The Grave Train - An original short story!

Hello! It's Lou here back at it again for your listening discomfort.

It's your favourite spook, Halloween is around the corner and I thought well you know what we need? A few more scares, so I wrote up a short story that turned out to be not that short... but I think you're going to like it. Featuring a dark gothic London backdrop and a few hauntings it's got the potential to be something pretty damn good! 

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So grab a drink, sit back, relax while we try to explain the unexplained...

Stay spooky

Goodnight

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Transcript

1 Welcome to London

The sun was finally rising over the rows of houses beginning to illuminate the darkened narrow alleyways of Westminster, creating eerily looking twisted shadows across the street. A tall slim figured man approached from the distance, he wore a full-length dark black overcoat which swayed effortlessly in the wind with each step he took. Underneath he donned a pristine fitted three-piece black suit that embraced his body firmly. An elongated top hat sat atop his head, the brim wrapped in dark burgundy silk. His stride was brisk and he walked with a confidence that was rare in a place like this. Sunrise truly was a strange time as of late, usually, the streets of London would be bustling by now, market stalls setting up, people on their way to their place of work, yet all that remained was a cold benign silence, an uncomfortable silence that no matter how long you had lived here you could never get used too. Life seems to have changed so fast from the norm, like a carpet that had been pulled up from under the whole cities feet, leaving a sense of disarray and confusion. Disease and illness were ripe in the streets, families were dwindling and the fear of people had set in. No one wanted to be near others in fear of infection, cholera has killed thousands so far and seems to have no end in sight. Cemeteries lay full with mounds of bodies strewn in mounds, grave keepers have resorted to creating burn pits to try and stay on top of the workload. It was a good time to be in the business that's for sure, usually, the grave keepers would work in the shadows, hardly ever seen. Now there were teams of them, working all day every day with carts being unloaded with piles of bodies almost hourly. However morbid that may be, business was booming.

As the man drew nearer his features become more prominent, thick dark eyebrows lay angular and sharp upon his face, a moustache trimmed and waxed curved delicately on the ends of his lips. Apart from the moustache, he was clean-shaven, smooth without the slightest hint of stubble, a look only achieved by that of a straight razor from a fine barber. His face was sharp and triangular leading down to almost a point upon his chin. He was a strange-looking gentleman but by all means, he carried a demeanour of swagger and charisma. He reeked of wealth and power as such was so contradictory to the dire situation London has fated itself in as of late. His stride was interrupted by the ringing of church bells resonating prominently down the street. A paper stand stood off the road, unmanned yet it had a stack of today's paper sat on the countertop. As the man approached he straightened his bow tie and reached down to grab one off the top of the stack. What good news shall before me today he thought as the paper rustled with life as he unfolded it. He reached into his breast pocket pulling out a thin pair of spectacles, placing them on his face resting on the bridge of his nose the words before him defied their haze and enveloped in cool focus. The front-page headlines stood out in bold causing his eyes to be drawn immediately.

Tuesday 14th October 1849.

An estimated hundred thousand Londoners dead as the disease spreads like wildfire throughout the nation. 

Below the bold title showed an image of a group of men, covered head to toe in overalls, masks donned their faces reminiscent of plague doctor masks from yore. A sly smirk crossed the man's face as he rolled the paper before placing it under his arm. He unbuttoned his overcoat as the autumnal morning sun poured over him. A silver dialled pocket watch sat in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled it out examining it before clicking it shut and placing it delicately away. The time was six forty-five. Quarter to seven. A busy day indeed he thought to himself and time was of the essence. He pulled out a set of keys and approached a large oak panelled door. The building itself was tall and narrow, it was made of brick and mortar like every other in London. It didn't stand out, it looked completely like any other on the street, yet this house was different. It had no windows on the front, just a small sign above the door. The wooden plague was carved intricately with the words with the weathered out words London Necropolis Station. He turned the key in the door hearing the mechanism crunch and the internal gears grind, with a strong push of his hand the door swung open revealing a pitch-black interior. He took one final look out into the street before shutting the door behind him watching the faint haze of sunlight leave the premises. 

2 London Necropolis Station

The inside of the building was barely visible, yet you could smell the dusty smell of musk in the air, not quite unpleasant enough to disturb him though. The strong odour of his aftershave, a mixture of sweet-smelling flowers overpowered the stench. The figure reached in the darkness to a sideboard table, not visible by eye yet it was clearly a motion he has made many times prior. His hands gripped around a cigar, then a pack of matches. He placed the cigar between his lips adjusting them to make it lay comfortably between them, he struck the match and held it to the end of the cigar taking a few puffs causing the end to ignite a glowing red. The woody, smoke smell blocked the musk and overbearing aftershave, somewhat pleasantly. He blew out a few plumes of smoke and proceeded to light a few lanterns in the hallway as the light began to billow down the walkway illuminating the house. 

The house was in a state of disrepair, with broken wooden floorboards and peeling paint on the walls, dirt and dust lay on every surface present. In front of him stood the staircase leading to the second floor, straight past that was a hallway with a few doors leading off of it. The man gripped the lantern in one hand and held his cigar in the other, light bellowed from the lantern allowing him to see and carefully manoeuvre over the broken floorboards. A wooden door stood in front of him atoned with a circular copper door handle. With a swift movement, he wrapped his hand around the handle and rotated it clockwise pushing the door open with a creak. It opened to a room that looked somewhat clean compared to the rest of the house, he placed the lantern down on the fireplace and began to ignite the fire, lighting it and stoking the flames creating a nice fog of heat to fill the room. The room was of a fair size and in the centre stood a large ornate desk, solid oak, trimmed with golden accents, a beautiful maroon velvet chair sat in command of it. Along the far wall stood several bookcases the length of the room, there must have been enough books there to make any library jealous. On the walls hung artwork of varying portraits from landscapes to buildings, and one large portrait stood atop the fireplace directly in front of the desk. It was a portrait of him, stood in a pose, in the very same clothes he was wearing now. Clearly, the artist was very complimentary, making him look rather handsome and filling down the sharpened look of his chin. His frame looked strong and tapered, and not to mention rather well endowed. 

He took a seat at the helm of the desk, placing the paper down in front of him, he took another puff of his cigar before placing it down resting on the edge of the crystal ashtray. He began to read the paper, his body relaxed into the maroon chair, which supported him with a gentle creak. It was quiet, peaceful, just the crackling from the fire and the sound of his own thoughts. Managing to only get a few pages through the paper he was interrupted by a rhythmic knocking outside the door, with an audible sigh he placed the paper down, adjusted his posture correctly and sat upright at the desk, picking up his cigar once more. He took one more drag of the cigar and exhaled deeply.

"Enter." His voice was croaky, nasally, yet he spoke with a pristine clarity, a well-spoken man, well educated at the very least. The door directly in front of him opened up cautiously with another reverberating creak. In the frame of the door stood a small figure of a man emerging from the shadows of the hall. The silhouette was too small to be a man, a child, no more than twelve at the most. Light began to pour over the child revealing more of his features, straggled mousy brown hair hung scruffily down his face, pale blue eyes looked on at him in fear. His clothes were filthy, they were poor fitting overalls patched together poorly from years of use and repair.

"Mr Wraith, I come bearing news. The train sir, the crew are having problems with the engine sir, they say they don't think it will be ready for the first voyage, sir." The boy sounded out of breath as if he had run all the way here from the workshop, his chest rose and fell sharply as he managed to catch his breath, his eyes darting across the room trying not to make direct eye contact with the man sat before him.

"You mean to say we won't be running today boy?" A calm yet stern voice replied, another puff of smoke plumed through the air towards the boy. 

"It's... I don't know sir, I'm not aware of the mechanics of such things, but they told me to inform you that you must postpone." Another draw of smoke, before a long pause that seemed to be emphasised by the ticking of the tall grandfather clock to the right of him. Each second struck fiercely, the ageing mechanism forced the second hand to move jaggedly, a once smooth motion weathered by age.

"Do you know what happens if we don't make that voyage tonight child?"

"No sir... No, I don't. I'm sorry si..." Before he could finish his sentence the man slammed his hands onto the desk causing a loud thud to reverberate through the room making the boy jump back to the frame of the door. "I'll tell them to hurry along sir, I'll make sure it gets done" The boy panted, beads of sweat were visible as they dropped down his head. The man at the desk took a minute to compose himself, adjusting his bow tie once more. 

"Come here boy, I want to show you something" he beckoned with an elongated twisted finger to come to the desk, the boy cautiously looked, almost frozen. He tried to move one leg after the other, he was in sheer fright, Mr Wraith was not a man to get on the wrong side of, he had a reputation to uphold, he was a businessman after all. Fifteen slow and tedious paces and the boy was finally stood in front of the desk, trembling before the tall man that sat before him. "Can you read boy?" He asked inquisitively. 

"A few words, sir. None of those fancy ones you see uptown though." 

"A few words." The man repeated with a smile. "That's a start. Can you read this?" He turned the paper round and slid it across the desk to the boy. 

"Erm... Lots of people dead, sir, I know a few of the words. Not the big number though sir. The people... are they the ones who..." 

"An estimated hundred thousand Londoners dead as the disease spreads like wildfire through the nation. And yes boy, those are the people who collect the dead. The dead that are piled high in our cemeteries, the dead that are still spreading this disease! The dead that are increasing in number every damn day! If that train is not working by this afternoon it won't be long until you'll be just a number boy. Another figure claimed by this torrent of death that has plagued us." The boy's complexion faltered to a pale white. 

"I'll go tell them it must be done, I'll make sure of it sir" his voice cracked sounding as if he was holding back the tears. 

"No need. I'm coming with you." 

3 The workshop

The workshop was a gargantuan building bustling with life, a skylight looked out to the early morning sky pouring in light barely creating enough illumination for the shop floor. There must have been around fifty people if not more, working in and out around the main centrepiece. The shining jewel, the reason Mr Wraith even bothered to turn up to this place, the locomotive. The train was immaculate, with a glossed black exterior decorated with silver and gold details. Some of the men stopped dead in their tracks as they saw Mr wraith appear with the young boy in tow. One hand on the boy's shoulder and the other gripping an ornate cane. 

"Who told you to come and find me, boy?" The young boy looked puzzled, it contradicted his loyalty, he didn't want to offer up who it was but his fear of being disciplined himself was overwhelming. With a gulp, the boy pointed out a hand towards a large stocky man with bright auburn hair. He was standing in the corner holding a cup of some sorts and a cigarette protruded from the corner of his mouth. "Is he the man in charge here?"

"Yes sir, that's Jasper the foreman, he told me to get you because he was busy, but... I don't" Mr Wraith calmly shushed the boy pulling a coin out of his pocket and flipping it into the air. "It's yours boy, now fetch me Jasper and tell him to meet me in that room up there see" he spoke endearingly as he pointed his cane towards a small wooden office space on the top floor of the warehouse. 

Mr Wraith stood looking at the diagram of a steam engine pinned to the wall when the door swung open with a thud, swinging into the wall causing it to chip. 

"Now who the fuck do you think you are, summoning me up here in my own office. Now fuck off and get out." Jasper spat out in a gruff brazen tone.

"Intriguing isn't it?" Wraith responded calmly not even turning to face his guest. "So many parts all working in perfect synchronicity, engineering of the modern age."

"You deaf as well as fucking stupid, I said get out." Jasper puffed out his chest and his fists were clenched, his oily rotund face began to flush. 

"I find it really remarkable, how things work have always intrigued me. How all these parts here present work together for a whole purpose, yet if one part was not to work the whole system would simply fail." He sighed deeply still facing the blueprints on the wall. "Now enough with the formalities, I hear there's a problem with the train. That it won't be ready, and well Jasper is it? That simply will not do." He spoke calmly in a manner that only angered Jasper even more so, A patronising downwards tone as such he was not accustomed to. Jasper huffed and reached out to grab Wraiths shoulder attempting to spin him round to face him. As he spun within a mere instant Jasper fell back stunned and choking clutching his throat with his hands as his eyes bulged out of their sockets, thin veins emerged causing a reddish hue. Wraith had jabbed his cane into the man's throat as he tried to spin him in a smooth rapid movement, Jasper was now hunched over holding on to a table for support while gasping for air.

"You fucking little prick, who do you think you are? I'm in charge here, this is my team and if I say it can't be done then guess what, it fucking can't be done" He spluttered in between breaths, his face even more flustered more veins appearing now snaking down his arms and face, He charged Wraith with all his might speeding like a rampaging bull directly at him. In one swift movement, Wraith moved out of the way and struck the back of Jaspers kneecap with his cane causing him to stumble headfirst to the ground smashing a wooden cabinet in front of him. Jasper tried to get up slowly, but without hesitation, there was one more strike to the back of the head causing him to drop back down, a vignette emerged around his vision. Looking lifeless on the ground with blood pouring from the impact area Wraith kicked him over onto his back, Jasper was still conscious yet only barely, his breathing was stifled from the sheer amount of blood in his nose and throat, his eyes rolling around in his sockets frantically scanning for focus. Wraiths hand tightened on the cane revealing the gleaming tip. A silver crow sat atop beautifully shaped, with intricate detail. He rotated it in his hands so the crow's large sharp beak now faced down. 

"Congratulations you're promoted my good man, I hope you're aware of the new position you hold. You're in charge here, you're creating history son." Wraith reached out his hand to the other gentleman, dried blood clung to his skin. The opposing man shook his hand, eyes widening. He was another broad man like many of the physical workers in the workshop, his blue overalls stained with oil, in his other hand he held his flat-brimmed peak hat.

"What about Jasper sir" His voice squeaked, immediately feinting a cough, then repeating himself. 

"Oh please, forget the formalities, My name is Wraith, Ichabod Wraith. You'll be reporting to me now, my right-hand man, my problems are your problems and vice versa, understand? Unfortunately, I do have a slight problem though" There was a pause that felt uncomfortably long as the sounds of banging and sawing filled the ambient background soundscape. "Your name, I don't think I caught it"

"I'm Ronald, sir... Ichabod I mean. Jasper was my boss, he..."

"Jasper was not fit for the job, I need a man with vision, and I've heard you're the best around. I need this train ready for this evening. Is it possible?" There was a clear shift in his body language, eyes twitching, his arms began to cross, a pulse twitched in his temple.

"It's... It's definitely doable. It won't be easy but." 

"Good, get it done Ronald, you have my utmost faith." Ichabod tapped his shoulder and began to walk away towards the exit of the workhouse, maroon footprints followed fading out with each step. Ichabod paused, not turning still looking straight ahead towards the exit. "Ronald, one more thing, load Jasper onto the pauper's carriage will you?" 

4 Board meeting

"Gentleman please let me introduce you to the solution of all of our problems, the Grave Train, the Necropolis express. The final voyage you'll ever take." Ichabod announced enthusiastically. 

A group of twelve men sat before Ichabod exchanging puzzling looks at each other, twitching their eyebrows, telltale signs that they were not sold. A few moments passed, interrupted by muttered whispers. Ichabod stood there in front of the table looking down at the sketched locomotive on parchment laid before them. "I think we all can benefit here my good men." 

Again yet another uncomfortable silence, the air was thick, tense. He had all the answers prepared in his mind yet no questions arrived.

"You expect us to believe that this one train can solve the issues of a nationwide pandemic, the dead are piling up drastically, it seems impossible, impractical." A stern, stocky man looked up to Ichabod, his rounded spectacles glistening from the lamplight on the table before them. Frustration began to rise in Ichabod's stomach, these people, these idiotic people don't understand the potential of what he was offering here he thought to himself. He took a second to compose himself, taking a deep breath and letting a sly smirk cross his face. 

"I have a cemetery, purpose-built 30 miles away. Brookwood cemetery. It's in Surrey, not too far from Guildford. It's going to be the largest cemetery the world has ever seen. It'll remove the dead from London, stop the disease in its tracks. The prices are fair, with multiple fares on offer. I have a crew working hard, ready to load up the bodies. Hell with it, I'm even offering to pay for the first voyage out of my own pocket." The stocky man whispered to another on his immediate right, this skinny gentleman leaned closer to hear the whispers, his wrinkled face reminiscent of an ageing British bulldog. A chatter emerged out before the group as they discussed the options, Ichabod reached into his waistcoat pulling out his pocket watch glancing at the time, hoping that the train would be ready and he could fulfil his wretched promise. 

At the head of the table, the rotund stocky man slammed a fist onto the table causing the group to silence, "We have taken a vote Mr Wraith, and have made a decision. Our consortium believes strongly that as good intentioned your plan is, it's purely impracticable and would be putting even more lives at risk. We're on top of the mass cremations, and another thing is that these bodies are so ripe with the disease that even handling them is far too dangerous. Purely adding to the problem we are all facing. Therefore we feel that we shall have to proceed with the burnings, we cannot simply offshoot our problems and cause more deaths. What we are doing here is the safest and most viable option we have at our disposal Mr Wraith. I hope you understand."

Ichabod stood there in awe, he truly believed that this would be the answer, the money at stake here was uncharted. Hell, there was even a commission to be made for the damn consortium. His fists clenched causing his knuckles to turn into a ghostly white, he took a deep breath. A wide smile appeared on his face, it was at this moment plan B got promoted. "Very well gentleman, I can't say I'm not disappointed but I respect your decision" He was interrupted by a fit of coughing coming out from one of the speakers sitting at the table. "Oh my, I'd get that checked by a physician if I were you, my good man." The rest of the men at the table looked over to the coughing man, his face reddening, a spray commencing creating a layer of moisture on the table in front of him. "I've seen some of the peasant folk coughing like that. Good day." He swivelled on the spot hiding his smirk until his back was towards the group of men, and proceeded to the door, his coat flowing in the gentle breeze. He chuckled softly, "I'll show those vile swines, most viable option, pathetic."

5 Plan B

Ichabod walked into the bustling workshop once more, anger pulsing throughout his veins, a red mist enshrouding his vision. His stride was strong and powerful causing some of the workers to come jumping out of his way. He approached the centre of the workshop and flipped a large bench full of tools sending them flying through the air creating a rhythmic thud as they landed on the floor one by one. He picked up a metal panel a faceplate for a component on the engine and reached for a hammer proceeding to beat it with all his might, causing an ear-piercing crescendo throughout the warehouse. "Listen here, all of you now. This Train leaves at midnight, the collection team is to meet me outside Hanwell cemetery at seven tonight. Now get this fucking train ready and operational." Flecks of spittle shot through his teeth as he screamed out the orders, the workers looked on in fear, no one has seen Ichabod show this much anger towards anyone, they all got back to work in double time. Ichabod caught eyes with the boy who entered his office earlier, he sighed deeply and beckoned him over with a finger. The boy walked over sheepishly trying not to look directly into his eyes.

"Sir, can I help?"

Ichabod tried to compose himself putting down the metal sheet and hammer on another bench beside him. He straightened his bow tie once more relaxing his body.

"Yes boy, I did not mean for you to see that. But when you're older you'll understand what it means to run a business, you must strike fear into the hearts of your employees. You must get their respect. Otherwise, they'll walk all over you, they say the train cannot be done, but you wait by midnight that train will be leaving the station. They just needed some encouragement, and a bit of fear goes a long way." He rustled a hand through his hair, this was something about this child, something he liked. Maybe he saw himself in him, somewhere deep down he felt bad for the child living a life like this, working for him, most likely an orphan. "What is it you do for me?"

"I..." the boy stuttered. "I... collect the coal from town and bring it here, We've got plenty now, sir." 

"I couldn't strike a deal for coal." Ichabod looked dumbfounded an eyebrow raised looking down at the scruffy little boy. 

"I acquired the coal sir, by, er... unlawful means." He knelt next to the boy on eye level looking at him intently, the boy's pupils dilated, he knew what was coming next. The cane, the belt, any form of pain he deserved it, he knew it. 

Yet nothing came of it, just a slight chuckle. "So we have a regular thief amongst us?" The child almost braced for an impact yet was stunned by the laughter. 

"I'm sorry sir, it's just they said I have to get coal, they said I have to take it wherever I can find it."

"Did they tell you where to find it?" 

"No sir, I walked to bridge station. I thought if anywhere is going to have coal it's a train station. I went at night, ransacked the trains and carted it down the tracks to our depot." His voice squeaked as young boys often did, Ichabod couldn't help but roar with laughter. 

"You mean to tell me you got all that coal by yourself?" 

"Yes sir, I am the coal boy sir." 

"What's your name?"

"William sir, William Joseph Turner"

"Well William, you're no longer a coal boy. Come with me." 

Ichabod and William took a cart ride to Covent Gardens talking for the entire duration of the journey. Ichabod explained that he needed someone like him, someone who thinks outside the box, I believe the words were a boy that can get things done. He had a new job for him, a job that would earn him more money than he could make in a lifetime in just one night. 

As they approached the markets Ichabod stopped the cart driver and turned towards the boy, "Say, where do you live? Is your family local?"

There was a long pause and a saddened look crossed Williams child-like features followed by a few snivels. He was doing well fighting back the tears trying to act strong in front of Ichabod. 

"I am an orphan sir, family died of the Cholera six months back. I live in the working house just down the road from the workshop." 

"I see." Ichabod took a moment to scratch his chin, looking down at the boys saddened look, a look he hadn't seen in many years. "Say William when all is said and done tonight, how would you like to be my personal assistant, granted the job shan't be easy but you'll live with me in my stead in Kensington. We're going to be on the road a lot in the coming few weeks, but a few trips with this train and me and you boy we'll be running this cursed city."  

"But I'm just a coal boy, sir, I don't have the..." William searched for the correct words before settling before a broken pronunciation of intelligence. "I fear I would let you down Mr" 

"Fear not my boy, I have a wealth of knowledge and own a library at my manor, I shall hire you the finest tutor this side of the river. You'll learn at my expense, all I ask is that you take in this information and seize every opportunity. I can't change your past boy, I'm sorry for your loss. I..." Ichabod stopped himself before he began feeling once more. "I can offer you a life you can only dream of, I live in a rather large home, yet I am all alone too. So say boy, will you come live with me?"

William was lost for words, the poor little boy began to sob slightly once more, "I will sir, I will learn everything I'll speak as proper as you, thank you sir" The boy reached over and hugged Ichabod. His posture froze he did not know how to hug a child or anyone as a matter of fact. He couldn't even think back to the last time he was hugged. 

"There is just one condition though boy, you must stop with the sir. Call me Ichabod." He smiled and ruffled the boy's hair, helping him clamber down off the horse-drawn cart. 

6 The Plan

The time was approaching and everything was finally coming together nicely, all the plans and backups of plans were finally worth it in the end, the train would be full tonight and it will run, whether it was approved or not. William was dropped off earlier that evening in place, he was ready and the collection team were near and ready just simply awaiting ready the signal. Ichabod took a sharp drag of his cigarette while looking out of his second-story window. From here he had the perfect view of William, the boy was walking down the road in the distance into the sunset. His job was simple yet effective, the perfect distraction for those idiotic consortium members. Like fools, their very own headquarters was loaded to the brim with all their assets all their very own gold, money, and valuables compiled into one commonwealth. Foolish really. They called themselves the order of London's cemeteries or something ridiculous and overbearing like that. Entitled privileged old men who owned the cemeteries in the borough of London, they all met once a week to share profits, it's a corrupt system. Ichabod once tried to join the consortium many winters ago and was laughed out of the building. Ever since that moment, he swore that he would bring down this godforsaken place. They get rich off the dead, share the wealth between them, it's extortion, death tax, funeral tax, and yet I am the supposed criminal. Ridiculous.

William neared the end of the street and looked to his right seeing a rusty iron can loaded with oil placed conspicuously at the side of the road nearing a darkened alleyway. He knew what he must do, the plan was simple. With his deft nimbleness, it wouldn't even be hard to pull off. All he had to do was get inside the headquarters, splash some oil around and ignite it with the pack of matches Ichabod had given him. He was no arsonist of course, but he was told this was for the greater good, and he admired Ichabod for his kindness and hospitality towards him. William entered the alley, peering round the brick pillared corner to see if the coast was clear, a few people came and went from the building, followed by one final person who hung around a bit longer than the others. This must be the last one William thought, as he watched the large bald man in navy lock the door to the consortium's headquarters. The man turned sharply and proceeded to walk down the road and past the alleyway William was hiding in, luckily the sun had set enough causing the shadows to conceal him completely even though he was mere feet away. His pulse quickened, he took the can of oil in one hand and proceeded to the onlooking building. 

Walking the perimeter Ichabod had informed him there was a cellar entrance in which they took deliveries, the cellar was never locked, again foolish in hindsight but the cellar had no access to the main building so they always believed it to be pointless. How wrong they were. The words of Ichabod swam through Williams mind "Once you're down in the cellar, spread the oil, make sure to soak the support beams of the floor above, the building will go up quicker than the pyres in the town square."

William started to shake the can of oil around sheepishly at first trying to get it exactly where Ichabod had asked, but he started to get enjoyment out of the whole thing. It reminded him of when he was younger and would play out in the street with his friends, splashing water from the puddles at each other. He had to remember this wasn't water though and he really had to make sure that he didn't get much on himself. The whole cellar began to reek to high heavens of oil, so much so it was making the poor boy nauseous, but he had a job to do, once he had sufficiently sprayed enough oil around he took out the pack of matches from his frayed jacket pocket. Before striking the match he checked around the cellar making sure the support beams were covered thick with oil, and they were, oh they were. He was quite proud, pleased with himself and thinking about the praise he would soon receive off Ichabod. He climbed up the ladder he came down in and looked down, he sat on the frame of the cellars hatch doors and hung his feet down as if he was sitting atop the edge of a cliff. He struck the match causing it to ignite. He watched the flame dance elegantly on the tip of the match, entranced. Before throwing it down into the now pitch black cellar. He got up to his feet and began to walk away whistling a tune his mother used to sing when was younger. A soothing upbeat tune that calmed him down.

But something wasn't quite right, Ichabod said that oil was so volatile (a word Ichabod had to explain to him several times before he understood) that it would have caused the whole cellar to catch ablaze within seconds. Now minutes had passed and nothing. He panicked and ran back to the cellar carefully watching out for any onlookers passing by. "Blast it" the boy cursed. The match must have gone out when he threw it down. He placed his feet on the ladder and began to climb down once more. The third step down through the ladder creaked and moaned with age, before finally snapping causing William to go hurtling down towards the ground and the ladder to lose several feet in the process. 

William lay sprawled out on the ground clutching his head that was now throbbing. He felt dizzy, the impact was solely on the back of his head, he was concussed for sure, his motions were heavy as he rolled himself over and tried to sit up. That's when realisation sunk in he was stuck down here, stuck in this bloody room, where the hell is this room, stuck in... the dark. He was never that afraid of the dark as a young boy, at home, his real home that is, his parents always had candles to illuminate the halls, or a roaring fire burning out to embers overnight. Yet since... they passed and he lived in the workhouse, he had no idea what darkness really was. At night there was no light, just the sound of dozens of boys, tumbling in bed, creeping around in the darkness at night, and not to mention at least the snoring. He could not count how many hours he had lost in his life staring into the sheer darkness of the workhouse trying his very best to get to sleep. Stars raced around his vision as he tried to adjust his eyes once more by rubbing them vicariously but to no avail. A cold breeze came flowing in through the hatch causing a shiver to overtake his body, and without thinking, William struck another match to illuminate the room around him. He took a few steps trying to find a way out, the ladder was ruined, there was no way he could reach the steps on it now. It was starting to feel hopeless. The match burning down slowly causing an uncomfortable pain in Williams's fingers, he yelled as the flame covered his skin, dropping the match to the ground. Suddenly he could see, all to clearly. It landed at the very bottom of the support beam, everything ignited all at once, flames spread and grew almost immediately.

Within seconds the whole room was alight now. A bright amber glow enshrouded him, followed by dark thick smoke, the heat was intense too, his body felt wet from sweat almost in an instant. Suddenly it all came back to him, where he was, what he was doing down here, and panic consumed him. Frantically looking around for another exit he finally caught eyes with something that could help, there were a few empty crates in the corner of the room, if he stacked them together maybe he could reach the step of the ladder and climb his way out. Rushing around in the smoke he managed to stack a few up, hopefully enough for him to reach the ladder, his lungs were beginning to fill up with smoke and start to feel clogged, his body felt sluggish and heavy. Adrenaline was now coursing through his body probably the only thinking keeping his little prepubescent body alive. William climbed nimbly up the crates and reached cautiously for the ladder, stretching his arms out as far as they could go. His fingertips were almost at the first intact run of the ladder. He jumped slightly catching on to it, he tried to climb but his arms were not strong enough to simply pull himself up. He placed his feet on the wall in front of him and tried to get some grip to help push him up to no avail. The damp musky cellars walls were so mouldy and moss ridden it just caused his feet to slide even further down causing even more pressure on his arms. His grip was weakening, he was holding on with just his fingertips now struggling, the fire was now roaring, he could hear all the wood-burning with a hiss and a crack. He turned his neck to look down behind, the flames were lapping up the foot of the ladder, causing it to turn into a charred black, the ladder was beginning to creak and sway, it was weakening. William tried with all his might to climb, reached another run of the ladder, he was now inches from the sill of the cellar hatch, he was nearly out. His body ached and convulsed violently but he kept going with all his might. The charred black wood at the foot of the ladder creaked and crumbled once more.

7 Collection

Ichabod put out his cigarette into the crystal glass ashtray beside him, pushing the other cigarette butts aside. He could see the smoke now billowing out from the end building at the end of the road, William had done it. He smirked looking down at the onlookers coming rushing out of their homes, it was only a matter of moments now before word got out and that wretched greed ridden consortium would go rushing to try and rescue their goods. "What a boy" He muttered in a hushed tone. 

Ichabod reached for his full-length black overcoat, straightened his tie in the mirror, and reached for his trusty crow tipped cane at gently strolled out of the room and downstairs towards the street. 

He opened the front door and a man almost came crashing into him, he wore ragged clothes and smelt of urine and body odour. 

"A fire sir, down the road, look, sir, a fire" He screamed out in between breaths. 

"Oh my, I see. What a disaster. Has anyone called the consortium? I do believe that's their headquarters, my good man."

"The consortium?" He questioned, a puzzled expression struck across his face. 

"Why yes, the consortium of Londons cemetery society."

"I had... No idea." His body breathing in and out quickly made Ichabod chuckle, he could sense the sheer panic in the air. 

"Yes, you should call them immediately, oh and I suppose the fire brigade too. If they're not all infected that is." With that, he let out a maniacal laugh and strolled off down the road in the opposite direction to the fire, the only person in the whole street to be walking the other way. The screams of panicking onlookers made his terrifying grin stretch across the whole of his face. 

Ichabod appeared at Hanwell cemetery at stood at the large twisted metal gates, lighting himself another cigarette. He was quite a ways away from the fire now but he could still see the plume of smoke taking over the sky and the muffled screams in the distance. Footsteps interrupted his thoughts though, a group of 20 men or more approached hastily. "Gentlemen, welcome to your retirement fund" he laughed and kicked open the gates to the cemetery. "Pick everybody out the pile, load up each cart 10 high, runners!" He pointed at another group of five men in the darkness. "As soon as the cart is loaded you sprint with it to the station and pass them to the loaders. We only have one chance at this. Now go! All of you. Do not leave a single body." The men nodded and cheered in sync, this was it the time had finally come, the Grave Train was about to take its maiden voyage, another drag of the cigarette, Ichabod felt his body relax with the exhale. He watched the groups of men run about working in perfect unison like a well-oiled machine, the snatchers picked up the bodies and hastily carried them to the carts, piling them up high and securely, the runners then took them shooting off down the road towards Necropolis station. By the time the runners had returned another cart of bodies was full up. It was perfect, everything was going to plan. Ichabod took out his silver pocket watch and glanced at the time, William wasn't here yet, he told the boy to meet him at Hanwell cemetery after he set the building alight, an odd unexplained feeling came over him, something he had never quite felt before. 

A group of runners were coming back with an empty cart when Ichabod stopped them and yelled out "Have you seen the boy!? The boy from the workhouse, you haven't sent anyone away have you?"

"No sir" they shouted back out in unison. 

The sickening feeling began to arise in Ichabod's stomach, "No... this... no!" He darted off down the road again towards the plume of smoke, he could tell he was getting closer as all the onlooker's voices were becoming clearer and louder in the distance. He ran with all his might, as fast as his skinny frame could take him, he shot down a few alleyways intertwined like snakes leading him up to the final one where he had left that can of oil earlier today. The can was gone, of course, it was gone, William had used it. What else explains the fire, he must be on his way, he must have got lost. He tried to reassure himself. Yet with the reassurance he could muster the sickening feeling in his stomach was now rising to his throat, it was getting worse. He peered around the corner making sure no one could see him as he was enshrouding himself in shadows, there were too many people there, there was no chance he could get to the cellar, and even if he did what was he going to do. He'd surely die if he went in there anyway. He got out, he's on his way. The internal voice said once more yet was interrupted by shouting voices around the corner. 

"A boy, help him! In the cellar! I heard a voice!" A man was screaming out to the just now arriving fire department. Then suddenly it seemed like everything stopped, as if the earth stopped moving and time stood still. The boy was in the cellar, William was in the cellar, he had sent William to his death. A disorientating feeling came over Ichabod and leant his hands out on the alleys damp brick walls to support himself, yet it made no use, he slipped down to the ground and vomited profusely. 

8 Maiden voyage

The train's steam operated horn blew releasing an ear-piercing screech to resonate throughout the station. The bodies were loaded up, the crew were on the train, and the conductor was ready. The chug of the engine grew to a steady rhythm as the train began to pull itself into motion and began storming its way down the tracks. At the head of the train the conductor pushed forward on a lever and yelled at one of the men to shovel the coal faster, they needed more heat. 

"More steam! Faster!" Spittle shot from his mouth as he screamed over the roaring of the engine. The locomotive leapt forward as the temperature gauge increased, creating more pressure and momentum. The front spotlight illuminated the dark tracks in front of them, they were hidden by tree's on either side, twisted dark trees forming an entwining canopy above them, it was a beautiful sight however quite morbid. The train pulled five carriages behind it, four full up of bodies loaded up carefully and strapped down and one carriage decked out beautifully in fanciful walnut furniture with gold details and decor for Ichabod. He sat there on a dark maroon chair in the darkness looking out of the window, the taste of vomit still in his mouth. He lit a cigarette taking a deep inhale of the smoke, letting it sit in his lungs for a moment, his mind deep in thought. 

"How could I have let this happen, that boy..." William his mind interrupted. "Yes William, my God. What have I done, I never" His thoughts were interrupted by another ear-piercing screech of steam blowing out of the release valve on the engine. His hands were almost quivering, there was something about that boy, something he couldn't quite understand. Maybe he saw himself in him, after all, Ichabod was raised in a workhouse too, he lied and stole and worked his way up to the financial freedom he enjoyed now. The freedom he was going to share with the boy. He got up and walked across the carriage to the bar and poured himself a drink. He filled the glass up almost to the brim with a bottle of Jameson's whiskey that he had produced from behind the bar. Taking a long deep sip he felt the alcohol go down, feeling that warming sensation permeate into his body. He finished the glass and immediately poured another, wishing to feel better, to relieve his head of the thoughts protruding his mind. He looked to the mirror behind the bar, his face was sunken, saddened by what has happened, on a night that was his defining moment was harshened by the death of the first person Ichabod had enjoyed being in the company of for a long time. 

He filled up the third glass holding it in his left hand, his cane in the right he strolled carefully back down the swaying carriage to his maroon chair by the window. All was dark outside interrupted by the quick flashes of light caused by the locomotive shooting past the spotlights on the tracks. They were spaced out evenly and created a rhythm, one, two, three, four... Ichabod jumped back away from the window his drink flying out of his hand and ashtray spilling down onto the floor. During that last flash, his heart quickened and his pupils widened. It cannot be... it simply cannot. His inner dialogue screamed at him. For a second there he could have sworn he saw Williams face looking back at him, or at least he thought he did, it was so quick it was hard to tell. The smell of smoke and ash began to arouse his nose, he sniffed looking round to see if the ashtray possibly burnt the carpet but nothing. It was overbearing, pungent, intense as if a fire was roaring inside the carriage itself. Then everything went black, a tunnel. What fucking timing he thought to himself. His eyes tried their best to adjust but couldn't, it was sheer darkness all around him, even the lighting in the carriage had gone out. He swallowed sharply and reached out feeling for anything around him to try and pull himself up. 

The train hurtled out of the tunnel causing the staccato rhythm of floodlights to keep illuminating the carriage like a raging lightning storm. The carriage lights came on this time, yet now at the rear of the carriage stood a figure looking down to Ichabod on the floor. The figure stood there unmoving, not even affected by the sway of the carriage. His body tightened. The smell of smoke was even stronger now, it was hard to tell if the figure was in the shadows of the rear of the carriage or if it was a shadow he saw. Then it clicked, his eyes focused, he saw the singed and burned flesh of William, or at least what remained of William. The charred and torn clothes he had bought him earlier that day. The figure's eyes, Williams young youthful eyes yet they were no longer youthful bright pools of hope. Piercing red bloodshot eyes were all that starred back at Ichabod now filling his dark brown pools. Pure fear overtook his whole body, he struggled to breathe.