Ghost on the Tracks (Part 1 and 2)

Epic Ghost Poetry Story

At one point “Ghost on the Tracks” was going to be my debut poetry book in 2005 or 2006 way before ‘Return to Kemptown’ did that in 2010.

The plans were epics, a series of epic tales all told in poetic form with our narrator stumbling into all kinds of nastiness in another world, but for reasons I can’t remember now looking back didn’t happen once I had completed the first tale.

Owning to length, I am going to split this into two posts, Part 1 and 2 this week and Part 3 to 5 the following week and will let you read it for yourself.

*

Monster on the Tracks (Part 1 and 2)

I

Jim would have loved it

I told myself

Ducking and diving

past the dodgy hot dog van

at the front of the car park

choking out the air

like petrol exhausts,

Casting a light

past the rank of taxis

arguing with customers

over fares

where they had clearly

overcharged somebody.

He would have loved it

with a sadism dig

once he finished

trying to avoid

the lunatic like traffic

on Chester Road

all the way on

the other side of the mall,

Bathing in silence

on Bailey Street

in more than

a slight relief

past the chip shop

which poisoned my brother

ages and ages back

and had never had

any of my business

ever since,

Layered ghost deep

with cars laced in ice

next to row after row

of run down houses

In dire need of the

rumoured re-investment

that had been dangling for

decades and decades.

Past Children engraving fear

all over their faces

back inside their homes

with their footballs

as soon as they

saw you walking

past their homes,

Bleeding in brake lights

all the way down to the old drum

which once upon a time

was a great pub

to watch the match in

Before the Police

started raiding it regularly

like a battering ram

for selling illegal

certain substances

(so they said).

I’d been there of course

several times

over the years

ebonizing its ambience

filleting the rumours

as well as Jim’s own house

which hovered uneasily

at the back of it

which was now

tied up in ligation

and legal arguments,

malignant in shadows

and rumours

why it was still deserted

months after he died

which still made me shiver.

no matter what was going on,

Ripping away

any kind of hope

that had followed him

while he lived

like his best friend

And was now laughing

in the wind

now he had gone.

When last I’d been there

we’d carried on down

past both of them

round the back of

the closed sorting office

dodging the old guard dogs

And over the fence

to Laceys which had been

quite a famous shoe factory

all the way back in the 60’s

before my parents met

And before my mother

got sacked from there

for going ice skating

rather than turning in

for a Saturday shift

she didn’t want to do,

Weaving across time

with forgotten rumours

smudged into the past

Replacing memories

of missing workers

with knuckled led fear

found curling in the river

decapitated

slave white in terror.

At least two or three times

that my mother remembered

and of which the killer

(or killers the Police

Could never decide upon)

was never

ever

ever traced despite lengthy appeals.

Memories of her words

and Jim

tied up in knots

all the way to the gate

at the edge of the field

and fiddling around

with the old lock

for ages,

til it got the stage when

I nearly gave up

only for it to fall into pieces

leaving me thinking

something was wrong

even this early in the tale

all the way to the Black Forest

and the River Mersey.

Something seriously

Seriously strange

But I carried on regardless

when on another day

I would have stopped

and perhaps

not bothered

and got back the way I went.

He would loved it

I knew without even telling myself

once I was clear of the mall

and began walking

down that little path

then led to several small bridges

next to the graveyard

leading to the river

and the edge of

Nicholson’s Boat

on the other side

of the meadows.

Would have loved wandering

across it again

no matter how times

he would have done it before

in the past

with or indeed

without me in tow

like a child exploring

somewhere for the first time,

Skipping through the Black Forest

on the outskirts of the banks

which blocks out the sunlight

like a hand covering

over your face much after 5

in the evening even in the heart

of a boiling hot summertime,

let alone Autumn

or anywhere near Winter

and the sign posts

that are meant to direct people

to either the reservoir

or the centre of town

that I am convinced the kids

from St Margaret’s just up the road

move around just to annoy

the attendants,

and confuse the heck

out of everybody

as much as they can.

Jim always thought

it was something else

rather than joining in

mottled in a broken fury

up and down the forest

and meadows

until the little buggers

were caught

and had the fear of god

put up them,

Describing it as not human

with a far away look

that would frequently

make me shiver,

Something eerie-like

whispering on your shoulder

just out of earshot,

Soaring underneath

the birds singing in

the nearby water park

a few miles up

across the bank

in perfect harmony

with each other

Nestled in the background

with unspoken nightmares

hushed deep

on imaginary clothes lines

in the wind,

Passing a cold can of beer

in my hands

when eventually back at

either of us

and telling me

there was something wrong

out there

with a authority

that shouldn’t have existed,

clutched across memories

even after he died

and I was stood at his funeral

next to his brother

who said

without surprisingly

any element of bittnerness

‘He regarded you, andy

as much more a brother

than I was ever’.

Much more of a brother

than he was or could be

his words stuck

in my memories

side stepping

the dripping water

Hidden over the top

of the canal

over the first of the bridges

with barge drivers

(if that’s the right word)

waving at me

Jjst off the deserted

closed off railway yard,

which hung on the edge

of the Mersey

almost out of eyesight.

Past into the background

with a series of tunnels

I could see from even there

would not be somewhere

I would be keen on visiting

even if I had a few friends

with me.

Nicholson’s Boat

a mile or two up the path

on the other side

of the river

always held more

fun memories for me

with the pair of us

getting drunk there

at least two or three times

and getting lost

in the forest

as the sunset

choked out the light

reducing the path

into a series of dots

of spotlights at a airport.

I’d first met Jim there

I think

I can’t remember when

say what twenty years before

cast out into alcoholism

by his first wife

and stood by him

when others

washed their hands off him

in some cases

incredibally cruelly

which would have

left me fuming,

Never passing judgment

when one drink turned into two

then turned into drugs

and then repeated trips

to hospital.

I stood by him.

stood by him

when he got himself

and got into walking

all over Chorlton Water Park

The Roman lakes in Marple

Tandle Hill near Rochdale

Ashton Water Reservior

(which I got told he must have

jumped over the fence

to get on)

and where-ever he

could and would

whether in Spring

or deepest Winter

Walking down that path

we always walked down

sailing across imaginary oceans

dreaming of new worlds

red faced

in the late morning mist,

discovering new adventures

with each footstep

back to back

like Allen Quarterman

in King Solomon’s Mines

making a totally wrong

wandering into

a magical psyche

with eroitic urgency;

prologiuing totally

what came next

Shuddering under

the deserted canal bridges

all the way

into the nearby graveyard.

II

Exhaling my breath

I should have stopped

when I crossed underneath

the second

of the small bridges

on the other side of the gate

and headed back

towards Chester Road

instead of walking

towards the third bridge

when I saw what

was waiting

just past there

Hollow like in the silence

stiffened with dripping water

off the top

almost like tears

burning up in pain

all over the windows

right up to their engines

which growled slowly

like a battery operated fan

almost to run out of power,

Dog like

in a soft fury

which didn’t stop

even when I walked

on for there

almost like

it was trying to

softly warn me away

And headed back over

the gate

where I came from

only a short time before

when I saw not

One

Not two

But four

Four

Yes, Four

deserted canal boats

sat there

just past the third bridge

on the stream

like brick walls

trying to block me

from carrying

on any further up here

towards the bank.

Deserted on the edge

of the forest

blocking the gate

from coming down

and completely

cutting you off

from going much further.

Four deserted canal boats

which if they hadn’t been there

would have allowed me

to carry on down the side

of the river

leading to the way home

(viva Nicholson’s boat

if I wanted to

that afternoon

instead of going

straight home)

And totally

blocking also the entrance

to the graveyard,

Stripped bare of noise

and emotion.

Dismembered

nested in a

rotting feeling

Lost in silence

that the nearer

and nearer

I got towards them

that something

upon something

was seriously wrong,

Starving

the air

of sound

so it couldn’t call

out for help,

Thousand fold

across the nearby river

All the way over the top

of the bank,

and of course Nicholson’s boat

which no doubt would have

more than a few of it’s regulars in

and or indeed the Mall

where I had just walked from,

Making it impossible

to even think of

running back for help

Or simply just

giving up and walking

back the longer way home

whether I had thought about it

Or not as the case

may have been.

Something wrong

that followed me

all over towards

the boats

where there was

not a single

sign of life.

Not in the cabins

where I could see

a few

clearly specially

selected records

scattered on the floor

in a circle.

Food scattered

on the floor

half-eaten meals

on tables

which had clearly

been dropped

maybe halfway

through been cooked,

and a shoe

on top one of them

making it look

like somebody

had almost

scooped off the roof

by a huge Vulture

almost out of nowhere

Leaving nothing behind

Nothing but silence,

and me stepping

further around

the boats

looking for clues

to what had happened

and only finding

more and more mysteries,

without any kind

of answers in sight.

Jim I know would have

been in the middle

of at least

one of their bedrooms

without a blind bit of worry

for anybody coming home

unexpected

and catching him in the act,

throwing bedsheets

all over the floor

to find out what happened,

as well as coats

and shoes

or if needed

Any of their underwear

Or washing.

Jim would have been

pacing up and down

the boats

lifting up the seats

outside

and rubbing his hands

up and down all

over the roof

until he found a answer.

I however

stood there in silence,

pacing up and down

unsure what to do

with only my breath

in broken pauses

blowing on some of the windows

for company

All the way round

the boats and back

With the names of

each of them in

my memory,

like the Mary Celeste

in minutiae

times four

before I turned

back round

and thought about

walking back up

the way I had

just come up from

when I heard a voice

call out my name.

not just any voice.

a voice

that I couldn’t trace

but did sound

vaguely familiar,

familiar enough

to make stop dead

almost literally

in it’s arms.

Not any voice.

But Jim’s.

Yes.

Jim’s.

Fainter of course

but definitely

his voice

carried across

the stillness.

Maybe a little

more slurrer

and tired

But Jim’s.

Jims.

Sounding like it had

been whispered

over a huge vast distance.

And something that

sounded like

it was like a bubble

just before it

was about to

be popped,

But it was definitely Jim’s

calling out my name

with an urgency

that was as worrying

as well as a accident,

And when I turned round

to try and work out

where that had come from

there was again

nothing there.

Nothing

No Voices.

No Words.

Nothing.

Nothing but silence

Before a huge scream

Pierced

yhe silence

from the nearby graveyard

Leaving my heart

buried in my socks

And within ten minutes

realising I had just made

the greatest mistake

of my whole life.