In Scotland, there is a story. An engine. It is passed down from old engines to new ones. The diesels will tell you that knowing this story is a right of passage to the railway. They'll tell you, if you promise to listen. They'll bicker about its class, its number and maybe, if it had one, its name.
And then, they'll get on with the story, which goes something like this. . .
In 1959, when our kind was first starting out, there were a pair of twinned steam engines on this line. They had been Caledonian railway engines - class 652s, and thus had been there for many years, had known the line like the backs of their buffers. They were inseparable, they did everything together. No one could really tell them apart, the only difference between them were the number plates on their front buffer beams.
As our kind took over their work, their fates were decided. The older twin was sold off to the isle of Sodor and the younger was slated for scrap.
No one is quite sure what went on then, only that they tried to leave together but failed. The older twin escaped with his life to his new home, but the younger was dragged back and scrapped.
Ever since, when the moon is swathed in cloud and rain pelts the earth, the scrapped twin returns, racing down the line southbound towards the border in an attempt to escape the torch and find his brother. He never makes it though.
His deep toned whistle echoes through the hills and deep into the glens, singing it's sordid song. If you are unlucky enough to be near the scrapyard on one such night, you might even hear his screams echoing over the years from that dark night in '59.
Sodor, too, has a story. A ghost engine. Many, in fact, but this one is different, for the truth of it is known only to one on the island. The engines have all seen it, but its story is nothing but speculation. A mysterious ghost engine, nameless and numberless, who comes down with the fog. Most often it is seen trying to cross the drawbridge from the mainland, never to make it to the island side. Sometimes, it lurks in the yards and whistles through stations in the night. Sometimes, a frightened voice calls a name on the breeze.
o0o
One night in late spring, the Fat Controller stays late at his office in Knapford, finishing up some paperwork. The window is cracked open, letting in the cool breeze and the fresh, wild smell of green, growing things after the winter.
The controller is just putting away the last of his papers when he hears the familiar sound of an operating steam engine from outside. This wouldn't be unusual, except that there are no trains scheduled tonight, save for the usual evening express, which has already come and gone.
So, brow furrowing, he moves over to the window. The station floodlights cast a warm glow across the platforms, leaving shadows to ripple in corners and across the tracks. He can hear the chuffing more clearly now and looks from side to side. His eyes catch a dark form sliding like water over the far line, a rake of ancient wooden coaches groaning along behind it. It stops at the platform and the coach doors spring open. There is no hiss of steam, just the silent swirling mist that clings to the engine, black as night, like frost to glass and snow drifting in fields.
The controller stares down at it. The engine's headlamp, initially out and shrouding its face in shadow, flickers to life briefly, revealing a face he knows.
"Donald?" He whispers.
The engine's eyes, lifeless and dark, slide towards him.
"Donald?" It echoes, or at least he thinks it does, and maybe it sounds scared. "Donnie? Where are ye? I-I miss ye."
The lamp flickers out again and a deep whistle wails, like a lost soul, across the station. For someone like the Fat Controller, who has only ever known Donald, the difference is subtle enough to be missed.
The air is ice cold as the train pulls out of the station, mist dancing like a veil around it. The controller rushes out of his office and down onto the platform below, but by the time he gets there, it's gone.
"What. . ." Rationality gets the better of him and he shakes his head. "What is Donald doing out here at this hour and where did he get those coaches?"
He walks down the platform and into the yard, checking the sidings and the sheds. As he does, he hears chuffing, first from one direction then the other. He looks around, but sees nothing. He stops, hands on his hips.
"Alright, Donald, I don't know what your playing at -"
"Donald?" The echo of a voice makes him spin around. "Donnie, I-I'm scairt. They're going tae c-cut me up." It comes from behind him, always behind him, and he spins around again.
Suddenly, a chill runs down his spine and he stumbles back in shock. There, in the yard, he stands face to face with the hazy form of a steam locomotive. It's form is naught but swirling mist and shadows black as ink. Faceless save for the empty pits of eyes and unknown save for the barely distinguishable curves of a Caledonian 652, he can see straight through it to a line of trucks beyond.
It moves forward slightly, not, he thinks, looking at him. "Donnie. . .are. . .ye safe? Th-they caught us. . .th-they c-cut me. . .I-I'm scairt. . .I m-miss ye. . ."
Its soulless eyes fix on him then and the air seems to drop another ten degrees. "You. . ."
And then it is gone.