It was then that I spotted the signal box, disused and lonely, sat between two rusting train lines, its only company being the fox squeezing into a small hole in its side, and the weeds, tall, unruly, and threatening to one day grow as tall as the box itself.
But there was something else that caught my eye that evening. Something I had often seen but never paid much attention to. Fixed to the box above the door to the signal box was a light, bright and strong, illuminating the tracks that stretched out underneath the bridge.
And then I spotted the man - an old man in a dark suit with a cream shirt and black tie. His hair was as white as the paint on the old signal box, and he had an unkempt, bushy moustache, the type that entirely hides any evidence of a mouth. He silently backed out of the signal box and then locked the door behind him, the bunch of keys jangling in his hands as he put them back in his jacket pocket.
He must have felt my eyes on him because he turned to look at me, his eyes narrowing as he did so. He went into his pocket and pulled out a pair of small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He smiled and gave me a little wave of acknowledgment. I hesitated for a moment before waving back at him. I felt a little awkward, like I had been caught spying on him.
He made his way down the old signal box steps - very carefully I noted - and then hobbled across the track and towards the ancient stone steps that climbed up the embankment to the bridge. He pulled out the bunch of keys, unlocked the rusty wrought-iron side gate and then passed through it before locking it behind him.
He nodded a greeting to me before starting his slow, shuffling walk over the bridge.
Suddenly filled with a need to satisfy my curiosity I asked him why the light was still on. Why a light was even needed on a disused line. The line had been shut down to passenger trains decades back. A small handful of freight trains had continued to use it up until five years ago when even they had stopped. The land around was presumably just waiting to be redeveloped into something new.
He smiled warmly and I finally noticed his previously hidden mouth. He looked away from me, lost in his thoughts, and then explained to me that he had been the signalman stationed in that very box for over fifty years before the line had been shut down. The engine drivers always knew they were nearly home when they passed his signal box. He explained to me that, although the line was no longer operational, he still wanted to keep the light on to guide those home that were no longer here.
I asked him what he meant by that.
He told me that sometimes the souls of the departed would go wandering along the railway, reliving days gone by, but by following his light they would always find their way home. They would always find their way back into the light. It was a reassurance for him and a comfort to them.
I nodded but I couldn’t hide my scepticism. The idea of ghosts roaming a disused train track, following a light was ridiculous. He must have noticed and smiled warmly, shaking his head. He stepped a little closer to me and I could now see his light blue eyes twinkling in the starlight. He told me that if I looked closely, I’d be able to see them, and they’d see me.
With a smirk, I asked him when I could see these so-called wandering souls.
He told me that I would only see them on a cloudless night when the stars were out, the moon was bright, and the sky was completely clear.
I smiled and then looked up at the night sky. The stars were indeed out. The sky was most definitely clear and the moon...the moon was brighter than I had ever seen it. I could make out all the craters and the patterns on its surface. I could even see the shapes that defined what people had called the man in the moon. I had never been able to see it until now. I chuckled in delight as I gazed up at the incredible vista high above me.
But as beautiful and breath-taking as it was, it wasn’t enough to convince me that I was about to see a ghost. They were a work of fiction - an excuse for people trying to find answers to the creaks in their houses or as a comfort to handle the loss of a loved one. There was no such thing as ghosts.
I was about to carry on speaking with the old man...but he had gone. I hadn’t heard him leave. I hadn’t heard his slow, shuffling feet as he had walked away, and he wouldn’t have had the time to get all the way over the bridge. It was like he had never been there.
I quickly turned to look back over the side of the bridge. The signal box was now in darkness. The light had gone out. All was silent.
I felt a chill run through my body and, laughing nervously to myself, I resumed my run as the clouds came out and swallowed up the silvery moon. I kept expecting to see the man halfway across the bridge, but I didn’t. He had gone.
I never saw the man again, but on a clear, cloudless night when the stars are out and the moon shines brightly in that dark, dark sky, the light on the signal box will be on, guiding the souls of the dead back home.
The End
Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby
All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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