Spectrals and Geckos

Don't Let the Lights Go Out at Crovan's Gate:

The day had ended, and all the engines of the Skarloey Railway were returning to their sheds to rest. Duke had broken down earlier that afternoon, his safety valve popping under all the strain he’d been putting on himself.

“You need to be more careful,” warned Skarloey. Duke raised an eyebrow. “I may have overdone it this time,” Duke admitted with a grumble. “But why are you telling me to be more careful? I saw the number of trucks you were taking.” Skarloey winced – he had taken Duke’s trucks as well as his own, straining his pistons in the process.

“Because… it was only one time,” Skarloey eventually replied. “And we have to be very careful with our health, because if we can’t be mended here in our little workshop… we go over to Crovan’s Gate.”

“I beg your pardon? I only recently came from Crovan’s Gate.” “And it’s a lucky thing you did too,” Skarloey replied ominously. Duke frowned. “You’re not telling me something, Skarloey. We both know that I will find out eventually, so you might as well be honest.”

Skarloey sighed.

“Yes, I’m not telling you something – and for good reason! Crovan’s Gate Works is haunted.” Duke went silent.

The air hung thick around them, the smell of coal, grease and steam hanging inside the poorly ventilated shed.

“Ah,” Duke said at last. Skarloey stared at him in disbelief! “You… think I’m telling the truth?” “I know it,” snorted Duke. “I was around when the Old Iron Bridge was closed; everyone was talking about it up at Peel Godred. This island hides a lot of secrets.” Skarloey chuckled humourlessly at that.

“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “And there’s something that lurks in Crovan’s Gate Works… no… someone.”

The lights outside the shed flickered, and Skarloey frowned. “Those blasted electric wires! Someone needs to fix them. Preferably now – especially with the time of year.” “Why’s that?” asked Duke. Skarloey sighed. “The ghost lurking around Crovan’s Gate is only able to interact with our world if all the lights go out.”

Duke made a noise of exclamation so suddenly it spooked Duncan out of his snoring! “Whaddya… want…” groaned Duncan drowsily before falling back to sleep.

“That explains the floodlight they kept shining in my face,” grumbled Duke. Skarloey went to reply, when the lights outside flickered again, then went dark. Skarloey went pale.

Outside, the wind began to pick up. The lights inside the shed wavered, but stayed on at a low, orange glow, the old oil lamp working as hard as it could to illuminate the darkness.

“Oh dear…” murmured Skarloey. Something outside moved. Across the mainline, Duke swore he could see two blood red eyes open, shifting to glare furiously at them. Sparks shot up into the night from above the eyes.

“Skarloey… what is that?” “An old Wellsworth & Suddery engine,” Skarloey replied. And he told Duke everything.

“In 1933, an old engine was sent to Crovan’s Gate Works to be overhauled to work on the Brendam Branch. He went into the workshops, and that was the last anyone saw of him. That night, a careless workman knocked over an oil lamp. The flames spread all around the wooden walls of the workshop, burning brightly as they reached up for the roof. The old engine awoke, and cried for help – begged, pleading, screamed for someone to come. But no one did. No one could. Skarloey and Rheneas were forced to watch in horror as the engine was burnt until he turned to a smoking hulk. Now, he haunts the yards at night, searching for the workman who sealed his fate.” As if to punctuate that point, the shadow of an engine raced by the shed.

“We’re safe in here, because of our light,” Skarloey said ominously. “But many a workman, coach or truck have vanished when the lights go out at Crovan’s Gate. Don’t get caught over there, Duke. Especially when the lights go out.”

The lights flickered back on, and for a split second, Duke swore he could see the horrific sight of a half-melted engine, face peeling and blistered with eyes blazing full of hatred.

Duke was more careful with himself after that, wary of the spectre that haunted Crovan’s Gate Works when the lights went out.

They Should Have Left This Part of the Island Alone:

The railway line to the new quarry was making the older engines nervous. “I don’t like it,” muttered Duke as he went about his work. “That part of the island is meant to be left alone.”

Skarloey and Rheneas agreed with the old engine. “They’ll find the bridge,” Rheneas hissed at Skarloey. “We closed that line for a reason.” “I know, Rheneas,” Skarloey replied gravely. “But what can we do? If there’s profit to be made, those executives won’t listen to reason.” “What’s up there isn’t reasonable,” Rheneas retorted.

All three were on edge – and it only got worse when the surveyors found an old, creaky iron bridge. It spanned a wide gorge, crossing over a swamp below. Rusty went to help the gangers lay rails over the old structure – only to find that there were already rails! These rails were weather worn, bent out of shape by hot summer days and rusted by frigid winter nights.

“We’ll need to pull these rails up and relay them,” Mr Hugh said. “It’s odd,” Rusty replied. “I didn’t even know there was a bridge up here.” The little diesel began the long, tedious task of carefully removing the old rails and replacing them with fresh new ones. Somehow, the bridge itself had not suffered the same fate as the track. Instead, it stood silently over the gorge, perfectly frozen in time.

Rusty felt like the railway was intruding on something, purely by crossing over the gorge.

Still, they pressed on.

They found the trackbed of an old railway on the other side of the bridge, one which twisted and turned carefully through the mountains until it reached an abandoned quarry, sat perfectly at the base of the mountain they wished to mine.

“It’s an abandoned quarry,” Rusty told the other engines. “And it’s in the middle of nowhere! I don’t get it. Who’d even put a quarry there, let alone abandon it and leave a giant iron bridge behind!”

Skarloey and Rheneas shared a worried look, while Duke went eerily quiet.

“I thought your railway blew up that bridge,” hissed Duke the next morning, once the other engines had left for work. “We thought so too,” Skarloey replied, eyes wide. “We planted the dynamite and everything! You don’t think…” “I wouldn’t want to risk it,” Duke replied solemnly.

Much of the line was overgrown, and soon the foreman began asking for trains to run up to the construction site to take away all the trimmed branches and leaves from the trees. Rusty and Peter Sam set to work on the trains, hauling long lines of trucks up and down the extension.

“You be careful on that old line,” Duke warned Peter Sam. “That is a part of the island few venture to for good reason.” Peter Sam was confused. “Granpuff, what are you talking about? I know it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s nothing to be afraid of!” “Just listen to me,” Duke hissed, his eyes ablaze. Peter Sam gulped. “That part of the island is not to be trifled with! You take care, for the love of Saint Machan, Peter Sam!” Peter Sam shakily agreed to the old engine’s frightening warning.

Construction continued apace. The new quarry was further up the mountain than the abandoned one, and a line was constructed through a narrow gorge below the old quarry to reach it, circling around behind the mountain towards the site.\

That was where they found it.

It was a boulder, rounded by wind and rain buffeting it on all sides. It stood high up on a ledge, completely cut off from the rest of the world by the rough terrain. “What a sight…” gasped Rusty when the little diesel first saw it. “It’s certainly something,” agreed Duncan. “Don’t see stuff like that every day.”

The old quarry was reopened the next week. It still had veins of slate it reached, some nestled deep in the mountainside. Trucks began grumbling their way up the once-disused incline again, bringing load after load of slate and stone down the extension, across the old iron bridge and then down the valley.

“I don’t like this,” Duke remarked, watching nervously as Sir Handel shunted his trucks into place for Henry to load onto his goods train. “You don’t like most things, Granpuff,” snorted Sir Handel. Duke just scowled and steamed away to collect his next passenger train.

But Henry noticed that Duke kept gazing up the valley towards where he’d been told the quarry was, a fearful look in his eye. As the big green engine heaved his heavy goods train out of the siding, there was a sudden clunk from beneath him. “What was that?” he asked, throwing on the brakes – but it was too late. One of the slate trucks toppled right over, smashing into wooden splinters as its brakes jammed in the points. Henry stared back at his trucks in shock. Sir Handel was also stunned. Neither of them noticed Duke watching the entire spectacle with wide eyes.

“It’s already beginning to make an appearance,” hissed Duke to the other old engines that night. “Did you see what happened to Henry? That was a slate truck that derailed.” “It spilled across the entire mainline,” Skarloey said. “There was no way we couldn’t see that mess!” “So what do we do?” Rheneas asked. “A better question is what can we do?” Skarloey groaned. Neither of the other engines had an answer.

Winter set in not long after that, bringing with it fogs that curled up from the rivers and lakes along the Skarloey Railway and blanketed everything in thick, impenetrable grey. The snow followed close behind, a blizzard of white slush falling all through the night.

When the snow came, it made work difficult. Industry ground to a halt – but they still mined the slate from the lower quarry to keep the engines busy. Skarloey, Rheneas and Duke hated it when they had to go up the extension. The old iron bridge swayed and groaned under them, as though threatening to collapse at any second.

The workmen, however, didn’t notice. They were busy at the quarry, where they’d shovelled as much snow as possible into a giant bank behind the buffers. They believed the snowbank would stop runaway trucks from skidding all the way down into the ravine the line used.

One especially frosty morning, Skarloey was sent up to the quarry with some coal trucks and empty slate wagons. “Be careful,” warned Rheneas. “We may have passed that time of year, but I wouldn’t be too sure that it’s not still out there.” Skarloey agreed and was extra vigilant as he made his way up towards the quarry. The original trackbed that the railway had once used had become impassable over the years, so instead, trains ran through the ravine before circling back to enter the old quarry. Skarloey didn’t like this route.

“The old route may hold bad memories,” he murmured to himself. “But at least it was safer.” His driver didn’t hear him. They neared a large snowy overhang which dangled dangerously over the line.

“That’s got to be the snowbank the workmen have been making,” hummed Skarloey’s driver. “It doesn’t look safe,” Skarloey said. “I’d rather we check to see if it will collapse.”

The guard strode up, overhearing Skarloey’s suggestion. He gazed up too. “The old engine’s right,” he said. “The sound of Skarloey’s engine could trigger an avalanche. I’d rather we run over a detonator and check.” Skarloey and his driver agreed.

Up at the quarry, there was a problem. The overnight frost had buckled part of the winch mechanism that hauled trucks up and down the incline. The winch kept catching, slowing production down. A long line of loaded trucks was placed on one side of the incline, and a line of empty trucks on the other. As the loaded trucks started to come down the incline, the empty trucks derailed. The winch groaned.

“Break it! Snap it!” shouted the trucks. And they did.

The trucks came hurtling down the incline, thundering along, swaying violently. “The snowbank and buffers will stop them!” called a workman. But he was wrong.

Down below, Skarloey’s driver had just finished setting the detonator, and was walking back to Skarloey’s cab when they heard the rumble of a runaway train. “Back driver, quick!” shouted Skarloey. His driver sprinted to his cab, and threw open the regulator. Skarloey jolted back as the trucks plunged through the snowbank and into the ravine.

The old engine looked up in horror. “Avanlanche!” he cried. The trucks tumbled into the ravine, bringing the snowbank with them. Tonnes of snow and slate and wood and iron roared down the ravine walls, smashing into the rails where Skarloey had just stood. Shards of wood splintered off and rocketed past the old engine, missing him by inches.

“I knew it,” Skarloey whimpered. His driver was stunned. The usually unstoppable old engine had been reduced to near tears. “I knew we shouldn’t have come here. It’s angry now. We need to leave. We need to leave it all to nature.” “Are you alright, Skarloey? You’re talking jibberish.” “I am not!” snapped Skarloey. “We need to go. Now. We’re not welcome here.”

Skarloey’s driver was so stunned by his old engine’s outburst, that he complied. Skarloey hurried back down the line, not stopping for even a moment until he was safely on comfortably familiar rails.

Duke and Rheneas met him at the middle station. “Are you alright?” asked Rheneas. “You’re meant to be up at the quarry.” “There was an avalanche,” Skarloey hissed. “The trucks… they broke away from the winch… they plunged into the ravine… it’s angry.” Rheneas and Duke shared a worried look.

It took a long time to clear away the wreckage from the avalanche. The frigid temperatures had hardened much of the snow into ice, and it wasn’t until spring that they were able to safely run trains back through the ravine.

The melting snow also cause a surge in torrents that threatened to wash away the track. These were particularly bad around the new quarry construction site. The boulder stood overhead, silent as it gazed down at the construction disturbing its peace. Rusty mentioned it to the other engines. “I don’t want to go back up there,” Skarloey muttered to Rheneas and Duke. “One of you go confirm it.” “I’ll go,” said Duke. “You two were here last time – it might not target me as a newcomer.” “It targeted you when your line strayed too close,” reminded Rheneas bitterly. “I’m amazed it only took one of those Culdee Fell engines as a sacrifice.”

The news came that James had derailed near the Culdee Fell Railway after looking after the line while the electric engines were unable to work. When the red engine was shunted into the siding to await his turn in the works, he looked very shaken up indeed.

“I saw something up there,” he declared loudly to everyone who listen. “There’s something wrong up at Peel Godred!” “Shut up!” snarled Rheneas. “We know. But if you tell anyone, it will come after you.” James went silent in horror. “It’s… but Godred…” “Godred?” Duke thundered over, eyes wide in surprise. “You saw him? I must go up to that quarry at once.”

“I’ll get the story from James,” Rheneas promised. “You go take a look.” Duke raced away, swapping duties with Peter Sam to get up to the new quarry construction site.

And when he turned that final corner, his boiler ran cold. “It’s really there,” he gasped in amazement. The old engine shunted his trucks into their proper siding, muttering an ancient Sudrian prayer under his breath. His first driver had taught him the prayer long, long ago – and he’d taught Culdee.

As he turned on the triangle to head back down the line, an object fell from the ledge, smashing down on the trackside. Duke jumped. “What was that?” exclaimed Rusty, hurrying over. “It’s… it’s… a cylinder…” Duke edged closer to the rusted metal lump. It was rusted beyond all comprehension… and yet, it was too familiar for Duke’s liking. “I’ll take it with me,” he said eventually. “I’d suggest you send some men to secure the ledge.” Rusty and the foreman agreed, and Duke hurried away with the rusted cylinder.

“It’s Godred’s!” he exclaimed to Skarloey and Rheneas that night. “His cylinder block was at that site! It cannot be a coincidence.”

“It’s a warning,” a voice said. The three jumped and looked all around – but there was no one there.

The seasons changed. When summer came, the new quarry finally opened. Long trains of high-quality rock came pouring down from the mountain, filling up truck after truck at the transfer sidings. Rusty met Bear and Donald at the transfer sidings.

“Where’s all this rock coming from?” asked Bear. “The new quarry,” replied Rusty. “This mountain rock is good for many things, although it’s dangerous up there.” “How come?” asked Donald. “Because of a big boulder,” Rusty said grimly. “It stands on a cliff high above the line, and it feels like it’s watching me.”

“Dinnae be sae dunderheided!” snorted Donald. “Boulders dinnae hae een!” Rusty just sighed and rumbled away, not spotting a very concerned Skarloey in the sheds.

The new quarry soon began to leave its mark. Profit came streaming in, encouraging the quarry owners to further exploit the lands around their initial setup. This brought them ever closer to the cliff where the boulder stood.

“It’s not right,” hissed Duke. “There’s a reason it was left as the middle of nowhere.” “Pah!” snorted Duncan. “It’s just the base o’ Culdee Fell! Peel Godred’s on the other side!” “Peel Godred is not on Culdee Fell,” Skarloey said sternly. “And it’s not technically the base of Culdee Fell, but one of the smaller mountains that feeds into the Fell itself.” Duncan rolled his eyes and huffed away.

The weather changed again, and something strange began to happen along the old line. The trees and bushes that the workers had cut right back the year before had grown far more rapidly than anyone could anticipate, beginning to choke the line with dead leaves and debris. After some debris hid a rock that derailed Sir Handel, the Thin Controller got the workers to begin pruning along the line.

Peter Sam and Rusty often worked together, the two top-and-tailing the trains up and down the extension. One day, Rusty helped Peter Sam to a water column at the top of the ravine, and once there, honked goodbye to let Peter Sam know that the little diesel had headed up to the old quarry. Peter Sam needed this drink, but the trucks grew impatient. “Let’s break away,” they giggled. Their loads were heavy, so when they tugged at a coupling, it snapped.

The trucks rocketed back down the line, speeding through the ravine. “After them!” shouted Peter Sam. The little green engine gave chase, but it was already too late. A sign read ‘Slow! Steep bend and Ravine ahead’ – but the silly trucks never saw it. They thundered onto the old iron bridge and toppled over, crashing down into the ravine and plunging into the swamps below. Peter Sam puffed out onto the bridge and stared down at the scene of the disaster.

“This was our fault,” sighed the driver. “We didn’t secure them properly.” “But it makes no sense…” murmured Peter Sam. “Those trucks were new…”

But that excuse didn’t float well with the Thin Controller. “New or not, those trucks shouldn’t have been given the opportunity to run away. You will shunt trucks here in the yards until I can trust you again.”

Duncan was delighted with Peter Sam’s dilemma. “Fancy no securing yer trucks,” he sniggered. “They’ll come back to haunt you and yer special funnel. OoooOooo!”

Skarloey, Rheneas and Duke all winced together. Rusty noticed. “Well,” the little diesel said. “The workers up on that extension say there’s a real ghost – I bet you’d be frightened of it.” “Pah! Ghosts, things that go bump in the night; rubbish! That’s just a load of nonsense they’re telling you to spook you, Rusty. But tell it anyway, I’d like a laugh.” Skarloey went to say something, but Duke hushed him. “He’ll learn one way or another,” murmured the old engine.

“Alright, I’ll tell you a story that’ll make your funnel quiver,” smirked Rusty. “A long time ago, a little engine was returning home. It was a misty moonlit night. As the little engine crossed the old iron bridge, he suddenly lost control and plunged over the side and into the swamps below. He was never found again – but the workmen say that when the moon is full they have seen the engine trying to make it home… but he never reaches the other side.”

Rheneas, Skarloey and Duke all slunk out of the sheds, faces pale.

“So what do you think of that, Duncan?” asked Rusty. “Pah! Nonsense,” replied Duncan, and he puffed back into his berth to sleep.

The gruff engine was plagued with nightmares all throughout his restless sleep, but he didn’t tell anyone. Duke, Rheneas and Skarloey kept a close eye on him – and Duncan kept a close eye on the moon. It was only two days until it was a full moon. To distract himself, Duncan began to pull pranks on Peter Sam, pretending to be a ghost to spook the poor engine.

“Never you mind, Peter Sam,” sighed his driver. “He’d be frightened if he really saw a ghost.” This gave Peter Sam an idea, which he told his crew. His crew spoke with Duncan’s, and they agreed.

“The full moon is tonight,” they said. “We’ll do it at once.”

Duncan had to take coal trucks up to the quarries and bring loaded stone and slate trucks back. Every trip involved crossing the old iron bridge. “Haunted bridge; Pah!” snorted Duncan. “It’s as tame as a pet rabbit!” But all the same, he kept thinking about Rusty’s story. If he’d been less in his smokebox, he might have noticed more about his surroundings.

The boulder had shifted.

On his last train of the evening, Duncan had to bring a special new piece of machinery up to the new quarry. It was called Thumper, and it was built to make collecting the rock even easier. But it took a long time to unload Thumper, and even longer to assemble the trucks they needed to take back. As dusk fell, Duncan spoke up.

“If we don’t go now, Skarloey’ll take my favourite place in the sheds,” Duncan complained. He hadn’t noticed the fact that Skarloey had stopped stealing that spot months ago, spending his time close to Duke and Rheneas instead. “We can’t go until all our trucks are filled,” his driver replied. Duncan looked nervous, his eyes darting from side to side.

It was dark by the time they set off. The moon was full, and the mists were rising up around the old iron bridge, curling around its beams like tendrils trying to drag it down into the swamps. Duncan whistled, and the sound echoed all around, bouncing off the walls of the gorge and distorting into something unnatural.

Duncan tentatively crawled onto the bridge. He made it halfway before suddenly stopping. Ahead, he saw flickering lights. To Duncan, they looked like an engine. His driver didn’t see the lights.

A rock plunged into the swamps below, startling both Duncan and his driver. “It’s the ghost!” wailed Duncan. “Take me back! Take me back! Please!” Duncan’s driver was spooked too – he opened the reverser, and Duncan hurried for the safety of the quarry sheds.

Duke came to find him the next morning. “Are you alright youngster?” he asked, eyes not on Duncan. “No,” admitted Duncan. “I saw something. It was there, on the bridge!” Duke looked grim, still gazing up at the cliff where the boulder stood. “I see. Come along then, let’s get you back to the sheds while there’s plenty of daylight.” Duncan was all too happy to have another engine with him as he crossed the old iron bridge. A large shard of rock stuck out at a jagged angle, not twenty feet from the bridge.

“It looks like it came away from the cliff last night,” Duke’s driver said. “Must’ve caused a right ruckus!” “It did,” laughed Duncan’s driver. “Spooked me!” “But I saw something,” murmured Duncan. Duke didn’t reply – not until they were in the privacy of the sheds.

“So you saw a ghost then,” Duke said. It wasn’t a question. “I did,” Duncan replied. Skarloey, in the next berth over, looked over. “So, it’s really back,” he muttered. “Indeed,” Duke sighed. “I looked this morning – that boulder has definitely moved overnight.” Duncan gulped. “What? The boulder? Is it a ghost too?”

Neither Duke nor Skarloey answered for a long moment.

“No one’s quite sure,” Skarloey eventually said. “But whatever it is, it’s been around since long before the railway.” “But the engine!” “Wasn’t the first to fall off the old iron bridge,” Rheneas announced grimly, steaming in. “There was also a horse and its handler. But that engine’s demise is what closed the bridge originally. We put dynamite on that bridge… and we thought we’d blown it up!”

“So what is it?” demanded Duncan. “No one’s quite sure,” repeated Skarloey. “It was written about by King Godred himself, not to mention Saint Machan and the Ancient Sudrians. It stands at the top of the Keeill-y-Deighan valley, opposing the Standing Stones.” “The ancient Sudrians stayed well away from that region for a reason,” added Duke gravely. “It’s in the middle of nowhere – and we’re disturbing it with this new quarry.”

Duncan felt ill.

Something was up at the new quarry, and he’d just delivered a piece of machinery to increase production.

Rusty also felt like something wasn’t right with the boulder. It seemed as though it had shifted up on the cliff from one end of the quarry to the other. But that was impossible.

Instead, Rusty focused on the new piece of equipment. Thumper was very useful. He worked extremely hard, pounding away at the cliff face and digging up tonnes of rock for the little engines to take away. Sir Handel, Peter Sam and Rusty were kept hard at work – but no one bothered to check on the boulder.

Loose gravel fell to the lineside.

It rained the next day, and the workmen were unable to work. Rusty still went up to the new quarry, to check for any signs of damage. Rusty gazed up, and shivered. Above stood Boulder.

Suddenly, a large slab of rock smashed down onto the rails. Rusty was shocked. The driver was concerned too. “We’d best leave until the weather’s better,” he said. “The rain’s loosened some of the rock.” “I think it’s Boulder,” murmured Rusty. “I think it wants us to go away.” As Rusty left, the little diesel didn’t notice a dark face cross the Boulder, before vanishing into the rain.

The quarry grew even busier once the rain cleared. Even more machines came to help – and that’s when Rusty looked up.

“Boulder’s moving,” Rusty gasped. “Don’t be daft!” snorted Rusty’s driver. “It can’t!”

But it did. It fell from it’s high perch, smashing down into the quarry below. It bulldozed several buildings instantly, then began to roll downhill.

“It’s rolling along our line!” exclaimed Rusty. “Quick!” The little diesel dashed backwards, honking their horn and shouting in terror. “Go! Go! Run!”

The boulder picked up speed, growing ever faster. Rusty swore that there was a face on the boulder – the little diesel went even faster, tears springing to their eyes.

“I don’t want to be squashed!” Rusty wailed. The little diesel rushed down the extension, wheels screaming in protest as Rusty rounded each bend as fast as their driver would dare. The boulder began to gain on the poor little diesel, but still Rusty kept going.

Skarloey, Rheneas and Duke sat on the other side of the old iron bridge. They were just about to cross when they heard the thunderous roar of the boulder falling from its perch.

“No…” gasped Skarloey. “Rusty!” exclaimed Rheneas in horror. The little engine went to move forwards, only to be stopped by Duke. “We can’t go over,” shouted Duke. “It all downhill from that quarry – the boulder will come straight for us!”

Rusty was driving flat out, racing through the ravine. The boulder was slowed by the narrow walls, but it wasn’t stopping. Still, Rusty used these precious moment to their advantage, drawing ahead and refusing to slow in the slightest, even as their engine began to cough and splutter.

“Help!” shouted Rusty. They sped round the next bend, and the little diesel’s driver spotted the old iron bridge.

“If we can cross that, we’ll be safe!” The little diesel managed to find just a little more speed. Rusty clattered onto the bridge, going as fast as their wheels could carry them. The boulder was close behind.

Rusty sped off the bridge; the boulder roared onto the bridge. The old iron bridge groaned under the weight, rivets snapping off in all directions before the superstructure gave way and the entire thing, boulder included, went smashing down into the gorge.

The last thing the engines saw was a terrifying, scowling face carved into the side of the boulder.

And then, silence.

The engines left the gorge as quickly as they could. As they did, an explosion rocked the mountainside! “The quarry!” exclaimed Rusty, horrified. “The boulder must’ve…” The little diesel trailed off, unable to finish that horrific thought.

When the Thin Controller surveyed the damage, he decided to close the extension. Down in the gorge, the boulder was half submerged. “We should have left this part of the island… alone.”

They ripped up the rails the very next day, and left the trackbed to be engulfed by nature. Some places are left well enough alone because they must be – but Skarloey, Rheneas and Duke know that one day, people will return to the dark side of Culdee Fell, in search of the wealth it hides. And when that day comes, they too will know of it.

And it doesn’t accept trespassers.

Back to Master Post

James and Godred

Oliver Wasn't the Only Engine in that Siding:

Oliver the Great Western Engine is thankful for the second chance that Sodor has given him. Every day, he wakes up and says ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’ to Douglas before starting his day’s duties. Douglas never really understood the custom.

“Ye dinnae need tae thank me ilka day,” Douglas said one morning. “I do though,” Oliver replied quietly. “It’s important to me… to everyone. You saved us when we had no one to turn to, and it’s because of you that I’m here today. That alone is worthy of my eternal gratitude.”

Douglas left it at that, and puffed away to start his day.

Once Douglas had rounded the bend out of sight, Oliver released a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding in. The Caledonian couldn’t possibly know.

There are two days that Oliver will never forget: the first is the day that Douglas rescued him from the Other Railway, but the second…

The second is the day he arrived in that scrapyard; two months prior. He’d been out of coal, unable to find even a single lump of the black fuel source. He’d been captured by a smirking diesel, who’d dragged him up to the Barrow Scrapyard and left him in a cold, damp siding with his coach Isabel and his brakevan Toad. The trio thought they were alone, until an old, scratchy voice broke the silence.

“Welcome to the ‘out of use’ siding,” wheezed the voice. Oliver looked back. Behind him was a row of old, rusty engines. They were not Great Westerns like him – they were ex-LMS stock. The one who had spoken was a grimy Fowler 4F, who was missing both his tender and his dome. He stood right behind Oliver, but ahead of six other engines. Two were Jinty tank engines, one was a Black 5, one was a Stanier 8F, one was an Ivatt 2MT tank engine – and the last was Pettigrew D5, from the Furness Railway.

The other engines didn’t say anything. They just sat there – silent hulks leaving growing shadows on the ground.

“Hello, little runaway,” smirked an oily diesel. Oliver looked up to see a large, grease-smeared Class 28 rumble up alongside him. “We caught you at last.” Oliver glared defiantly. The Great Western engine refused to give the diesel the pleasure of a reply.

“Heh, not a talker?” sneered the diesel. “No matter. We’ve got a little treat in store for you. You’re last on our siding, so I hope you enjoy what comes next.”

And with that, men left the works coach the Class 28 was pulling, and made their way over to the first of the Jintys.

Oliver couldn’t bear to look – but he was forced to listen. Listen to the hiss of the blowtorch, to the screech of 1000 degrees slicing through metal, to the screams of the engine as it was slowly; agonisingly carved up and turned into a pile of parts.

The Class 28 shunted the parts into the smelter’s shed.

Oliver wanted to cry, but the look on the diesel’s kept his eyes dry. The glee – the sheer, unadulterated glee – in that engine’s eyes was sickening. Oliver wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his sick, twisted game was getting to the Western engine.

The scrapper’s had waited a week before returning, with that same smarmy diesel. This time, Oliver got to read the engine’s number off its cab.

D5701.

Oliver noticed that the other Class 28s avoided this one. They looked at this diesel as if he was a monster. Oliver agreed with them. This diesel seemed to take enjoyment from the screams of his victims, listening in for the moment the screams dissolved into whimpers.

The torch worked its way through the engines in the siding. The Staniers and the other Jinty were gone by the end of the month, leaving Oliver with the D5, the Ivatt 2MT and the Fowler 4F. All four rarely spoke – especially not with the other diesels growling and sneering at them. All except the other Class 28s. The rest of that class seemed horrified at their siblings’ actions – and they were the only ones that came near them without bringing death.

D5703 rumbled up beside Oliver one evening, looking around fugitively. “Tonight, the Midnight Goods comes across from Sodor,” she hissed quietly. “We’re going to try and redirect their engine this way – but you need to grab their attention.” Oliver couldn’t find the steam to reply.

“We’ll try,” croaked the Fowler from behind Oliver. “Thank you.”

The night wore on, and the four engines, Isabel, and Toad all waited for signs of a Sodor engine puffing past. Instead, D5701 growled past, dragging D5703 behind as she hissed and hurled insults at her unfeeling sibling.

“Try and help those relics, huh?” he snarled. “Try and derail to bring those disgusting Nor-Westers this way? It’s such a shame that the company wants you gone, little sister.” Oliver watched with wide eyes as D5701 dragged their own sister into the smelting shed. There was the distinct hiss of smelting torches being fired up – and then a single, ear-piercing scream. D5701 growled out of the smelting shed, lip curled up in a snarl.

“And let that be a lesson!” he roared. “There is no escape!” The four steam engines said nothing, didn’t give the furious diesel the satisfaction of a victory.

The next day, the men came for the Ivatt, slicing the young engine up extra slowly.

That was when a second young Class 28 began to visit the trio. D5714 was an unassuming young girl - she wasn’t the youngest of her class, nor the oldest. She just was. She pulled her trains when her Crossley motor allowed her to, and she got her driver to play the radio for her when she couldn’t.

“What is the West like?” she asked Oliver one evening. “Well, it’s wonderful,” grinned Oliver. “Beautiful scenery – and all our coaches were painted chocolate and cream. But… the managers didn’t care about steam. Said we were too inefficient. They were… they were proud to claim their region was the first to… to… to abolish steam.” D5714 gasped. “That’s horrible! The same is happening to my class… they say we’re too expensive to keep running. We aren’t ‘revolutionary’ like the other diesels. Big brother 5702 said our best chance of survival was to learn from the steam engines, and use their wisdom to do better at work. Big brother 5701 wants us all to get into the… the scrapping business. He thinks if we do, we’ll survive on the scrap-merchant’s money. Big sister 5700 was scrapped though… and so was big sister 5703! I saw 5701 drag her off.” Oliver paused, realisation hitting him like a runaway freight train.

The Class 28s weren’t even ten yet. They’d been built in the late 50s! The young girl in front of her couldn’t have been older than eight years old. And here they were, being forced to debate the best way to survive. It was sickening – and it was all British Rail’s fault.

The D5 was the next to go. The poor old engine had been sat in that siding for ten years and had accepted his fate long ago. When the cutters came for him, he simply smiled at them. His voice had been lost during the last downpour, and the rust was creeping up his smokebox. He didn’t scream like the other engines – and Oliver could tell how much that infuriated D5701.

“Why was he so quiet? Are the torches not hot enough?” he demanded. The scrappers all shot the diesel dirty looks. “That engine was meant to have been cut up years ago,” one of them snapped. “You’ve kept him on this siding for nearly a decade, and that’s all you have to say?” Oliver felt sick to his boiler. That old engine had been sat out in the wind and snow and driving rain and baking sun for an entire decade. Longer than most of his replacements had even been alive.

And he could tell that D5714 thought her brother’s words were horrible too. “Don’t mind him,” muttered the Fowler softly. Oliver jumped. The 4F had been silent ever since D5703 had been scrapped. “I… beg your pardon?” “Don’t mind that bully,” the 4F said. “His type has always existed, and they always will. But you can’t let them win.” “How do you know?” asked Oliver. The 4F didn’t reply. Oliver had a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know.

“The Midnight Goods is due in two weeks,” hummed D5714 the next evening. “I wonder if it’ll be that Scot again?” “Scot?” asked Oliver. “Yes – the last one was pulled by some engine with a Scottish accent. He spent a good few minutes hissing insults at 5701.” Oliver noticed that the young engine was no longer referring to her classmate as ‘big brother’.

That evening, D5701 came for the Fowler 4F. Unlike the others, he was dragged out of the siding.

“Well, old timer?” sneered D5701. “It’s your turn. How does it feel to be scrapped by the very people you once worked for?” “Like a cruel irony,” came the blunt reply. “And one I feel you too will come to know.” D5701 laughed – but his laugh was like shards of glass falling, the laugh of a maniac.

“Me?! Ever be shunted off into a siding like you? You outlived your usefulness as a scrapper’s engine, Fowl one, though that’s to be expected from such a relic.” “And what of you? Even as we speak, they are cutting up your class in the sidings of Carlisle. Five gone, and a sixth being withdrawn tomorrow. I do not envy you, if that is what you want me to say. I do not wish to be you, and I will not argue, or beg, or plead, or scream. There is no satisfaction in that. Not anymore.”

D5701’s engine roared at this, backfiring with a massive Bang! A fireball shot up, and he surged forwards, bumping the Fowler hard enough that the old engine went sailing into the smelting shed, joints creaking and groaning before suddenly giving way. The Fowler 4F’s axles shattered beneath him, and he toppled cab over wheels to one side, parts snapping off and smashing down all around the husk of an engine. D5701 smirked.

“You’ll be next, Western,” he said. With that, he rumbled off to deal with scrapping the remains of the Fowler 4F. D5714 sidled up next to Oliver.

“I have a plan,” she said quietly. “But I need you to have at least a little steam. Can your crew build a fire?” Oliver blinked. His crew was somewhere in Barrow – probably trying to find a way to speak to the Fat Controller across the bridge – but he hadn’t heard from them in well over a month. “If you can get them to me, we can probably get something started with all the overgrown weeds…” Oliver replied. D5714 smiled. “Good. When the steam engine arrives, I need you to get their attention, no matter what. Oh! Or if it’s D5702. He’s also a Sodor engine. If you can do that, I can distract everyone else.”

Oliver felt a smile slowly grow on his face. “Thank you,” he whispered. D5714 smiled. “It’s the right thing to do,” she replied. And then she was speeding away before her psychopathic brother could reappear.

Oliver’s crew were back the next day, tugging weeds out of the ground and laying them out in Oliver’s firebox to dry out. They took a floorboard or two from Toad as well. Even so, it was dangerous work. D5701 kept rumbling over to gloat, counting down the days with a manic grin that split his face in two, revealing a row of pearly white teeth. On any other engine, that smile would have been natural, reassuring – D5714 smiled like that sometimes, when Oliver told her about all his adventures back on his branchline – but on D5701, it just seemed sinister.

But he was nowhere to be found the day before the Midnight Goods was due to arrive, in spite of it being the day before he planned to scrap Oliver. D5714 was smirking when she pulled in.

“We’re in luck,” she said. “5701 is stuck at Carnforth due to some faulty points. It gives us an even better chance.” And with that, her driver pulled a sack out of the diesel’s cab and tossed it to Oliver’s driver. The driver opened the bag and gasped.

“Coal!” “It was the last in the bunkers on the branch,” D5714 said. “So use it wisely.” Oliver beamed. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said earnestly. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?” D5714 thought for a moment, then smiled shyly. “I would like… a name.”

Oliver stopped dead, stunned. “You don’t have a name?” “Not many diesels do,” D5714 replied quietly. “British Rail says it encourages deviant behaviour – but I heard that all steam engines have names!” “We do,” said Oliver proudly. “I’m Oliver… and you… what do you think of Eleanor?” “Like that American woman?” asked D5714. “The one who helped found the United Nations?” “Yes,” Oliver replied. “Eleanor Roosevelt. I met her when she came to Britian during the war. One of the most amazing people I’d ever spoken to. She wanted to help everyone… a lot like you.” “I… I like it.” “Then pleased to finally meet you, Eleanor.” Eleanor blushed, and was about to leave when the pair heard a disturbingly familiar horn echo through the yards.

“Quick! He’s coming back!” hissed Oliver. Eleanor sped away, and vanished just before D5701 finally returned. Oliver’s crew hid in Isabel, daring not to make a sound. “One night left, steam kettle,” sneered D5701. “I’m going to enjoy tomorrow.”

With that, he rumbled away.

Night fell. Oliver’s crew began building a small fire in Oliver’s firebox, having first checked his tanks had water. They were in luck. All was still in the yards.

Then, suddenly, the fire alarm rang out, just as a sharp, deep, Caledonian Railway whistle boomed in the distance. Oliver could see in the distance that the main sheds were on fire – and D5714’s plan was suddenly in motion.

Oliver could only hope that his crew had built enough of a fire to make steam.

The new foreman of the dieselworks! The other workers like den and dart, splatter and dodge, and arry and bert call him "the boss", but hes known as d10 for reasons unknown.... hes a master of the machine and the engines under his supervision gets fixed faster than ever before, but why doesnt mavis trust him...?

Lost in the Fog:

The Island of Sodor was hosting a visitor from the Other Railway. The visitor was a large, impressive tank engine who was helping out on Thomas’ branchline.

“I do love getting to pull trucks again,” the engine said cheerfully to Percy. “We don’t to pull trucks on my heritage railway.” “They might be fun, but you do have to be careful,” warned Percy. “Some trucks can be troublesome.” The engine chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, Percy – I’ll be fine!” Percy was doubtful. And yet, to his amazement, the visitor managed the trucks well. The trucks came along quietly, distracted from misbehaving by the songs the engine sang to them.

The visitor really did brighten up the yard every time they passed through. “Did you need a hand?” he offered to Toby as the old tram struggled with a long line of empty ballast trucks heading back for the Little Western. “That would be great,” grinned Toby. “Thank you.” With the visitor’s help, they managed the run in half the time it usually took – and better yet, his sing-a-longs kept the trucks from acting up.

“You really have a knack with the trucks,” mused Duck, watching in amazement as the big engine shunted them into their proper places. “I’m impressed.” “Thank you!” the visitor said. “That’s too kind!”

The visitor grew to be popular amongst all the engines. The speed and dedication they brought to every train won over even the gruffest of trucks and engines alike – not even James could think of a bad word!

Everyone was sad when it came time for the visiting engine to return back to their heritage railway. “Safe travels!” called Percy. “Don’t get lost!” warned Oliver. “Lost?” quizzed the engine. “That isn’t likely, is it?” “Well… no – but sometimes the signalman near Killdane nods off. Make sure you whistle to alert him to your presence.” The engine smiled. “Thanks for the advice, I’ll keep it in mind!” And with that, the engine set off into the setting sun.

Things went well at first – but then night fell. With it came the mist. The mist rose up out of every crevice, seemingly rising up out of the ground itself, swirling around and blanketing everything it touched in an impenetrable wall of grey.

The visitor peered into the darkness, trying to see which town they were passing through. The station signs were obscured – several station lamps flickered and died and a chill danced in the air, winding around the visitor and doing its best to freeze their boiler into ice. The visitor still battled onwards.

“We can’t stop here…” they said, narrowing their eyes to try and spot a familiar shape. “It’s the middle of the mainline. No trains can stop here.” “Then which way now?” asked the engine’s driver. The answer lay just up ahead, where a signal light shone green, piercing sharply through the mist to illuminate the world around it.

“Someone must be expecting us,” hummed the driver. “That’s good!” A station platform appeared on the engine’s left, and they slowed to a stop, waiting for some sort of instructions on where to go. The driver and fireman looked back, and then the driver groaned.

“That stupid signalman! Come on, you need to go remind him that he needs to drop the signal back to red.” “And you?” “I’ll go find us some hot coffee in the station house. This seems like a big station – there’s got to be someone around.” The two left their engine sizzling nicely under the station canopy, heading off to complete their respective tasks.

Normally, this would have been fine – and had the engine been anywhere else, this would have been a routine stop. But the name of the station illuminated by a flickering station lamp was Killdane. “Um… shouldn’t we whistle?” asked the engine. But his crew had already left.

The engine’s eyes darted around. Something felt off about this station. It wasn’t the electric wires running above the tracks, nor was it the eerily still lines of coaches and trucks in the sidings. No, there was something else. Maybe… the second set of points that felt like they shouldn’t be there?

“Oh, why hello there,” grinned a deep, almost gravelly voice from behind the engine. “Um… hello?” The visitor had never heard that voice before. There was no face to put to the sound – this voice was completely new, and it scared them slightly. “What’re you doing on our line?” “I’m waiting to continue on,” the engine replied firmly. “We’ll take you,” the voice replied. Before the engine could question that, they were buffered roughly from behind. There was the deep, almost howling honk of a diesel horn, and the engine was suddenly being shoved forwards, out of the station.

“Hey! You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! Driver!” The visiting engine’s driver sprinted onto the platform, just in time to see the shape of a long train of scrap leave the platform where their engine had previously stood.

The engine tried to apply their brakes – but they couldn’t. They tried to call out for help – but no one answered.

The diesel pushed the poor engine down a long, overgrown path that led down through a bricked path between rows of town houses. The mist was even thicker down here, engulfing the poor engine and making it almost impossible to see what was ahead.

At least, until the mist began to clear around a large industrial estate, littered with the rusting remains of engines. “Oi! You can’t do this!” shouted the engine. “I’m preserved! Preserved!” “No one will come looking here,” sneered the diesel, shunting the engine into a shed. “Your crew can’t save you now, steam kettle.”

The steam engine sat, cold and alone, in the shed. Ahead of them, a pair of massive sliding steel doors were clamped tightly shut. Suddenly, the engine felt a jolt. The scrap trucks had been shoved behind them.

Two identical diesels in grimy green paintwork with wasp stripes oiled up on either side of the visitor. “This time, there’s no escape,” one sneered. The other just shot the poor visitor an unidentifiable look.

The two rumbled backwards again – and then the engine felt another jolt, and they all began to roll forwards. The giant steel doors groaned open, revealing a room bathed in red. Molten slag bubbled on either side of the track, and a giant claw loomed overhead.

“This engine’s not for scrapping!” begged the engine. “I just want to go home!” The claw didn’t stop its descent, lowering down, down, down…

With a sickening crunch, it ripped into the visitor’s boiler, lifting the engine up into the air, and dragging it over to the molten slag.

“Just another poor soul, gone to meet its maker,” sneered Arry. Bert didn’t reply. He just silently rumbled away, a goal set in his mind.

This time, Arry wouldn’t get away.

James and the Culdee Fell Engine:

James the red engine was in a foul mood. A storm had caused an electric pantograph on the Peel Godred Branch to break, and none of the electric engines could leave their sheds. So James had to pull their trains instead. The red engine did not enjoy it – he had to deal with Arry and Bert as well as do the work of four engines.

“I can’t spare any other engines, sorry,” the Fat Controller sighed. “But I’ve reduced the timetable as much as I can for you.”

It was still too much work.

One evening, James assembled a train of alumina at Killdane, and began up the line. He grumbled all the way, bumping the trucks if he even thought he heard them plotting. Finally, the trucks had had enough and they all applied their brakes at once. James tried to restart the train, but it was no use. The steep gradient and heavy load trapped him in place.

“Get… moving… you!” he roared. “If you want,” the trucks replied. They released their brakes suddenly, and James shot forwards. He jumped the rails at the points, and crunched to a stop on the ballast. The trucks cackled with delight. James huffed, and let off steam. His crew stepped down.

“Well, that’s torn it,” groaned the driver. “I’ll go ahead to the next station and alert the stationmaster, you go back down the line to put up detonators and tell the signalman.” The two nodded, and left. James was alone, sat between the points. But not for long.

“Well, that was a bit stupid of you,” snorted an engine from the Mountain Railway. James looked over, curious. He hadn’t seen any of the Mountain engines – they were all stowed in their sheds for the winter. But at the engine’s words, his curiosity turned to indignity.

“Excuse me! It’s these trucks – all they do is cause trouble.” “Oh?” The engine raised an unimpressed eyebrow – James wondered if that was a skill that all old engines had mastered. This engine certainly looked old! His purple paintwork had seen better days, and there was coal dust blanketing the top of his boiler. “Yes!” James snapped. “Slipping on their brakes and then releasing them like that, it’s dangerous!”

“And was the way you were bumping your trucks not also dangerous?” asked the engine. “It seems rather careless to me – you ought to focus on the track, rather than on whether or not your trucks are talking.” “Who are you to tell me how to pull trains?!” demanded James. He peered at the engine’s nameplate, but couldn’t quite read it – it had a thick layer of grime obscuring the letters. He thought he maybe saw an e, perhaps a c? But then again, the grime was too thick to tell. The engine’s driver -a man with a long grey beard and what looked like a white tunic shirt – stood in his cab, but did nothing to clean the mess.

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, youngster,” sniffed the purple engine. “And it’s good advice.” “It sounds like something Duke would say,” sniffed James. “The old fuddy-duddy likes those sorts of proverbs.” “He did,” the engine said. James paused. “What?” “I knew Duke, many, many years ago. He had similar advice for us when our railway opened. If only all of us had taken it…”

James thought back, trying to recall what he knew about the Culdee Fell Railway nestled up in the hills. The Reverend had written a book about it a long, long time ago – but all he remembered from that book was Lord Har—no, Patrick. Was that who the little engine was referring to?

“If you mean Patrick,” huffed James, “then I already know to be careful around points.” The engine sniggered – and glanced down at the points that had derailed James. James went as red as his paintwork, and let off steam. “I—” “But I didn’t mean him,” the engine went on, surprising James. “Who did you mean then?” asked the red engine.

“Godred,” said the engine. James frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard the name before. He knew it was the name of an ancient Sudrian king… but there was something else…

“Godred ran on this line,” the engine went on. “But he didn’t look where he was going. He was reckless… careless… he didn’t look at the track… and in the mountains, such carelessness can be fatal.”

Then, it hit James.

GODRED!

He was the engine who’d rolled down the side of the mountain, the engine who’d died within a month of the line opening. His story was told as a warning to young engines!

“I’m not that careless!” spluttered James. “I thought so too,” murmured the engine, beginning to back away. “I have to go now… back to the summit.” “The summit?” quizzed James. “But your sheds are right there!” “No… I must go to the summit,” the engine replied. “I am not welcome here.” The grime fell from his nameplate, revealing the engine’s name—

“Are you alright James?” called his driver. James looked over – and when he looked back, the engine was gone. But James had already seen it. His eyes were wide with shock and horror.

No…

It wasn’t possible…

But then he heard a haunting whistle from high up in the mountains above him – a whistle not his own, coming from the summit – and he knew.

He’d just spoken with Godred.

What's Out in Tidmouth Bay:

“And every year, on the date of the sinking, the ship rides the seas again, searching for the crew that abandoned her to her watery grave…” Salty finished, grinning at the assembled engines. “Rubbish!” snorted Douglas. “Thir's na sic thing as ghost ships rising up oot o' th' ocean. Whit a doolally idea. Whitevur neist? A submarine letting oot distress signals, even though thir's na yin thare?” Both he and his twin Donald sniggered. Edward scowled.

“You shouldn’t joke about lost submarines,” he said grimly. “After all, there’s a tale of a submarine that was lost off Tidmouth bay that will make you funnel quiver.” “Ooo! Tell it! Please!” exclaimed the other engines. Edward shot a dark look at them.

“This is not a pleasant story, and it’s certainly not one to make light of…” With one last sigh, the old engine began his story.

“Back during the First World War, both Britain and Germany began to deploy early submarines to disrupt shipping and try to starve their opponent out of the war. But back then, the submarines were still new technology – they rattled, and sprang leaks, and they were loud most of the time too. But when they glided underwater, not even the keenest of eyes could spot them.

“In 1916, several British submarines began docking at Tidmouth. These submarines were manned by local Sudrians who’d signed up for the navy, and they were very proud of their machines. ‘Best in the Navy!’ they would boast. ‘Never to be beaten!’ we would often reply, caught up in a great patriotic spirit for our country and our boys doing their part to defend it.

“One of the duties of these submarine crews was to tow large underwater mines into choke points in the harbour waterways. These giant, spiked balls of explosives were placed randomly, so that enemy ships would be unable to get too close to the harbour to attack. The submarines were good at this job, and the island’s people always felt safer knowing they were protecting us.

“It all changed one foggy night. A German U-Boat had been spotted off the coast of Liverpool and was sailing north towards us at a tremendous rate. At the time, Tidmouth was a major manufacturer of shells and explosives for the front line, and even one hit to the factory would do irreversible damage. The submarines in Tidmouth bay were sent out to find the German U-Boat, despite the thick fog that made navigation almost impossible – and they found it. Unfortunately, they also found the minefields.

“The radios were filled with crackly cries for help from Sudrian sailors, all lost in the fog and trying to avoid the mines they’d set while also hunting for a German U-Boat. We all waited with bated breath on the shoreline, all listening to the radio and praying for the boys…”

Edward paused, then tears filled his old eyes.

“And then, there was a flash of light – it was so bright, it pierced through the fog and lit up the entire bay – and screams. They came through the radio for only a couple seconds, but they were the longest seconds of my life. They were horrible – wretched, broken, filled with agony and suffering – and then they were gone. One of the Sudrian submarines had found the German U-Boat and fired on it… but they had missed… and hit an underwater mine. Both ships were destroyed, sinking down to their final resting places on the sea floor.”

The engines were horrified. Even Donald and Douglas were silent, eyes wide. Every engine who had lived through the First World War had known someone who had lost their lives – but to actually see it with their own eyes… it was horrific.

“But that wasn’t the end,” Edward continued, startling everyone. “One year later, the remaining submarines were sat in the harbour when their radios crackled with an unknown message. But it wasn’t just the submarines’ radios – no, it was every radio in Tidmouth. Every single one picked up this unknown, crackling message. It was a distress signal! – a shouted one, in two different languages. One was foreign – German; garbled, broken by the static of the radios. The other however… it was the lost sailors from the sunken submarine. They were shouting at each other and at us – and then there was a massive explosion that ripped through the radio-waves. There was a flash of light – and then those screams. They tortured us, far longer than the screams we’d heard on that fateful night. They were in German too now, as if both ships were wailing for their losses. And then… nothing.

“This happened again the next year, and then the year after that – and after that, the people of Tidmouth learnt. Every year, on the date of the accident, every radio in Tidmouth is switched off. It’s a moment of silence, for the men who lost their lives.”

No one knew what to say, and so they all went quietly to sleep.

The next evening, Edward was away on his branchline, and a new driver decided to leave the radio on for the engines in the sheds. This was not uncommon – the engines enjoyed the background noise; it was relaxing after a long days’ work.

It was only Donald and Douglas – Bear had the midnight goods, Gordon had the express, Salty was delivering some trucks to Elsbridge, Duck was collecting a late load of ballast, James and Henry were sleeping at the other end of the line, and Oliver was pulling the last passenger train of the evening. “Edward's story - ye dinnae hawp it, dae ye?” asked Donald. “Na! nae at a' - tis a guid story fur a friten, bit thir's na sic thing as ghosts,” snorted Douglas. “Especially nae ghosts sending oot distress signals.” “Aye, whit nonsense…”

The song on the radio ended – but another didn’t start. Instead, the radio crackled – as if suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of static. Voices could be vaguely heard from the radio, quiet – but growing louder. They were in English… and in German. They were screaming, pleading, arguing, begging for help. It was a distress signal. The voices grew louder, more garbled – and then, there was a sonic BOOM! that erupted from the radio, almost knocking the Caledonian twins off their rails.

It was followed by a horrific wailing and screaming. It ripped through Donald and Douglas, their boilers going cold at the sound. It was the sound of dying men. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity, eventually tapering off into garbled groaning, and then nothing.

An unseen figure in a top hat clicked off the radio, and vanished out the back door, unheard by the twins. They were barely holding in their tears, eyes wide and wheels quivering.

Oliver puffed in, looking very confused. “Are you two alright?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost—” “Dinnae... say that…” Donald croaked.

Oliver stayed respectfully silent.