The Ghost of 47

This story was based off Monty Mills 'The Silver Ghost'

Every railroad pony that worked the line between Ponyville and Appleloosa will tell you countless stories of legend, about the original builders of the tracks west and its finest train to ever run the tracks of Equestria, once own by three brothers before the Great Equestrian War and how it challenged everything, including the Everfree Forest and the mountains beyond. But there is one story that has faded into history, then into myth; about the Company Train, so to speak and how it met a horrible fate. As the years pasted, tales of the train began to spring up amongst the young generation of railroad ponies, one of them actually seeing the train itself on a stormy night near the Ghastly Gorge Junction.

A lone switch colt was lying on the cot, eyes wide in the candlelit room of his shack just a few yards from the bend leading towards Ghastly Gorge. The rain was pounding hard outside, pelting the wood roof and paneled window, which kept him up. The smell of coffee lingered in the air like a scented candle, which also kept him awake; for he was hoping to be relieved that night after spending five weeks in a row, then the storm rolled in. The phone was out and the other means of communication was a telegraph, which hadn’t worked since the West Rockies Railroad Company was sold after the war nearly a hundred years ago. The clock above the candlelit table read midnight, about a good six hours before the dawn, when he could go home to his family and get some much needed rest.

“I should try and get some sleep. I doubt any train will come up or down the line in this weather, unless they were crazy.” The colt told himself and was about to close his eyes when he heard a tapping sound. Looking up, he saw the telegraph hammer tapping the metal plate, the distinctive quick movements tapping out a message. Curious, he approached the telegraph just as it stopped and pulled out the message. With a decipher nearby, he translated the code.

“ ‘A train is coming up.’” He read. “That can’t be right.” He turned to a clipboard hanging by the door, with a list of all the trains that operated along the line. Looking at the clock, then back at the board, he shook his head in disbelief.

“The next train is scheduled for 8:00 tomorrow morning.” He said, only to had a sudden realization that the telegraph hadn’t worked for a hundred years, and it wasn’t even connected to the communication wire like the phone. He wanted to phone his bosses back in Ponyville, but he remembered that it was out due to the storm. He shrugged it off, only to hear the tapping once again. The hammer tapped away, leaving another message that continued the last one.

“ ‘Mountain slide near Ghastly Gorge. East Bound freight trapped, lives lost.’ “ He read once more. accident. The bend around Ghastly Gorge was always dangerous in storms, let alone on a sunny day or clear evening and where he was, the mountain slide must have been about a mile or so west, where the tracks basically hugged the mountain side. He wanted to get confirmation about this badly, but he could do nothing but hope to warn the supposed westbound train. He then heard a low tone coming from down the track to the east, and the pounding of the tires on the tracks.

“The Train!” He shouted, grabbing his coat and red warning lantern. The door busted open as he ran out into the rain, his heart racing and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He was about five yards away from the shack when he could see the lantern of the train piercing through the Everfree pines and turning around the bend. The headlight switched wide, covering the track before it with glistening white light and the whistle blew loudly, screeching like a hawk. The thundering movement of the tracks below its drive tires shook the ground as a red warm glow of the boiler fumed the black smoke through the tail smokestack. The train was coming closer as the colt hung the light high in the air with his mouth, his wings useless in the storm for fear of lighting, but to his surprise and worry, the train kept coming.

“Wait, Stop! There’s a train around the bend!” He shouted into the night, hoping the engineer could hear him, but to no avail. The train started to slow down as if it was aware of the bend coming ahead past the shack. The colt had one last option; switch the track to a siding so he rushed back to the shack, near the switch just underneath a light post, trying to stay ahead of the train. He had made it just as the train was a mere ten yards away, and with a mighty grunt, the switch lever changed; the tracks that once lead straight to the bend turned left to the siding. He turned back towards the train, a grin on his face, for he believed he would save another train. It disappeared as the train past over the switch, going straight on to the bend.

“Impossible.” He looked with awe as the Hayes Ten wheeler pasted by the light. The nameplate was gone, but the number on her tender was as clear as day: Number 47. The Company Train. Pulling behind was an empty boxcar with coffins in plain sight. The once powerful whistle turned to a mournful blow as it past the shack, towards the bend then disappearing past the trees. The Colt continued to watch, listening to the whistle when he remembered an old story from his past.

“Now, let me tell ya a story about the fate of Forty Seven and how it went to Glory.” An old work colt told around a campfire several nights ago. The stars shined high in the clear and moonlit night, as he and several others listened. “It was a stormy night some seventy years ago, and a very important freight come from Appleloosa got trapped just past Ghastly gorge, most of the ponies trapped under a mountain slide. She was pounding as fast she could to reach them, but the rain had made the track too slick for even the sand to give the needed traction needed to make that there bend past the switch shack.” He pointed to the shack. “Unable to break, her crew bailed; all accept the engineer who lived with it day in and day out. It was like family to him; in fact it was. They don’t call her the Company Train fer nothing’ Ol’ Forty Seven jumped the track and tussled into the gorge, ne’r to be seen again, along with the engineer.

“They say on a stormy night, and when a train gets trapped in a landslide, Forty Seven comes back to try and save ‘em, but she never gets to ‘em.” The voice echoed in the Colt’s head as he looked down the bend. The whistle moaned through the storm as the rain began to lighten up, in hopes of saving the trapped ponies, but could never make it.

The next morning, he was fast asleep in the cot as there was a banging at the door.

“Murray, you in there boy-o?” A voice shouted through the door. Rubbing his eyes, he got out and opened the door. It was his relief, along with some other engineers.

“What’s going on?” he replied.

“Didn’t you hear? Anderson’s Freight was trapped at the gorge last night, lost his fire mare.” Murray looked to the telegraph, then back to them.

“No, the phone was out. Is he alright?”

“Yeah. We got him to the hospital in Ponyville this morning. Found him and the grease colt near the entrance to the Everfree Forest, along the tracks. We asked how he got there, but he could remember. All he did know was that a train arrived last night and he blacked out, after hearing the whistle. He thought it was Forty Seven, but we all know that can’t be true.” The relief explained. As much as Murray wanted to tell him otherwise, he didn’t want to sound crazy believing in ghost stories.

“Don’t be to sure.” He replied.

“Why? You believe that old coot’s ghost story?”

“If it were a ghost story, then explain how Anderson and his grease colt appeared ten miles away from the landslide?” Another pony shouted at him.

As his fellow companions continued to argue amongst themselves, Murray looked back to the bend, the whistle still echoing in his mind.

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