December Park(119)

Even before teenagers started disappearing, I had been forbidden to come out here. Based on the stories I’d heard, there were usually bums lurking about, sometimes whole communes of them, who took great delight in chasing kids who dared to tread on their turf. But that was supposed to be in the winter when the homeless built fires in the discarded oil drums and huddled together to keep warm. Now, in the summer, the place appeared to be desolate.

Peter and I dumped our bikes in the gravel and approached the depot together. Falcons screeched and pinwheeled in the sky. We walked the circumference of the gravel pit, pausing when we reached the ancient blood-colored railroad tracks running along the western side of the depot. They were skeletal and haunted in their years of disuse, and it was nearly possible to sense tetanus radiating from them. Leafless shrubbery exploded between the ties. The tracks stretched out in a perfectly straight line, vanishing at a horizon veiled in darkening trees. As we watched, two deer trotted onto the tracks and began to feed on the sun-bleached grasses.

“The old B&A Line,” Peter said.

“It looks haunted.”

“It is.”

The ghosts of old railway workers were said to roam the grounds. Stories of ghostly lantern lights glimpsed through the trees at night were abundant, and there were even tales of people hearing the old short line chugging along the abandoned tracks.

“We should go in there, look around,” Peter said.

“I don’t think so,” I countered. I reflected on the morning when Adrian and I had hidden in the basement of the Werewolf House, crouching in sewage while Keener and his pals hunted us with a rifle.

“We came out all this way. We might as well.” Peter stomped down the weeds on his way to the massive double doors set into the side of the depot.

Reluctantly, I followed.

I stood on the remains of a platform, and the weathered planks moaned and threatened to break apart beneath my weight. Indeed, some of the planks were busted, leaving ragged, toothy mouths in the flooring. I looked down one of the holes and saw garbage stuffed in there—McDonald’s cups, dusty beer bottles, and cans of Natty Boh.

“Shit,” Peter said, tugging at the massive combination lock on the double doors. “Too bad Sugarland’s not here. He’d get this sucker open.”

Over the side of the platform, I watched a black snake twist through the undergrowth. I hopped down into the tall grass and joined Peter. There were small square windows at either side of the double doors. I wiped an arc of grime from one of the panes. Standing on my toes, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered inside.

After a moment, my eyes adjusted and shadows coalesced and took on definitive shapes. I made out a row of benches, the hollowed windows of the ticket booths behind a wire-mesh grate, a pyramid of crates stacked in one sun-shafted corner. The shell of an old destination board hung from one wall, though the lettering had been removed. In the center of the ceiling, a gaping black hole spewed curling electrical cables that resembled the tentacles of a giant squid.

“What’s that?” Peter said. He was looking in another window and pointing to a spot on the floor. “Holy shit. It looks like a person.”

I couldn’t see what he was seeing. The floor was covered in debris, which, in turn, was coated in a sheet of grayish dust so thick I had originally mistaken it for carpeting. Tarpaulin was draped over what I assumed to be mounds of junk, and two-by-fours were stacked like firewood indiscriminately about the place. Holes were punched into the drywall, and powder and plaster lay in heaps on the floor beneath them.

“You’re full of shit,” I told him.

“Am I? Come here and look at this.”

I went over and nearly pressed the side of my head against his as I peered through the window. “Where?”

“There.” He pressed one finger against the filthy glass. “See it?”

I squinted, checking out the interior from a slightly different angle now. “What am I . . . ?”

But then I saw it.

Behind the row of benches, a filthy yellow sheet was draped over the undeniable outline of a human being. The longer I stared at it the more clearly I discerned the profile of a skull and a face, the slope of a neck graduating to the rise of a chest, a torso, legs, and finally the twin tombstones of feet pointing toward the ceiling.

My breath, which had been fogging up the windowpane, suddenly seized in my throat. With the heel of my right hand, I swiped another swath of grime from the glass to get a better look. There was no denying it. The shape under the sheet was a human being.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Peter whispered.

“I think . . .” My throat clicked. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

Four fingers were poking out from beneath the yellow sheet. I said as much, tapping the glass. “See ’em? There! Right there! They’re fingers!”

“No f*cking way,” Peter said, his lips nearly pressed against the glass.

“Do you see them?”

“Yeah.” There was undeniable reverence to his voice.

“They’re fingers, right?”

“Yeah.” He tried to open the window but it wouldn’t budge. As if shocked by an electrical current, he jerked his hand away. “Damn it!”

“What is it?”

“Goddamn splinter.” He opened his left palm for me to see the reddened mound of flesh speared through the center with a sliver of nasty-looking wood. He attempted to pull it out but somehow only managed to wedge it down more. “The son of a bitch hurts.”