A haunted western of memory, debt, and the rail that runs after dark.
In the high country of the American West, a train appears where no train should be... old iron, lacquered red, moving through weather, rumor, and the thin seam between the living and the dead. Ghost Train opens a larger saga of reckonings, vanished names, and the terrible mercy of forgetting.
By daylight, it is an engine of iron and steel. By dusk and dawn, it slips loose from ordinary certainty. By full dark, it becomes something older than a timetable and far less merciful. Men see it in storms. Yard workers speak of it only when they are tired enough to stop pretending they did not.
Ghost Train begins with an impossible arrival and follows the first widening crack in a much larger world... one where memory can be traded, names can be worn thin, and the rail line itself may serve as a passage between states of being. It is a story of haunted machinery, human frailty, duty, appetite, and the cost of being remembered too long.
Written in a voice that leans into pulp grandeur, cold iron, and old western unease, this first volume sets the tone for a sweeping supernatural cycle.
Timeless. That was the word that came to Dugan's mind, but he could not have said why. Like she had stood in this same wind a thousand times before and would stand in it a thousand times hence.
The sunrise touched the jade in her hair. Made it glow. For a moment, Dugan had the unsettling sense that he was looking at a thing very old wearing the shape of a woman.
Then she lowered her gaze and the moment passed.
"Your concern is very kind."
From Ghost TrainHermes Thane writes fiction that moves between languages and cultures. His work is available in English and Mandarin, spanning eBook, print-on-demand, and audio formats.
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Perfect for atmosphere... storms, miles, and night driving.
Dedicated space for the Chinese-language edition.
"Sanders," he said. "Not Laramie? That business with the coolies at the section house?"
She inclined her head slightly. Acknowledgment without explanation. He obviously knew of the tragedy, but would Mr. Charles Dugan call it that? "Laramie does sound like a pleasant destination. We may have to sit there for a time too. A French word, yes? La-ra-me?"
"Lara-mee," he corrected, slight emphasis on the second syllable, and a passable attempt at a French accent. "Man's name, not a word proper. French trapper by that name went and died."
"I see." This was all she needed to say to bring the conversation to a conclusion, but Mr. Dugan was persistent.
He shifted his weight, dug a heel into the snow. "Nasty business. Six men, I heard. Mr. John, the section foreman, found them in the morning. He said it was a broke coal stove in the bunkhouse." He paused, with a look that wondered if that is what she had heard. Her silence on the matter left him uneasy. So he tried to make light of it. "Suffocated in their sleep. Turned'em all pink. Almost like proper Irishmen."
The comment hung in the air. It was a joke, that was not funny. He did not say these words out of cruelty, just the casual observation of a man who had seen bodies before, and knew or at least heard what carbon monoxide poisoning looked like, if not its name.
"There have been many accidents and tragedies in the construction of this great work, Mr. Dugan," she said, allowing the matter to find quieter ground.
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