The Iron Crossing

My mother had given me the planchette, a smooth piece of oak she’d found at an estate sale, claiming it was just a harmless piece of wood. But my father, a man who didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t touch, had forbidden it from entering our house. He said it was ‘a doorway to trouble.’ I’d had my own experiences, the cold spots in the attic, the whispers when I was alone, the feeling of being watched that never quite left me. So I was hesitant, but curiosity is a powerful thing.

My friend Mara and her dad, Old Man Hartley, were eager to try it. We lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains, in a holler so deep the sun barely reached the valley floor. Mara’s house was a crooked farmhouse nestled among pines, and behind it, a dirt path led up to a forgotten cemetery. The whole place had a weight to it, a sense of something ancient and unhappy.

That afternoon, the sky was a bruised purple, and the air was thick with the smell of wet earth. We walked up the path, the planchette in my backpack, heavy as a stone. As we climbed the hill toward the cemetery, a wave of nausea hit me, so strong I thought I’d lose my lunch. My head throbbed, and a voice in my mind screamed, ‘Turn back.’ I stopped, gripping my knees.

‘We need to go back,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘Something’s wrong.’

Mara and her dad exchanged a look. They knew about my ‘sensitivities,’ as they called them. They didn’t mock me, but I saw the doubt in their eyes. Still, they turned around, and we descended back toward the house.

We were about halfway down when Old Man Hartley veered off the path, toward the railway tracks that ran along the bottom of the hill. ‘Let’s check out the old crossing,’ he said, his voice gruff. I didn’t want to, but my feet followed, as if dragged by an invisible force.

The tracks were rusted, overgrown with weeds, silent. A cool breeze blew, carrying a faint, metallic smell. Old Man Hartley lit a cigarette and pointed to a gnarled tree near the crossing. ‘You see that? Two young men died right here, their car stalled on the tracks. A train came through in the dead of night, hit them straight on. They didn’t even see it coming. Heard their screams from my porch. Never found out their last names. They were just… nobody.’

He spat on the ground. I felt a chill run down my spine. The air seemed to thicken, and the light dimmed as if a cloud had passed over the sun, though there were none. My ears popped, and I heard, very faintly, the sound of an engine revving, then a man’s voice, desperate and raw, ‘No, no, not now!’

I grabbed Mara’s arm. ‘Did you hear that?’

Mara shook her head, but her face had gone pale. Old Man Hartley’s cigarette dropped from his lips. He looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. ‘I’ve been here a hundred times,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Never felt it like this.’

Something was wrong. The air grew colder, and the rail tracks began to vibrate, very faintly. A humming started, low and ominous, growing louder. The ground trembled. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the shape of a car, old and rusted, materializing on the tracks, its headlights glowing like eyes. Two shadowy figures sat inside, their faces blank.

The humming became a roar, and a blinding light swept over us. I shielded my eyes, and when I could see again, the car was gone, but the feeling of despair was overwhelming. I could almost hear the screams of the men, feel their terror as they saw the train bearing down.

‘We need to get out of here,’ I said, pulling Mara. ‘Now.’

As we turned to flee, the planchette in my backpack grew hot, burning through the fabric. I yelped and dropped the pack. The planchette slid out, landing on a flat rock. It started to move, all on its own, scraping the letters of the alphabet etched on the wood. It spelled: ‘STAY.’

I stared at it, my heart pounding. Mara’s eyes were wide. Old Man Hartley, to my surprise, knelt down and said, ‘Who are you?’ The planchette moved again, faster and faster, spelling a name I didn’t recognize: ‘JAMES. RYAN. TRAPPED. HELL.’

Then the planchette flew off the rock and shattered against a tree. A scream, not human, echoed through the woods, and a rush of cold wind knocked us off our feet.

We ran. We didn’t stop until we were back on Mara’s porch. Old Man Hartley was white as a ghost. He looked at me, his eyes haunted. ‘You felt it, didn’t you? They’re still there. And now…’ He stopped, swallowing hard. ‘I think they’re coming with us.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the car, the men, the train. And in the silence, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat. It was coming from outside my window. I peeked through the blinds, and there, at the edge of the woods, stood two figures, shrouded in black, their faces turned toward me. They didn’t move, just stood there.

I knew then that they had followed me. The planchette was gone, but the doorway was open. And the iron crossing, that place of death, would never let us go.