The Ghosts We Carry

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

written by James Rada, Jr.

THE CLASS OF ‘16

5: Domino Effect

When Brian Peyton first heard the distant, mournful cry of the train whistle blend with Will VanSant’s frantic scream over the phone, his heart pounded with urgent resolve. Without a second thought, he snatched his keys from the nightstand as if they held the promise of salvation, and burst out of his hotel room.

The cool night air slashed at him as he leaped into his car and sped along the streets of Thurmont, racing past the looming facade of Catoctin High School and beyond. Even though his car roared dangerously over the speed limit, he almost welcomed the idea of being caught by the police—if it meant he might lead them to help Will.

He barreled north along Route 550, the road unfurling before him like a ribbon of urgency, until he passed beneath a towering railroad trestle. High above, a massive train, its iron body halting in a peculiar stillness, seemed to hold its breath alongside him. Brian decelerated slowly, his eyes scanning for the pullover he remembered only faintly from a decade past. Soon enough, he caught sight of Will’s car, solemnly abandoned at the roadside. Parking beside it with a mix of dread and determination, he leaped from his vehicle and began sprinting down the cold metal tracks.

The rhythmic thrum of the halted train engine filled the silence, a deep, resonant pulse that belied its inert power. Yet in the cab, there was no sign of life, and not a soul lingered outside. It was then that his gaze fell upon a lone man striding away from the engine, his figure shrinking into the distance along the length of the train. Careful not to trip on a crosstie or stumble on the rocks that filled the gaps between them, Brian chased after the man. When he finally reached the mysterious stranger, he was met by a harrowing scene: two other somber figures huddled around something on the ground. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he recognized the lifeless form of Will.

Heart pounding, Brian surged forward in a desperate bid to help, only to be forcibly restrained by one of the men.

“That’s my friend,” Brian declared, his voice thick with grief and bitter defeat.

“You can’t help him,” the man said. “He’s dead. He was standing right on the railroad tracks and didn’t move in time. All he had to do was leap aside, but he never even tried. We couldn’t stop in time.”

The man was obviously upset over what had happened. Brian wondered if he had been the brakeman trying to stop the train.

Brian sagged back against the side of the railcar. He fumbled for his phone and began dialing 911.

“We already called,” the man murmured, his tone laden with sorrow and resignation.

As if on cue, the wail of sirens erupted into the night, and brilliant flashes of red and blue lights danced through the trees as police cruisers sped past. Within minutes, a Thurmont Police officer arrived on the scene, soon joined by a Frederick County Sheriff’s deputy.

Stepping back as if retreating from a nightmare, Brian’s gaze fixed on Will’s frozen, tragic form. A relentless, haunted question echoed in his mind: Why hadn’t he jumped off the tracks? After the police cleared the area—one deputy now taking charge—the first deputy approached Brian. “Were you on the train?” he asked quietly.

Brian shook his head slowly, his voice trembling as he replied, “No, I was on the phone with Will. We were talking. Then he screamed, and the line went dead. I was terrified—I had to come out and see if he was alright.”

“So you know his name.”

“He’s Will VanSant.”

“And what was he doing out here?” the deputy pressed.

“I don’t really know,” Brian admitted, his eyes distant with grief. “He used to come here when he needed to clear his head—he loved wandering along these tracks. Last night, a friend of ours died. He was clearly distraught about it.”

“Who was this friend?” the deputy inquired further.

“Thomas Hardcastle. Apparently, he overdosed in his hotel room,” Brian explained softly.

“In The Sleep Inn in Emmitsburg?” the deputy clarified.

Brian nodded, his silence speaking of a profound loss.

“That must be terribly hard—losing two friends in two days,” the deputy observed with a mix of pity and dismay.

Brian’s voice was heavy with sorrow as he replied, “It’s even worse now that I’ve seen his body.”

The deputy’s expression was grim. “In a contest between a train and a person, the train is bound to win. Do you know who his next of kin is?”

“His parents live in Thurmont. Donald and Evelyn VanSant,” Brian replied.

The officer scribbled down the details before saying with finality, “There’s nothing more you can do here. You really should go home.”

As Brian stood there, the weight of regret pressed down on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving home was a mistake—this weekend had spiraled into something far darker than he had ever imagined. A couple of months ago, he had received a small, wallet-sized photograph of Jack Davis in the mail, accompanied by a handwritten note on the back that proclaimed, “I know what you did.” Jack had died tragically at eighteen, right on these very railroad tracks—a moment that had forever scarred him. Brian, Will, and Thomas had all borne witness to that terrible event. That cryptic message had been enough to pull him back to Thurmont for his class reunion, where both Will and Thomas had been present and had received similar chilling pictures. And now, they were both dead.

In a cruel twist of fate, everything seemed accidental, yet a lingering certainty in Will’s last moments gnawed at him. With a heavy heart, Brian climbed back into his car, his hands slamming against the steering wheel in a futile attempt to exorcise his despair before he pressed his head against it. This was Thurmont—a place that was meant to be safe—yet the loss of Will and Thomas left him questioning if he might be the next casualty. After all, he was the last surviving member of their four-friend bond.

Somberly, he drove down the mountain and went north to Emmitsburg because he just didn’t want to be in Thurmont right now. The scenery blurred as his mind replayed every terrible moment of the past days. Seeking solace, he wandered into The Ott House and made his way to the dim bar. Here, amidst the muted hum of a nearly empty room, he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Instead, he silently ordered a drink, letting the golden liquid offer a fleeting escape from the heavy burden of his memories.

When he finally left the bar after four drinks, he knew he shouldn’t drive, so he walked east on Main Street, trying to clear his head, not only of the booze but also the memory of how Will had looked lying on the ground in a position the body wasn’t meant to be in.

As he neared the PNC Bank, he saw a boy skateboarding along the sidewalk toward him. What was he doing out so late? Wasn’t it a school night? Brian didn’t keep track of such things anymore.

From his angle, Brian could see a car come up the alley that served as the drive-thru lane for the bank. Neither the boy nor the car seemed like they were going to stop. He waved at the boy, signaling for him to stop.

He didn’t.

Suddenly sober, Brian darted forward, his instincts screaming to save the innocent life. In a desperate tangle of movement and fate, he blocked the boy from coming off the sidewalk into the alley, but not without paying a heavy price.

He heard the squeal of brakes as the car tried to stop, and then he felt it hit him. It had been slowing, but the impact still sent Brian flying sideways, and he slammed into the street. Pain radiated through his body. He managed to look up and see that the boy was all right. Then his