Ride the Dark Rails

By R.C. Hebert

Welcome aboard, and hold on; the New Orleans' story trolley is on the rails!

 

Macabre tales from the 1950s to the present, where murder, deceit, and human nature take hold. Listen to the clackety-clack of the trolley as it brings you to a tormented mind in a tale of revenge, or into pictures that come alive. Retribution, murder, and personal bias; narratives with twists and turns and where things seen are not real. Find yourself caught up in a world where fairness doesn't come easy—or at all. Take a ride through New Orleans, where stories come to life. Grip your seat and stave off that shiver as the trolley rolls you from story to story and lulls you into a trance. Because right when you think all is lost… it is. 

Stories with a twist. Are you ready to Ride the Dark Rails?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.C. Hebert
• Release date: Oct 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223083269

R.C. Hebert

R.C. Hebert is from New Orleans and grew up amidst the many varied lifestyles found on almost every street or stretch of pavement or concrete. Many of the stories have elements of truth, fact, history, or real-life experiences woven within, creating fantastical tales. The author has always been a storyteller, and wants only for the readers to enjoy a well-told tale.

Book preview

Ride the Dark Rails

R.C. Hebert

Copyright © 2023 by R.C. Hebert

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact R.C. Hebert.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

This book is entirely the product of human creativity; no AI was involved in its writing.

Book Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

Ride the Dark Rails

First Edition 2023

Contents

Preface

Dedication

Acknowledgements

1.The Devil You Know

2.The Boy Turns

3.God’s Other Children

4.The Sense of the Dream

5.Little Green Apples

6.Or So It Seems

7.The Imperfect Child

8.His Daughter’s Hand

9.The Reluctant Dinner Guests

10.The Proxies

11.Yáchira’s Ghost

12.The Five-Cent Solution

About the Author

Preface

With a style like Tales from the Darkside and Tales from the Crypt, immerse yourself in stories that weave fiction and real life. R.C. Hebert grew up in New Orleans when racial tensions were at a peak. He has said he can see a word or a picture, and his imagination… grabs hold like a trolley on a track. He never plans these stories but lets them lead him wherever they might roll. He likes to tell stories, but even more so, he loves to have people read them. So, take a ride back into the 1950s, and to the present…

And Ride the Dark Rails.

Dedication

To my neighbor, Joseph K. (1946-2023). A man who helped without being asked. A man who gave the service of his life and received two Purple Hearts. A man who gave his words to a local newspaper. A man who gave his eyes to underwater photography. A man who gave his insight and published a book. A man who gave his heart to every stray animal. This book is a tribute to a man whose life deserves to be honored.

Acknowledgements

Often, the process of writing a book requires not only the fortitude of the storyteller but also the support of those standing alongside them. So, I would like to first thank my wife for her unfailing support and encouragement while I wrote these stories. I would like to thank Irma Niekum. for taking the required photos for the book. And I would like to thank authors; JJ Kīmmorist, Kimberley Shead, Sloane McClain, and T.L. Humphrey for their helpful insights, and without whom, this book would still be a bunch of stories rolling around in my head.

Chapter one

The Devil You Know

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Sybil knew Satan was genuine—she felt his dark side.

A cemetery in winter could not match it. She shuddered at the thought of being under his influence and prayed for protection from his evil grasp. She knew she must stay strong and resist his temptations, but the fear of succumbing to his power lingered in her mind. She hoped Belief would guide her and keep her safe from the devil’s grasp because his leverage was substantial. It was clear that being careful and surviving were two different things.

He might consume her completely.

Sybil sat in a wooden rocker, the room shrouded in darkness, and placed her hand over the pistol lying in her lap; a gift from her late husband, Juan. But what harm can it do if it is not used? Evil’s power could control it, rendering it as useless as fine China. She lifted her face, spying the faded black-and-white wedding photo from fifty-five years ago hung on the cracked plaster wall opposite her. How sweet and innocent time seemed back in her yesteryears.

The devil had always been the master of manipulation, and his suggestive ways could easily deceive her. Sybil reminded herself of the consequences of giving in to his temptation and the destruction it could bring, and detected the weight of the battle ahead. Her primary fear was that the darkness might engulf her, and she was determined to fight against it, whatever the cost.

But heavy eyes were Satan’s best friend, and a yawn escaped her lips. Her breath was deep and long, between consciousness and disaster. Sleep later, she told herself, for he is coming—and the clock ticked the time ever closer—she must stay awake. This is a battle where second place is death. Failure by her means, he wins.

It was the same every time; an explosive temper rumbling like an earthquake.

And Satan came along and tarnished her life.

But it hadn’t always been so. Sybil’s gaze softened as she reflected on the happy photo, and memories flooded back to her. She was young and naïve, but they were so much in love with grand plans for their future; a future full of hope and possibility. But they never expected the form of Satan to arrive and the manipulation of a manufactured hell.

Oh, he had beauty and charm once. But age has a way of turning evil. And after Juan passed away, it only seemed to grow worse. She tried to start a new life, to rebuild, taking the punches in stride. It had not been easy, but somehow she survived.

But it was always the same when he arrived; a sorry, an excuse… a blame. She could not absolute the punishment. And soon, only blame was present, forefront in the visits, squeezing until she blacked out. Once, she had a beautiful voice and body, prized by her husband, who could now no longer protect her. It’s an uncomfortable truth that she is vulnerable. Yet still she prayed; a useless mantra of words against his cruelty that sliced through her heart like a razor.

You better have my money when I come tonight.

And yet when she didn’t, other things would disappear. The thought of facing him filled her with dread, yet she knew she had no choice. Although she had taken all her valuable belongings, she couldn’t keep any secret place from him. She sat alone in her small apartment, with no one to turn to for help. Her family was gone, and here in the complex, people minded their own business, having their own troubles. She was alone in the world, and it terrified her. But despite her fear, she must survive no matter what it took.

The echo of words sandpapered her heart, and the heavy pounding in her head was like a hammer on an anvil. The clock slowly ticked; the shroud of death creeping ever closer. The stagnant air in an un-air-conditioned apartment beaded sweat. No ceiling fan offered respite, pilfered from its box, and left with wires like broken fingers.

What Satan desired, he took.

Oh, Juan, if you can hear me, please tell me what to do, Sybil cried.

Now the picture across from her seemed to mock. The yesteryears of a happier life when her hair was jet-black and long. Juan loved to rub the shiny fibers between his fingers, smiling and kissing her cheek before presenting a golden brush for her pride and glory. Her thoughts faded, and despondency grew—another gift so callously taken from her.

Thump… thump… thump.

She stiffened, her eyes on the door, her ears acute. Had Satan come already? Was he prowling outside? A door slammed shut somewhere down the hallway, and she released her grip on the gun handle. This time, it was nothing. But the clock tick foretold doom, and her heart skipped beats with every minute sound beyond the supposed safety of her door. The deadline loomed. Her head throbbed, her fingers clenched and unclenched, and her stomach lurched—the clock timed it all.

She whispered fervent prayers; perhaps this time, the clock would stop and cease to bleed away her very existence. Her stomach soured, the sick dread building inside. And the clock ticked along merrily, slowly… interminably.

Gone was her protector in this realm and yesteryear’s life, but a memory. It had been better because of Juan, but in the end, time won. It seemed it always would.

She stroked the gun with her fingertips, remembering a time gone by when Juan showed her how to use it. In all her seventy-eight years, she never thought this knowledge would ever be required. She closed her eyes, a welcome relief, but sleep threatened to overtake her. She had to focus on the task at hand.

The clock chimed once. But it was not quite ten.

Her eyes flew open: Nine-thirty.

If only God would send someone to save her from her tormentor. Her eyes drooped. The stress of it all lulled her, but if she slept now, she might never awaken. She jerked awake.

Nine-fifty.

Was death painful? Apprehension stabbed like a crown of thorns.

Maybe Satan wouldn’t come tonight and grant a much-needed reprieve…

She knew deep down there was no escaping her choice—the ones she had considered before paled in comparison, but what else could she do? And if she succeeded tonight, this awful sin, at least in death, she knew purgatory would welcome her—but would Juan?

She stared at the door, the wooden rocker creaking softly. Maybe he wouldn’t come, but wishing this was like wishing away a sunset.

The clock ticked, like her thoughts, parading yesteryears through her mind. At one time, she was fashionable, highly regarded, and her husband was successful with all the right contacts. Parties and music, drinks, and expensive food were the norm for them every weekend. She spun around on the dance floor in a yellow gown. His feet were sure, and he guided her. Whispers and murmurings ensured they were the talk of the town; so great was their love and greater their success.

But when Juan died, so did the rich social life they had cultivated. Friends fell away like fleas from a dog.

None of this mattered any longer—now it was a game of survival.

Nine fifty-five.

A door closed somewhere below—were those footsteps on the stairs? Her heart quickened.

Nine fifty-six.

Dare she think he wouldn’t arrive like clockwork?

Nine fifty-seven.

There were no security alarms in this building, and entry was easy.

Nine fifty-eight.

Coldness sank into her skin; her nightmare climbing the stairs.

Nine fifty-nine.

Step, drag, step, drag. Her blood froze, her fingers clenched, and her teeth ground together to keep them from chattering. Closer and closer, the recognizable dread filled her soul. In the end, would she be saved?

The clock refused to tick that final minute, taunting her. The threat she faced scared even her boldest neighbors. Even their bluster and boasting in the privacy of the halls, absent from the threat, wouldn’t make them honest now.

She strained her ears, her eyes flicking from the clock to the door. Does he do this to torture her? Her hands shook, and she put them flat on her thighs, her thumb contacting the cold hard steel she would be obliged to use.

Step, drag, step, drag.

The devil was real, and he stood outside the door. The silence was deafening. Her fingers curled around the gun handle.

Ten o’clock.

The door handle turned. Whether locked or not, it made no difference. A simple bolt wouldn’t keep Satan away. Her heart pounded so hard it threatened to kill her before he did. She held the gun. Could she do this? Could she keep her eyes open this time?

A sliver of light cut through the room, quickly blocked by a shadow.

She felt another rivulet of sweat run down her back, and she swiped at her eyes, gasping in a shaky breath. He filled the doorframe, backlit by the soft light in the hall. Was he bigger this time?

She had one shot at this, even if the mag was full.

His hand slapped against the wall, his fingers curling for the switch.

Satan illuminated was even more to behold. But no sooner did the light bloom than did the reverberation of a .45 echo.

She rocked back, and so did he.

He hit the frame, falling backward and thumping hard on the floor. Her chair rocked forward, slinging tears from her eyes. Could there have been another way? She sobbed in relief and in agony at what she had done. She bowed her head, unable to face the world before her now.

Voices grew louder; movement all around. Many stared at Satan in the flesh as another removed the gun from her lap. Yet another crouched at her side.

Reality showed no mercy to the sight resting under her doorframe.

Please forgive me, Juan.

Someone call the police!

Footsteps scurried down the hallway to do as bid, and Sybil closed her eyes.

Lady? You okay? What happened?

She shook her head. Another tear rolled down her weathered cheek.

The dear Lord knows I never wanted this to happen… and when the police come, I’ll explain why I had to shoot my son.

Chapter two

The Boy Turns

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With her arms outstretched, Helen blocked the front door of our apartment. Her eyes bore into me, and her mouth was in a tight line.

Why are you so stubborn? She did not quite shout these words.

Honey, after a three-year apprenticeship, I’m finally making journeyman pay. I’ll be fired if I don’t show up tonight. It’s a two-man job. And this was an excellent chance to prove my worth with the possibility of even better jobs down the line.

What about your nightmares? she asked, crossing her arms.

I have nightmares; this is true. In fact, just the other night, I had one. Dreams of paintings having a life of their own and strange rooms that danced lights across the floor. I was paralyzed, and Helen woke me up, tears tracking down her cheeks.

I repressed a shudder and told her, I doubt anything sinister will happen, Helen.

Dreams are just that. They are not real. You have no control over their direction, and you wake up the next day. Life goes on.

You didn’t move for five minutes, she reminded me.

And I heard her crying, feeling her rocking my body to wake me up.

I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for—Journeyman pay can get us out of this apartment! I tried to pull her out of her funk by giving her something positive to think about.

She thought I was crazy starting a job on Friday the 13th. The Times-Picayune’s free daily horoscope—no one was exactly sure who this was giving out advice or a word of caution—warned against doing anything important today. But opportunities like the one I received don’t come down the pike too often. And the fact the Union Hall was sending me was a boon for us.

But idly, for all her carrying on, I wondered if breathing was okay today.

She then launched into telling me about the stars in an unexplained alignment tonight, and we needed to err on the side of caution. I bet she would have wrapped me in thick blankets if I had let her.

Jeff, she said in a tone designed to get my attention. She explained her unorthodox thinking to me in detail. There are no 13th floors in hotels for a reason. There were 13 people at the Last Supper.

I tried to placate her, knowing it probably wouldn’t work. Sweetheart, if I don’t go to work tonight, they will fire me before I start, I said. And this wouldn’t do us any good since jobs were hard to find and good ones even more so. I can’t blow it with the Union Hall.

Well, Mr. Know-it-All, there are only 12 tribes of Israel, and the Zodiac… and gods of Olympus. A perfect number.

Who knew there were that many gods in Olympus? Not me.

I stepped closer to her, cutting off what she was about to say. I kissed her goodbye before she could drag me over to her Ouija board or tea leaves. In the cover of a black canopy, blanketing the New Orleans’ night sky, I went straight to the streetcar that would take me to my new job.

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I stood on the median after getting off the streetcar. The fog over the lamps was fuzzy, and I heard the low hum of power keeping the lights on. It lent an eerie noise to the quiet of the street. When I was seven, my father brought me here for the first time. I was enraptured with Canal Street. Streetcars ran down their tracks, dinging loudly, depositing their cargo at various stops. I glanced up at the streetlights, tall like sentries and crowned with glass casings. The smoky fog lazily swirled as if repelled by the light above. These lights were the true rulers of the night.

I took the steps from the median to the sidewalk in front of the hotel. I thought about my father’s wild tales, thinking it was all wisdom as a child, until finding out the truth about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. He spoke nonsense, giving thoughts and feelings to inanimate objects—like they could somehow speak and direct one’s path. He had said never to look at one directly, but I cast off his words as gibberish.

I stood in my painter’s whites, staring up at the hotel from across the street. The light post above me flickered like the ghost of Marie Laveau had invoked gris-gris on me, a curse to alter my course in life. And as I studied the hotel, I couldn’t help thinking how it resembled a brick sarcophagus hiding whoever lay within. Perhaps they all slept as the dead. But a few windows glowed, the curtains keeping the light from