The Mind Creative OCT 2013
I looked up from my habitual seat on the little green bench, near the
water tap, as the train screeched to a grinding, aching halt at the
Mistletoe Creek station. It was 10 PM and the little platform was, as
usual, deserted save for the old stationmaster who, in the last forty
years, had truly become a part of the furniture. Mistletoe Creek is a
small town. Situated in the heart of the Northern Territory, it has no
more than 500 inhabitants. In the early forties, the town used to be a
busy mining centre, pulsating with life and gold diggers. The gold rush
died down by the fifties but many obdurate families had hung on, living
off the land and cattle.
Then, in 1962, there was that train crash close to the station, leaving
hundreds dead in a raging inferno. Though the cause of the accident
never came to light, the consequences were dire for the town. Nearly
every inhabitant lost a dear one. Very soon, the town had another
stigma attached to it; that of being haunted. Reports about dead
inhabitants being sighted were not uncommon and the innuendoes
spread like wildfire. Within a span of a few months, the flow of visitors
dried up except for the very curious or the very courageous. In the next
few years, burdened under the weight of the rumours, most of the
inhabitants left for good, leaving behind the ones who were either
fearless or had no other place to go. Jim, the stationmaster, was one of
them.
Jim walked past me, as if he had not seen me at all. He always did that
and I found his attitude to be extremely irritating. He knew that I liked
hanging around the station platform every day and he was also aware
that I meant no harm to anyone. In spite of that he never spoke to me.
Possibly because the sight of me brought back painful memories for him.
I was surprised (and quite happy, I might add) to see a well-built young
man, in his late twenties, alight from the train. He was clad in jeans
and a flashy yellow tee shirt; and carried a couple of compact suitcases.
He walked up to Jim and spoke to him, gesticulating towards the gate of
the station. Jim replied briefly shaking his head and ushered him
towards the bench next to the one where I sat. As the train whistled and
prepared to depart, the young man walked towards me. As he came
closer, I observed that he was looking curiously at my out-dated clothes
31