PRELUDE
PRELUDE
The spring of 1946 dawned gray and hazy in the small town of Bellingham, nestled in the far northwest corner of Washington state. A thick fog clung to the ground like a damp blanket, enveloping the buildings and streets in its chilly embrace.
Amidst the mist, the silhouette of the train station emerged like a spectral vision, its bricks blackened by soot and the passage of countless locomotives. Its wide windows glimmered faintly in the morning light, the last vestiges of a long-gone architectural splendor.
Inside the station’s lobby, passengers huddled around the ticket counters, murmuring among themselves with a hint of irritation. The schedule boards hanging on the walls invariably announced that all trains were delayed indefinitely.
Among the small crowd, a tall, powerfully built young man stood out in his impeccably pressed military uniform. His shoes shone like mirrors, reflecting the yellowish lights of the ceiling. A peaked cap with the Air Force insignia covered his close-cropped hair. His angular features and serious gaze gave him a martial air.
The young soldier checked his watch for the umpteenth time, letting out a snort.
According to previous schedules, his train to Moses Lake Air Force Base should be departing in a few minutes. But the boards announced indefinite delays due to a nationwide railroad strike.
Muttering a curse under his breath, the young man moved away from the crowd and headed for the public telephones that lined one of the station walls. He inserted some coins into the slot of one of them and dialed a number.
“Moses Lake Air Force Base,” a nasal voice answered on the other end of the line.
“This is Sergeant John McKay. I’m supposed to report for duty today, but my train to Moses Lake is delayed because of the damn railroad strike,” the young soldier explained without hiding his frustration.
“Oh, yes, we’ve had dozens of calls about the same thing, Sergeant,” the man replied wearily. “Unfortunately, Moses Lake is a small base, so we don’t have our own transportation to pick up stranded personnel. You’ll have to find a way to get here on your own.”
John let out a curse and slammed the receiver against the metal hook, then strode across the lobby. The other passengers moved aside as he passed, intimidated by his massive build and stern expression.
Upon leaving the station, John took a deep breath, letting the misty air fill his lungs.
He needed to calm down and think.
He wasn’t one to be daunted by adversity. He had grown up on a farm in Montana, accustomed to hard work and fending for himself.
A railroad strike wasn’t going to stop him from joining the service.
As he walked heavily along the sidewalk, he scanned the street, looking for alternatives. A few meters away, next to the bus stop, he spotted a battered 1930 Ford Model A parked, with a sign on the windshield that read: “Taxi / Private Transport.”
John approached and knocked on the driver’s window. Behind the wheel, an elderly man with a face as wrinkled as a raisin lowered the glass.
“To Moses Lake? That’s about 100 miles, friend,” the old man rasped when John explained where he needed to go. “It’ll cost you a pretty penny.”
“I don’t care, just take me there,” John replied, putting his hand in the pocket of his uniform jacket. He counted out some bills and handed them to the driver. “Here you go, old man. Start that junker and step on the gas.”
The old man quickly counted the bills and grinned toothlessly.
“Get in, Sergeant. I’ll have you in Moses Lake by nightfall.”
The Ford lurched forward, emitting a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust pipe. They passed by the bus terminal, where people were forming long lines to board the few available vehicles. John smiled triumphantly, congratulating himself for having secured transportation long before the others stranded.
Settling into the back seat, he took a small notebook from the pocket of his uniform jacket and reviewed his notes. He had spent months studying the procedures and protocols that governed air bases, determined to join the Air Force as soon as the war ended.
After years of serving on the ground as an infantryman during the war in Europe, John longed to soar through the skies as a pilot.
For him, aviation represented the very embodiment of freedom, the possibility of rising above everything and everyone, leaving behind earthly limitations.
However, he knew that the path to becoming a pilot wouldn’t be easy. Many aspirants failed the demanding physical and psychological tests. Others dropped out during the rigorous flight training. But John was convinced that he would make it.
He was born to fly, he could feel it in his bones.
As he reviewed his notes, the landscape around him gradually changed. The thick morning fog dissipated, giving way to rolling fields dotted with farms and small forests. The Ford rattled heavily along the secondary road, dodging potholes and ditches.
John gazed at the rural landscape through the window, imagining how it would look from above. Since he was a child, his passion for flight had led him to climb the tallest trees and ledges just to feel closer to the sky. He used to spend hours lying in the grasslands, tracing with his finger the shapes of the clouds that paraded above his head.
His reverie was interrupted when the vehicle slowed down with a screech and stopped on the side of the road. John leaned forward between the front seats.
“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?”
The driver cursed under his breath.
“This piece of junk is out of gas. There’s a service station about six miles away. We’ll have to walk there.”
Resigned, John got out and helped the old man push the vehicle until it was hidden among some bushes. Then he set off with the man along the side of the road, under the afternoon sun.
A couple of hours later, with his shoulders aching from the weight of his luggage, John spotted the old-fashioned service station the driver had mentioned. The small lot consisted of some rusty pumps, an adjoining auto repair shop, and a shack that served as a mini-market and waiting room.
While the old driver filled the tank with gasoline, John went into the shack in search of water. At the counter, a burly man in greasy overalls was chewing tobacco. John asked him for a glass of water and took the opportunity to ask him about the railroad strike.
“Strike? I haven’t heard anything, friend. We’re far from the big city here, news doesn’t travel that fast,” the man replied before spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice into a bucket.
John sighed, resigned.
Apparently, the strike was spreading faster than the authorities had anticipated.
“Excuse me, do you know if the trains in Moses Lake are running?” he insisted. “I need to get to the air base as soon as possible.”
The man shrugged.
“I don’t have the slightest idea, kid. But Moses Lake is just about 55 miles from here. There’s an old private railroad, owned by the Marshes. Nobody usually takes it around here, but it could be your salvation. It leaves from Darrington... Maybe you’ve heard of that little town, although it’s not exactly loved by people. The conductor, a certain Davos Morgan, comes from there. I can’t understand how that company survives; the ticket price must be exorbitant. However, it never carries more than two or three passengers... and they’re all from that damn place.”
John regarded the man in overalls with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.
“Excuse me, but... what do you mean Darrington is ‘not exactly a loved town’? And that all the passengers are from that place?” John asked, scratching his chin.
The man spat another stream of tobacco juice into the bucket before answering.
“You see, young man... there are all kinds of rumors about that place. They say it’s cursed or haunted. People around here avoid even saying its name,” his voice took on a somber tone. “They tell stories... horrible stories about the inhabitants of that town. Apparently, the descendants of the original founders keep interbreeding, generation after generation, without mixing with outsiders.”
A chill ran down John’s spine.
“But... there must be a reasonable explanation,” he said in a faint voice. “Something scientific...”
“Call it what you want, son,” the man replied, shrugging. “But know that those who have gone there never came back the same. The place is cursed... infected with some kind of evil. And it’s better not to deal with those people.”
After a somber pause, the man spat one last time and pointed to the street.
“Now get out of here... and forget what I told you about that town. Don’t go to Darrington, boy, it’s not worth it. Follow this road for about twenty miles and you’ll reach Moses Lake. With luck, you can sneak onto some cargo truck.”
Dazed, John stumbled out of the shack and returned to the vehicle where the driver was waiting for him, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, take it easy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the old man laughed. “We’re almost there, don’t despair.”
But John couldn’t get the conversation with the man out of his mind. As they resumed their rattling journey along the lonely road, he kept turning the matter over in his head.
The mention of that mysterious town aroused his curiosity... He couldn’t help but speculate.
After a couple of hours of travel, the landscape began to become more rugged and wooded. The road narrowed, reduced to muddy ruts that forced the old Ford to advance at a crawl.
Suddenly, a loud metallic bang resounded from the engine. The car shook violently and the driver cursed, struggling to control the steering wheel.
“Hold on, kid, the axle broke!” he shouted.
After a few tense moments of zigzagging, the vehicle came to a halt, smoking on the side of the trail, with the hood dented and boiling. John and the driver got out, frustrated to find that there was no way to repair the broken-down car in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m sorry, son, but this is where we part ways,” the old man apologized. “You’ll have to continue on foot. If you follow this road, you’ll reach Moses Lake in about 10 miles.”
John nodded understandingly. After shaking the man’s hand in gratitude, he slung his heavy bag over his shoulder and resumed his march along the rugged trail.
As he advanced, the surrounding forest became more ominous. The twisted trees cast unsettling shadows on the ground, and an unnatural silence seemed to hang in the stagnant air.
Suddenly, lights appeared in the distance through the oaks. John stopped, squinting. They seemed to come from several kerosene lanterns... as if there were a village ahead. Driven by curiosity, he decided to investigate.
After walking a few hundred yards, he spotted what appeared to be a wooden palisade almost hidden by the undergrowth. A heavy, half-open gate revealed the entrance to the place. With his pulse racing, John pushed through the creaking gate and entered the area.
Before him lay a village that seemed to be from another era... The dilapidated, unpainted wooden houses showed such a degree of deterioration that they seemed to have been abandoned for decades. The only building that showed signs of occupation was an inn at the end of the main path, from which a faint light and the muffled sound of a gramophone emanated.
Suddenly, reality hit John like a bucket of ice water.
He was in Darrington.
The “cursed” town that the man at the gas station had warned him never to visit. He slowly backed away with the intention of slipping away, but at that moment the door of the inn burst open. John froze.
From the back of the building emerged the figure of a man. His black, tattered clothes flapped as he approached, limping and looking at the young man.
“Welcome, stranger. I’ve been expecting you,” he hissed with a twisted grimace, shaking John’s hand before he could react.
His touch was as cold as a marble slab.
“W-what? No! I was just...” he stammered, bewildered, trying to break free from the grip.
“Nonsense, boy, you’re here because you had to be,” the stranger interrupted, slurring his words. “You see, Fate is capricious. And you were predestined to arrive in Darrington today... just in time to board my train.”
