The Halloween Midnight Express - Part One

           Tiny Jackson was badly misnamed.  OK it wasn’t his actual name, but everyone had called him Tiny since he actually was.  Now, considering his ability to make mischief, his name might have been “Jumbo” Jackson.  His latest stunt had been directed as eleven-year-old Ray Haroldsen. 

            It was a rare thing that Mrs. Haroldsen had put anything special in her son, Ray’s lunch pail beyond her delicious oatmeal raisin cookies every Friday.  But this day being Halloween, she had done the unheard of thing, she had put in a glorious cinnamon roll, larger than father’s fist, richly covered in cream icing.  And now as he sat down on the steps of the Jarnigan School for lunch, it was gone.  But to make the disappointment even greater, there was in its place a slimy blight-infested potato, which had dripped black ooze and spoiled the rest of his lunch.

            And there he was, Tiny, laughing at his victim’s mixed look of regret, rage, and revulsion.   “YOU . . . ,” said Ray.  But, having grown up in the Haroldsen household, he didn’t know any explicative that could reflect his feelings of outrage, or any expletive at all beyond his father’s infrequent use of the mother-shocking exclamation, “Oh Hang!”  Tiny continued to laugh, exposing the gooey half chewed remains of the treat, now defiled, in his unworthy mouth.  And then he went all innocent and said, “Is something bothering you?  What’s wrong Haroldsen?  Didn’t your mommy make you a delicious lunch?  Oh?  Now, are you going to cry?”  And then he opened his mouth wide, reaffirming his own guilt.

            There are moments in a young man’s life when he just knows, just knows, that he temporarily has the power to take on any battle whatsoever, without the slightest bit of help from any others, and completely, and irrevocably exterminate that foe, and to summon that despicable enemy back from the grave, just for the pleasure of doing it again.  This was that moment.

            “Whoa now little brother!” said Fred Haroldsen to this dynamo ready for action.  “You know what Pop will say if you kill Tiny.”  This threat had no effect.  “You know what MOM WILL DO if you kill Tiny.”  Only this terrifying scenario had the power to exercise the legion of demons that possessed this young boy.

            Ray smoldered as Tiny and his friends retreated in boisterous victory.  “Use your head Ray.  There are more satisfying things than murder,” continued Fred.  Ray looked unconvinced.  “Things that don’t end in prison, or worse . . . Mother.”

            That did it.  Ray calmed considerably.  Yet still fuming, he asked, “So what do you have in mind?”  Fred smiled in wicked anticipation.

            “You remember that story that Uncle told a few weeks back about the Midnight Express to Yellowstone?”  Ray nodded.  Then Fred held out a square-ish wooden tube.    “What’s that?” asked Ray. 

            “I traded my broken pocket knife for it from Old Joseph.  It is a train whistle,” said Fred with a grin.  Ray began to catch a vision of what his older brother might have in mind.

            Ray and Fred’s Grandfather had always insisted on being called “Uncle” instead of Grandfather, supposedly because he felt that the title “Grandfather” made him sound like an old man; being only seventy-six years old, this would be unacceptable.  But one thing was for sure, Uncle delighted in spectral stories of the supernatural, many of which he learned back during his boyhood in Norway.  Though he was an immigrant, he knew countless ghost stories associated with his new home in Idaho.

            Weeks earlier, at the first of October, Uncle had robbed his grandsons of several nights sleep by telling his latest yarn.  Mom and Pop were out for the night, and Uncle had come into the house from his own one-room house, positioned across the driveway, so that he could listen to the radio.  He would usually say little other than make comments about the depression, the build up to war and concern for his native Europe.  On this night, however, he was alone with his grandsons and seized upon the opportunity to fill them with some healthy terror.  The boys, knowing what was likely to happen with the parents away, smiled in anticipation.

            Uncle had told them the story of the Yellowstone Midnight Express.  He told how it would come through Jarnigan Idaho every Halloween at precisely 10 PM, then rocket northward for the two hour journey where it would arrive at midnight only to plunge off the end of its tracks and vanish down the Old Faithful Geyser carrying away wicked kids, whose parents were happy to be rid of them.  As he presented his tale he repeatedly tapped the palm of his hand down, his coal-black ring making a clack against the table.  With the growing climax of the story he increased the tempo of the clacking as if it were an increasing heartbeat or the acceleration of a steam train.

They knew that Uncle would be all too happy to repeat his story to Tiny, plus there was the added value that whenever Uncle repeated a story, it usually got better, rich with new details and drama.

           

*    *    *    *

 

     Halloween costumes in 1930’s Idaho were the stuff of nightmares.  Naturally all were homemade.  But somehow the inexpert hand could often produce a Halloween mask far more terrifying that intended.  Out of coarse fabric, papier-mache, and garish paint, children constructed the faces of demons, grinning clown, animals and less describable monstrosities.  They added to the horror by using more papier-mache to produce huge, long-fingered, stiletto-clawed hands that fit over their own pudgy hands.  Such wraiths prowled the yards of lone farmhouses, vacant potato fields and around the Jarnigan school holding its Halloween carnival.  A chill wind blew dry leaves into little eddies that laughing, shrieking children crunched through.

     Ray and Fred had hoped to get Uncle to join them there to tell his story to Tiny and any others at the carnival who would certainly gather when they saw who it was that was telling the tale.  But no, he wouldn’t come.  He said that he had other obligations.  Pop ratified the statement by saying, “Oh yah.  My father always has obligations on Halloween night.  Best leave him to it.”  The only option was to do their best at telling the story themselves to Tiny and his boisterous pals.

     Though he tried to get Fred to do it, Ray ended up being the one to deliver the tale.  He saw the opportunity when he overheard Tiny brag to his friends that all the kids in this stupid school were afraid of everything, but not him.  Nothing scared him. 

     Ray stepped forward, “So the Yellowstone Midnight Express doesn’t scare you?”  It was clear from their looks that they did not know the story, so he continued into the story quickly before they could say anything more.  He did his best to produce the energy, the drama that Uncle could do without effort.  Though a gifted story teller himself, he was unable to generate the intensity that he hoped for.  Of course, Tiny and his friends did not look impressed.  In fact, as Ray concluded the tale, they all faked bored yawns and began to wander away.

     “I dare you to be at the railroad tracks at ten o’clock tonight,” shouted Fred in their direction.  They only laughed, and continued on their way.

     “I think I blew it,” muttered Ray.

     “I’m not so sure,” said Fred.  “That is how they would react to any spooky story when others could see their reaction.  Let’s see what happens latter.”