The letter arrived on my desk rather early in the morning. It read:

Dear Investigator,

There is something wrong with the Oregon Streamliner. The guests keep saying it’s haunted.

Take a look at it,

Bundar

I snorted my coffee slightly upon reading it. Ghost stories were fairly common in Nyton. About every week or so, I would get a letter kind of like this one. I say kind of as this one’s far more coherent then they often are. For example, a usual letter of this kind looks as follows:

Dear Mr. Mysasipi,

Yesterday I was walking along the road down in Miami County, you know that Staley one? And I swear to you, I swear I there is a barn down there that was bleeding! We are talking actual blood it even tasted like real cow's blood. You gotta come see I will show ya around any time ya need.

[Name redacted]

So to say I was surprised by the brevity and lack of spelling errors in the letter that arrived this morning is an understatement. Then I noticed the name. The famous Nyton writer. I sighed at the letter, licking my teeth before I was pushed to investigate. What pushed me, in honesty, was Bundar’s fellow darkness. While I was only half negro, I felt a shared connection nonetheless, and if it was him asking me to check something out, it was only right that I do so. 

The Streamliner in question was arriving from Cincinnati tonight on its path to Columbus, and it seemed I’d be aboard it. 

The Streamliner was set to leave at 8 pm. I arrived by my horse, Arthur, at 7 pm. I put his summon whistle in my pocket and went inside the station on 3rd street. After I purchased my ticket, I stood on the platform, reading Dracula, a book I was unfamiliar with. However, my confrontation with the strange man in Sprucewood led me to investigate the idea of blood drinkers further, which led me to the book. 

The Streamliner came in around 7:30 with a hiss and a rhythmic pounding. The sleek locomotive left me in awe. In place of the usual sharp triangular edges was an oval tank engine, its circular front light piercing through the darkness, the rounded reflective metal around it like a glowing knife in the dark. It slowed to a halt with delicate ease, and not a grinding screech like most trains.

Immediately, people began to board the train, mostly businessmen, though there were a few farmers, industry men, and families. They hustled into the train, attempting to avoid the cold and snow. I watched them enter, looking for any signs of fear or apprehension, but whatever fear this train was causing must not be spreading in the papers or via word of mouth. 

At 7:45, I took a lap up and down the train, looking for absolutely anything unnatural. Not being a mechanic or even slightly in tune with train culture, there was nothing really of note. 

I sat staring at the train, cunfuddled and unsure of myself, fiddling with my summoning whistle in my pocket. 

“Strange, isn’t it?” I heard a man next to me.

“Pardon me?” I said, turning to look at the man. He was a tall, abnormally so, slender black man. Old in the face, wearing an ivy hat that lifted up slightly to reveal there was barely any hair on his head. A cane was being held by a deeply scarred right hand. 

“How far we’ve come in this war-torn world,” he said, scratching the caned hand with the other one.

“I suppose so,” I said, staring at the pure shininess of the streamliner. The train breathed out a deep sigh, smoke jetting from the top and sides of the locomotive. 

He took a deep inhale, “You know, in all the devils I’ve seen with machinations just like this Steam Engine, every once in a while, a hero with the ability to rival a Streamliner, rises from the dust of humanity.”

“Ya, for sure,” I said, a little suspicious of the old man. Apart from scratching his hand, he was eerily silent. His words of wisdom? His words did not assuage me, spoken with a slight Creole twang, winded, and slow. He seemed tired, I can't explain it, but in his soul. He stood full of psychical energy, but there was a solemnness in his voice, a nostalgia. He turned to me and nodded; he was relinquishing me from my midwestern kindness. He was letting me leave. 

I nodded, taking my hand off my horse whistle for a slight wave. I turned and began to walk away. 

I heard his cane tap the ground, not hard but like a boot on pavement. “Good luck, Mississippi, tell Arthur I said hello.”

Strange. How did he know my horse's name? I turned around, but he was gone. I spent a moment searching around the platform, but there was no sign of him. Not even any scuff marks from his cane on the ground. 

Arthur, I thought to myself and ran across the station platform, barged open the train station doors, sprinted across the lobby, and slammed out the exterior doors to the snowy street. The train whistled from the other side of the building.

There was no sign of Arthur initially. No horse tracks in the snow. No head perched at the hitching post, I left him. Indeo was meant to come fetch him, but it hadn't been nearly long enough. I ran to the spot. Some machine was now sitting there. One of those motorized bikes.

I grabbed for the whistle in my pocket, but pulled out a key instead. Engraved on it was ‘Nyton Motor Company.’ 

I looked up at the bike in front of me. No treads leading up to the spot from the bike. I slowly approached it, looking for a key slot. It couldn't be… right? 

Just before I found the key slot, my eyes spotted an engraving. 

Arthur

I clicked the key into the hole, and with a turn, it thrummed to life. 

Witchcraft, I thought. It must’ve been, but that wasn’t real. Sleight of hand, perhaps? But why go through the effort of engraving Arthur? Impossible coincidence, this was intentional. 

The train whistled from the other side of the building again, then the chugging came. The train was starting. I turned the key and pulled it from the bike.

I ran back through the building and onto the platform, but by the time I got back, the Streamliner had already exited the station. I looked down at my watch, and it was only 7:59. Did the train have a mind of its own?

I couldn’t catch the train on foot. I needed… I needed a horse. I needed Arthur, but Arthur was gone. Well, the horse version at least. Sprinting back through the building, I arrived at the bike.

I cleared off the snow with my leather-gloved hand and sat on it this time, twisting the key once more; the bike hummed again. Quickly investigating the bike, I found the three important features. It’s headlight, how to reverse, and how to Canter, or move it forward. Shifting the bike back, I was able to pull it away from the station.

With a twist of my wrist, I was off. Chasing the Steamliner. I twisted around the building, and in a split second, I was on the tracks of the train, being slapped in the face relentlessly by the snow. Where normally I would have avoided the metal for fear of my horse’s shoes, the rubber of the bike's wheels allowed for an easy ride right towards the back of the Streamliner. I had not, however, thought about how to disembark from the bike onto the Streamliner. 

Treating it like a horse, I manoeuvred the bike to the side of the train. Slowly moved to stand on the seat as I looked up at one of the connecting compartments of the passenger train. 

In a second, I leapt from the bike onto one of the connector platforms, just next to and above the clamp between the compartments. The wind was knocked out of me as I stared at the shifting clamps. My face froze from the wind. Looking back, I was surprised to see the bike not veering off, but rather slowing down gradually, maintaining its parallel with the train. It was like the machine had a mind of its own.

I looked at the door next to me. I stood up, taking a moment to clear off the snow and get a couple of teeth chatters in before swinging it wide open. As if I had stepped somewhere I didn’t belong, the passengers of the bar car all looked at me, bewildered. I couldn't blame them. The Ticket Inspector, who was currently holding the ticket of the caned man who eluded me, handed it back to him and approached me.

“Sir, you must have a ticket to be on this train; no hitchhikers allowed,” he said. The caned man smirked behind him.

I responded, out of breath, by holding up the ticket I purchased earlier.

“Oh,” he said, taking the ticket and checking it before saying, “My apologies, Mr. Mississippi, please enjoy the bar.” He then turned and continued to check the tickets of passengers who were already settled. 

I approached the caned man.

“I trust ole Arthur gotcha here safe and sound as I expected,” he said.

“You owe me an answer,” I eked out, the wind finally returning to me.

“I’m sure I do, but you've got bigger fish to fry, Mississippi,” he sipped from a bourbon he held. “Find me at the Kettering Clocktower apartment on Thebian street, 13A. You’ll getcha answers. Now go, I ain't got time for ya, and you ain't got time for me tonight. That’ll be all.”

His brazen confidence and serenity took me off guard. All I could manage to think of was, “Who are you?”

“You can call me Buddy, or Mr. Guy, your choice. 13A this Sunday at 3. Now, like I said before, that’ll be all.”

Before I could respond, I was tapped on the shoulder by a train worker, whose outfit matched the style of the Ticket Inspector. 

Before he could speak, I said, “One moment,” and turned back towards Mr. Guy, but he was gone. “How does he keep doing that?” I said out loud to myself.

“Who, sir?” the worker asked.

“Never mind,” I responded, “yes?”

“Oh, very good sir, sorry. I heard the Inspector say your name. The Conductor was hoping you’d make an appearance. ‘Really, our only hope,’ he said. He wants to see you in the front compartment.”

“Very well,” I said and stepped away towards the door of the compartment, looking back just for a moment for a glance of Mr. Guy, but not catching one. I sighed in pure frustration and moved to the front door of the compartment. 

When my hand touched the handle, a passenger said, “Again?”

I apologized for the disturbance in opening the doors and said, “At least it’s the other one,” before pulling the handle and stepping onto the outside platform. Snow battered my face.

I made it through a few cars before I was stopped. A middle-aged man, who smelled overwhelmingly of cedar, stood up from his booth, placing a hand against my chest to stop my momentum.

“Stop messing with the lights,” he said. His face fully serious, his eyes shooting from mine to my hands, as if he was looking for something.

“Pardon?” I responded, bewildered by the suddenness of the encounter. 

“You heard me, darkie.” He stated matter of fact. Grabbing my gloved hands and twisting them in search of a tool or a mischievous item I did not hold. “You keep turning off and on the lights, and it’s upsetting me.”

“Why would I do that, and more importantly, why would I wear a full suit to do that? And don’t call me darkie unless you want a bullet where your forehead is, friend.” I stared down the man. He was taller, but I could see my rage seeping into the recesses of his mind, filling him with apprehension and fear. 

“You’re hiding your electrical tools under that trenchcoat, I know it,” he said, swinging out his words in an attempt to regain power.

“No,” I said, parrying the pitiful attack away. I stepped so I was face-to-face with the man. “But I do have a Colt Revolver tucked in there I can show you.” 

The lights in the car flickered. I looked past the man and at the lights. Strange. The lights then slowly got very bright before shutting off and turning back to normal. It was as if someone was messing with them, playing with the current. When they went black, there was also this faint melody, like someone humming a song. Perhaps Bundar was onto something. Maybe the Streamliner was really haunted.

I looked back at the man, he looked at me, then slowly slid down into the booth. I moved forward through the compartment, more engaged now to speak to the Conductor. 

Rushing through the rest of the passenger cars, I arrived at the outside of the diesel generator car. I pulled the door open, but it swung back, tearing from my hand as it slammed closed with a vengeance. In the window for a split second, I saw the spectral figure of a raccoon-like creature. Can raccoons be ghosts? Trying the door again, it was locked. 

I knocked, no answer. I knocked again, still no answer. Looking around, I spotted nothing but a ladder… 

“Well, shit,” I said out loud. 

Climbing up the ladder, I could feel my hands immediately growing cold from the frozen metal. The cold was so furious it was bludgeoning past my leather gloves. Peaking my head above the top, I was absolutely blasted with cold rushing air. I could hardly breathe; the wind was so intense.

The space above the train looked unenjoyable. We were passing through a forest, and several branches had been left in such a way they could clear the train, but I couldn’t without taking a beating. 

The train whistle belted out, and a large thrumming began beneath me as the train picked up speed. It was now or never.

Climbing up onto the top of the train, I attempted to crawl my way to the other side while being hit time after time by snowy branches. The forehead, the nose, it ripped hair from my head as it caught and pulled. I was being absolutely doused in snow to the point I must have looked like a small hill dragging itself along the top of the train.

I yelped in pain and used the anger to make a break for it. The hill of snow exploded as I went from lunge to full sprint, sending myself forward through branches and the slicing wind. With a leap, I landed feet dangling off the engine car.

Cables swung around me, attaching the diesel car to the engine car, in a way that seemed abnormal yet purposeful.

Slipping down from the roof, I made it to the door of the engine car. Before I could pull, it swung open. In the door stood a sweat soaked man in a suit. I watched his cap drip with sweat again… and again… and again. 

“Mr. Mississippi, thank goodness you're here. I have no control of the train, none of the controls are responding.”

I looked at the man, then the flurry of controls behind them. “You’ll have to forgive me. I don't know much about trains. Isn’t it all mechanical?”

“Yes sir,” the man said. “It’s powered by electricity, but all the controls are still mechanical.”

“Right, okay, yes. What do you need from me? Why not call an engineer?”

“Well sir, it’s the ghosts.”

“What?” 

“There are ghosts in the machine, sir. Many mechanics have looked over it. Every time they do, everything goes back to normal.”

“Why not call a priest then?” I asked.

“Well sir, and please don’t laugh, but every one of them says they can’t cleanse spirits of animals, the souls are different from humans, but that might just be an excuse, and they don’t really believe me.”

I thought of the thing I saw in the window. “Hmm, do you know what the animal ghost looks like?”

The man paused, looking confused. “Well, it was the size of a raccoon, and it looked kinda like one too. But there was something wrong about it. It was frizzy, and everything was sharp. Its teeth, its claws, and its fur.”

“Its fur?” 

“Ya, it was closer to that of a hedgehog than a raccoon.”

At this moment, I saw something reflecting in the window. Looking over, I saw the raccoon-like creature again. Not wanting to acknowledge its presence, I kept talking. 

“Hmmm, where did you see the creature?”

“I’ve only seen it a few times,” he said. “A few times in the side engine room window. A few times in the passenger room windows, and once I saw a shadow of one outside the bathroom door through the mirror while I was washing my hands.”

“The shadowish one you saw in the bathroom mi-”

“Ya, it was the only time I’ve ever seen one not see through. I only caught a glimpse before I saw its orby eyes, and it vanished.”

“Have you ever seen one while outside of the train?”

He thought for a moment. “No, why?”

A ghost only able to be seen in the window while on the train… that doesn’t sound like a ghost but rather…

“Mr….”

“Solomon,” he interjected.

“Mr. Solomon, I need you to turn to your left, but do not freak out, there is a -- ghost, behind you.” 

After I said it, he slowly turned around, and through a clenched mouth that attempted but failed to let out a yelp, he saw the ghost. 

“Now Mr. Solomon, I just need you to keep looking at the figure,” I said to him, beginning to turn around. “I’m just going to go outside and-

“The ghost is gone,” he said.

I had only turned to face the door; I hadn’t actually opened it yet. I turned to face Mr. Solomon again and-

“It’s back.”

It was the strangest thing. “Hmm, keep looking.” I turned to face the door again.

“What about now?”

“It’s gone again,” he said. 

I turned back to him, “And I assume it's back?”

He nodded.

It was a strange wrinkle. The ghost disappeared whenever I turned towards the door. It had only been seen through windows from on the train. Why had I seen it before when Mr. Solomon was talking to me? Well, he wasn’t directly in front of me but rather to my side, which would have blocked his view… of the corner. 

“Do you have a mirror?” I asked him. 

“Yes, it’s not a mirror per say, but it reflects. It’s under the second drawer in the cabinet by the door.

I grabbed the mirror from where he said and returned to the exact spot I was standing in. “Mr. Solomon, is it still in the window?” 

He nodded once more.

I lifted up the mirror, angling it so it would face the corner. Rather than an empty space, in the reflection of the mirror, I saw a creature like that of a raccoon. It’s fur was mixed with needles, terribly sharp claws, a rather lanky nature, and reflective, glowing eyes. It was digging into the grate, pulling up wires and tying them together.

It wasn’t a ghost, it never was, rather a creature so good at hiding, you could only find it when its reflection bounced off the window, making it seem like an apparition. 

“Mr. Solomon, I think I found your issue. You’re gonna need a net, maybe a few, and some more mirrors.”

“What do you see?”

“It’s like a raccoon, but it’s not a ghost. It’s a creature. It’s messing with the electrical.”

“Dear lord, forgive me.”

I looked in the mirror at him. He was white as a sheet. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t think they were real.”

“Didn’t think who was real, do you know what this creature is?”

“They told stories about them in the war; they’re called Gremlins.”

“Well, it’s gonna be alright,” I said, slowly unholstering my gun. I would have preferred not to shoot the poor creature, but this conductor was on the verge of a breakdown. He needed to be capable of controlling the train, especially with it being sabotaged by at least one of these Gremlins. I needed him sane and thought the problem had been handled, though in truth, if these things were anything like raccoons, it was unlikely there was only one of them. 

With the mirror still up, I flipped the gun upside down using my shoulder as a stabilizer. I paused for a second, then BANG.

I turned around. The creature was already still, dead as a doornail. 

“Well Mr. Solomon, there’s your Gremlin.”

If there were any more of them on the train, they did not make their presence known the rest of the journey. 

I got off at the next stop, about an hour away. I informed the ticket office, and using two of their parchment envelopes, signed two different letters. One to the Streamliner Company to inform them of their problem. I neglected to call the creatures Gremlins, wanting the concern to be taken seriously and fearful that including such Supernatural aspects, even if in this case it was justified, would be a bridge too far. The other to Bundar thanking him for the information.

When I arrived back at the Nyton station, I found my bike not too far from the Ticket office under a streetlamp. There was still no sign of my horse, so I gave the area a once-over before I took the new Arthur, and headed back home.

I spent the night finishing paperwork, and looking through a stack of books on Mythology I had pulled after the encounter with the blood drinker, or as I had found out, Copycat Vampire. There was no mention of Gremlins, but as he said, it was a tale from the war, and most of these books had been written previously. I needed a better source of information. I needed to know if I was truly dealing with the supernatural, or if it was all merely a strange coincidence.