seems to have a sexual effect on certain people who happen to stay there. One of whom was my grandfather.”

The cashier was fuming, but Collier couldn’t let it go. “A sexual effect in what way?”

Sute’s shoulder hitched up once. “Some people have experienced an inexplicable…amplification of their… sexual awareness.”

Amplification. Sexual awareness. Collier’s mind ticked like a clock. “You’re saying that the house makes people h—”

Before Collier could say “horny,” Sute polished up the inference by interrupting: “The house will incite the desires of certain people. Especially persons who are otherwise experiencing a decline in such desires. My grandfather, for instance, was in his eighties when he stayed there.” Sute smiled again, and whispered, “He said the place gave him the sex drive of a twenty-year-old.”

Collier had to make a conscious effort to prevent his jaw from dropping.

Just like me, from the second I set foot in the place…

“Mr. Sute? I’d be honored if you’d allow me to treat you to lunch,” Collier said.

But why was Collier so fascinated? He didn’t even try to discern it. Sute’s strange comment about “amplified” sexual desire, and the fact that Collier had experienced exactly that, could have just been timeliness and coincidence—in fact, he felt sure it was.

Still…

The house was having some effect on him—probably due to his boredom and angst. They walked around a busy corner, Sute still ego-stroked that this “celebrity” was interested in his stories enough to actually buy him lunch. Two birds with one stone, Collier thought; J.G. Sute was all too happy to lunch at his favorite local restaurant: Cusher’s.

“Would you mind if we sat at the bar?” Collier asked when he noticed two empty stools. Better yet, Dominique was tending the taps, cuter than ever in her dark, shiny hair and bosom-hugging brewer’s apron. Collier looked up hopefully, and when she smiled and waved, he could’ve melted. Oh, man. The perfect woman…

“The bar’s fine with me,” Sute said, but just then—

You fuckers! Collier’s thought screamed. Get the fuck away from those stools!

A middle-aged couple beat them to the stools.

Collier walked to the end of the bar. “Hi,” he said to Dominique.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. Caramel irises sparkled. “No room at the bar right now, but there’s plenty of seats in the dining room.”

Collier stammered, “I was really hoping to get to talk to you—oh, and I have that release form.”

“Great. When you’re done eating, just come by.” Dominique glanced at Collier’s unlikely lunch guest. “Getting an earful, huh?”

“Well…”

“Good old J.G. will keep you enthralled,” she said. “Last night you did seem pretty interested in some of the town’s folklore. Mr. Sute’s the one to talk to about that.”

“So I gather. But—” Shit! “I really wanted a seat at the bar.”

Her eyes thinned, and she smiled. “I won’t fly away.”

Christ, I really dig her, Collier thought. A hostess seated them in the dining room. I’m the one who invited this big dolt to lunch, so live with it. I’ll have plenty of time to talk to Dominique later.

“I’d recommend the pan-fried trout cakes in whiskey cream,” Sute mentioned. “It’s state-of-the-art here, and a Southern delicacy.”

“I’ll try it. Last night Jiff and I just had regular old burgers and they were great.”

Sute’s jowly face seemed to seize up. He looked at Collier in a way that was almost fearful. “You—you know…Jiff? Jiff Butler, Helen’s son?”

More to gauge reaction, Collier said, “Oh, sure, Jiff and I are friends. He helped me check in.” Collier remembered Jiff’s similarly odd reaction last night, to Sute’s name. “We had a few beers here last night. He was the one who told me I could find you at the bookstore.”

The reference seemed to knock Sute off center, from which he struggled to recover. “He’s a…friend of mine as well, and a fine, fine young man. What, uh, what else did Jiff say?”

Yes sir, this place and these people are a hoot. What is going on here? Sute was obviously bothered, so Collier acted as though he didn’t notice. “He had a few stories himself, though I’ll be honest in saying that he was even more reluctant than you telling me them. The most interesting one was something about Harwood Gast hanging himself shortly after his prized railroad was finished.”

“Yes, the tree out front,” Sute acknowledged.

“And how several years later, just when the war was ending, several Union troops hung themselves from the same tree.”

“Quite true, quite true…”

Collier leaned forward on his elbows. “Sure, Mr. Sute. But how does anyone really know that?”

Sute grabbed one of the books Collier had purchased, thumbed to a page, and passed it to him.

Another tintype in the xeroxed photo-plate section. The heading: UNION SOLDIERS SENT TO BURN THE GAST HOUSE HANGED THEMSELVES FROM THIS TREE INSTEAD, ON OCTOBER 31, 1864. HARWOOD GAST HANGED HIMSELF FROM THE SAME TREE TWO YEARS EARLIER.

The stark, tinny image showed several federal troops hanging crook-necked from a stout branch.

“That’s…remarkable,” Collier said. “Every picture really does tell a story.”

“There are quite a few such stories, I’m afraid.” Sute’s forehead was breaking out with an uncomfortable sweat. “Did, uh, did Jiff say anything else? Anything about me?”

This guy is really sweating bullets, Collier saw. Sute’s reaction to Jiff’s name was as curious as the ghost stories. “Just that he did yard work for you sometimes, and that you were the local expert on the town’s history.” Collier decided to stretch some truth, to see what happened. “And, of course, he mentioned