Midnight Train to Purgatory
Keziah Hood vs The Suff
This story is a follow up to Wolves of the Western Wilds.
Somewhere between Wyoming Territory and Heaven, 1883
Keziah Hood’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and he sat upright, amazed at how refreshed and reinvigorated he felt. The last thing he remembered was the werewolf barreling into him, its wicked talons shredding the left side of his face as he plunged his Bowie knife repeatedly into the creature’s chest. Keziah gingerly ran his fingertips along what should have been mangled flesh, stunned to find that every part of him was intact.
He took in his surroundings. He had awoken in an abandoned train station. Or, at least, what he assumed was a train station. The formless and ever shifting silhouettes around him were white: far whiter than the whitewashed walls of the church in Banshee’s Ford where Keziah presumed he had met his demise.
An ear-splitting whistle shattered the unearthly silence of the space, and Keziah jerked his head around at the sudden commotion. A train was pulling into the station, shuddering to a halt while the brakes screeched in protest. He could vaguely make out the shape of the conductor exiting the locomotive onto the platform.
Something was very wrong.
A shroud of darkness surrounded the man. As he got closer, Keziah realized the black void was actually the conductor’s tattered cloak, fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. His arms were much too long; his legs much too short. Keziah could barely make out the face, but it seemed to possess a thick handlebar mustache, the ends twisted up like the Devil’s sinister horns.
All at once, a palpable dread and incalculable horror overcame Keziah, and he scrambled backwards, away from the implacable specter. It reached out with its freakishly prolonged limbs, fingers clawing their way to snatch the gunslinger by the legs. Keziah opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came forth.
His retreat was abruptly halted as he backed into some immovable object. Keziah turned to see flowing robes that shone in Heavenly brilliance, and a pair of sandaled feet pierced with bloody holes. A hand, similarly scarred, reached down and offered Keziah refuge. The demon pursuing him recoiled in terror.
Keziah clasped the hand of his Savior in an iron grip of eternal gratitude. A voice, resonant with authority and kindness, boomed all around him, piercing the depths of his soul.
“This ain’t your train, son.”
Author’s Note: In addition to continuing the legend of Keziah “Hatchet” Hood, this flash fiction story was inspired by a few other things:
A moving fable of forgiveness and redemption by
.A series of quirky computer related events experienced by
that has resulted in an urban legend sweeping through Substack like wildfire.This harrowing image from
that is now the official mascot of the aforementioned urban legend.
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Great story to add to The Suff lore!
Someone finally escaped The Suff's grasp...