Signals and Sirens

The inky hand of night has long since been pressed down on the landscape of a small town. A train signal lights up somewhere to the east, making a small pool of light that quivers and moves as a fierce wind whips across the tracks. A train roars out into the evening air, waking a man from a deep sleep; the world around feels muggy, dreamlike, still. The train roars again, its whistle runs shrieking across the fields and through the trees, making its way to the outside of a home. An open window looks down, and coyly invites the noise into the bedroom of the man.
    Glassy eyes flick open, and the man slowly sits up and rises from his bed. Although that whistle still blows, to him, he can only feel a skittering magnetism inside, calling him to the forest across from his small house as white noise floods into his ears. Somewhere tucked inside that cocktail of dull static, a faint whisper can be heard.
    Standing, he takes heavy-footed steps, his knees quivering and threatening to drop him at any moment. The train is still bellowing out in that cool early-autumn air, but now has to contend with a pounding heart filling the man's ears. The whistle crawls into one of his ears, latching onto a heartbeat, and runs out of the other. “Thump, thump, roar - thump, thump, roar,” plays throughout his head. Like some strange monster, he trudges to the front door, his mind feeling as though wading through gelatin. As he rests his hands firmly on the doorknob, he can finally make out what the whisper was saying. “Please, help me,” a woman's voice begs. Brian's hands start to turn the handle, but the creak of its old hinges jolts him awake. Gasping for breath, he sinks to the floor and fights back a terrible, but familiar fear.
Common sleepwalking, the doctor said, but this explanation never did sit well with Brian. For one thing, sleepwalkers usually do so while dreaming, and wake up in unfamiliar places. Brian always knew where he was, and remembered everything leading up to the point. He was conscious of his actions, just not in control of them. For another thing, sleepwalkers wander aimlessly, without any intent or purpose. Brian always walked the same direction: towards the woods to see a woman who roared like a train in the early hours of the morning. Laying down his head for what would turn out to be his last time, Brian closed his eyes and fought to find sleep; fitful though it may have been as of late.
The sharp cracking of twigs and rustle of multicolored leaves – no less beautiful by moonlight – was all that could be heard in the forest. The lone song of a cricket chirps into the night, but always quiets after a few notes. It seems as if an hour has passed since he started walking, and although that night train has long since moved on, he still clumsily wanders through the forest in a daze, a woman's voice calling to him inside his head.
    New members join the cast, as the sound of a shovel striking dirt is heard. Three men stand only a few feet away, trying to dig through the root-riddled dirt at a slow rate, frustration painting their faces. A woman lies on the ground, eyes open, with what appears to be blood running down her nose and bleeding onto her white blouse. That familiar reaction sets in, and Brian falls to the forest floor, gasping for breath. He needs no time to realize who the woman is, her voice has been in his head for months.
    Blinking his eyes, Brian realizes the men are gone, and his mysterious woman's body sits in the same spot, illuminated by moonlight almost theatrically. He should have stood up and ran out of the forest, never looking back. He couldn't though, for so many different reasons. Perhaps it was his tender heart, thinking that he could somehow help this woman. Perhaps it was the erratic sleep he had been getting recently. Regardless of reason, Brian did not run. Instead, he starts to crawl over to her body, and reaches out to touch her hand. They are cold and clammy, telling anyone in their right mind that she had been dead for a long time now. “Who are you?” he whispers. “Why did you call me here?”
He doesn't hear anything but the wind kicking up dead leaves, but a shy voice finally murmurs somewhere in the back of his head. “I can't hear you, please speak up!” he says out loud. The only voice in his head is his own now, and he shouts to her again. He opens his mouth to try a third time, when he finally hears that voice speak up. “I don't want to die alone,” the voice manages to choke out. Brian sits on the ground shaking, as he hears the woman sobbing in his head. “What do you mean, die alone?” he asks.
This is the extent of his observations as the shovel is heard again, followed by a crawling blackness at the edge of his vision, and shortly thereafter: unconsciousness. “Who the hell was he talking to?” one of the men – a smaller man - says. “Who cares, continue digging you son of a bitch,” the second, and taller man shouts. “Alright, alright, I'm working on it. I've got to dig an even bigger hole now though!” the first man yells. “Both of you, shut up and get working,” the third one says. His voice is calm, but sharp. Judging by how promptly the other two men started digging quietly, he must be the leader.
    Both bodies are finally tossed into the grave, and the two men quickly shovel dirt on top. The three men walk around the area, looking to make sure nothing is left behind, and start walking back out of the forest. In moments, three cigarettes make small pools of light around the men, as they quietly talk to themselves, the short one laughing. A few miles away, a train signal is hit by a gust of wind, flickering, and finally dying out.

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” Newspapers would one day read. Seems sort of funny when you realize how right that was, but only sort of.

“I don't have much time, but now that you've heard my story, please learn from my mistakes if you can. Reading this, you've already invented a face and voice to give Brian, and it may shock you to know you are absolutely correct. It's no coincidence that without ever knowing me, you see me in your head clearly. It is no coincidence.
I write this now to warn you, if the whistle of a great locomotive shrieks into the night, and wakes you, try your best not to follow. In fact, if you feel as though someone is calling you to leave the safety of your bed, and walk out into the autumn night, pack up your things and just go. Don't look back, just get into your car and drive as far as you can. Start a new life somewhere, continue living.
If you hear my voice, no matter what I say, please ignore it the best you can after this note. Your life depends on it. These words I now write may be salvation, but my voice will surely turn to poison. Stay away from the woods, stay away from trains wailing into the southern night air, and stay away from any voices that start to whisper in your head when the train does come by. You're not crazy, the voices exist. They are spoken from the dead, and will destroy you.”