A sharp kick in his side brought him to consciousness.

He groaned and wrapped his arms around his

searing ribs.

“Get your miserable carcass out of here!” A gruff voice

above him spoke. “If you can wear clothes like that, you can

pay your fare.”

Reeling with pain, he stumbled to his feet. He reached

out to a wall to steady himself as the world spun around him.

A fierce headache pounded in his temple as he looked up.

Cold night air blew through an empty boxcar.

A railroad lantern illuminated a stern face.

Tall and muscular, his assailant stood facing him, holding

the kerosene lamp. He wore a dark-blue uniform and a cap

with a nickel-plated badge reading G.N. RY BRAKEMAN.

Still cradling his side, the battered man leapt out of the

stationary car and into darkness. Stunned, he stood on a rocky

railroad bed, his knees ready to buckle. The world seemed

strange, like he had been thrust into a moving picture show

without being allowed to see the script beforehand.

“Hey, stranger,” the brakeman called out. “You forgot

something.” He threw a small black satchel out on the

ground. Then, he raised the lantern above his head and down

again, signaling the engineer to proceed. Hopping out of the

boxcar, he latched the door and stalked past, casting a wary

eye. The train lurched forward, and the brakeman jumped

onto the caboose as it crept ahead. As it passed, the brakeman

gave one last intimidating look and shouted at him again.

“Get to hell out of here!”

Still in a fog, the stranger watched the train roll past. He

stared at it for a few moments as it chugged into the distance.

To his left, a lone farmhouse light interrupted the darkness.

In the other direction, the train advanced through a small

town.

He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.

Bewildered, he tried to recall his recent activity. But

nothing came to him.

Alarmed, he realized he didn’t even know who he was.

The brakeman had called him “stranger.” Strange indeed.

What could be stranger than being a stranger to your own self?

He picked up the satchel and tried to assess his situation

as he trudged toward the town. The air had a chill, but his

shiver came from deep inside. Pinching himself, he hoped it

would wake him from this nightmare.

There has to be a simple explanation for this.

What had the brakeman shouted? “Get to hell out of here.”

Could it be?

He had heard hell was a place of darkness and separation.

Was he being tortured or punished for something?

He stopped and glanced skyward, hoping to at least get his

bearings, but there were no stars or moon. Only blackness.

Seeing no alternative, he crossed his arms to alleviate the

shaking as he pressed on toward the hamlet, slogging forward

with legs like lead weights.

After about a quarter of a mile, the small community began

to take shape. Grain elevators dominated the townscape,

with several smaller nondescript buildings huddled together

and a few dozen trees in an otherwise treeless environment.

A structure that might be a fire station became evident, a few

shops and some homes materialized—then a simple train

depot, painted white. As he got closer, he could read the sign

on the side of the terminal. EDWALL.

So that’s what they’re calling the Abyss now.

A flatbed truck squatted under a lonely streetlamp beside

the train station. For the first time, he looked down to see his

clothing—a dark-blue suit and green vest with black oxfords.

The rumpled and dusty suit looked new, except there was a

bad scratch on one of the vest buttons. Sitting on the bed

of the truck, he opened the satchel, hoping to find a hint as

to his identity. Inside he found a white shirt, two attachable

collars, a pair of black socks, and a shaving kit. He examined

them carefully, hoping to find a monogram or some other

clue.

In his vest pocket, he found $7.20. He discovered a folding

knife and a box of matches in the coat. His pants held a comb,

and the shirt pocket contained two pencils and a fountain

pen. No wallet. Disappointed, he then examined a pocket

watch he dug out of his vest. Cheap, with no engraving. If it

could be trusted, the hands pointed to almost ten o’clock.

******

Inside the depot, the stationmaster observed the stranger

slog into town and proceed to sit on the bed of his Packard

one-and-a-half-ton truck. He eyed the outsider curiously,

finding it odd anyone would arrive in this remote town on

foot, especially at this hour.

“Whoozat?”

The stationmaster spun.

The swing shift switchman peered over his shoulder at the

same stranger.

“I don’t know.” The stationmaster spoke with a slow

drawl.

They watched as the man explored the items in the satchel

and on his person in an odd way. He kept appraising each

item as if seeing them for the first time.

The switchman took off his hat and scratched his head.

“What’s he doin’?”

“That’s a good question.” The stationmaster squinted.

“Where’d he come from?”

At this, the stationmaster turned around and gave the

switchman a glare. “What am I, the Great Zucchini? How am

I supposed to know?” Mockingly, he repeated,“‘Whoozat?

What’s he doin’? Where’d he come from?’ I don’t know any

more than you do! He just came walking down these tracks

like nobody’s business and sat on my truck.”

“He walked?” asked the switchman in a high pitch. “To

Edwall?”

The two stared out the window again. The switchman

dared to ask another question. “Why does he keep lookin’ at

his things so funny?”

“That’s what bothers me.” The trainmaster turned to the

switchman with a knowing expression. “Maybe they aren’t

his things.”

The switchman’s eyes became large, and his mouth formed

into the shape of an ‘O’ as he came to the realization that

Edwall may be in the throes of a crime spree.

Turning again to the window, the stationmaster added,

“And look at those nice clothes he’s wearing. The suit’s all

dirty and wrinkled up. Doesn’t really quite fit him. And his

hair is all mussed up. No hat. He looks like he’s been in a

fight or something.” He shook his head. “Something’s not

right.”

With raised eyebrows, the switchman asked, “What are

we gonna do?”

“I’ll take care of it.” The stationmaster spoke with an air

of authority. He stood, hitched up his pants, and headed to

the door. Before he left, he turned to the switchman. “But

keep an eye on things. Back me up if there’s trouble.”

Short on stature but considerable in girth, the

stationmaster stepped onto the depot platform and made

his ungainly descent down the short stairway. He decided

to start with a friendly disposition, in case he had misjudged

the stranger.

“Pleasant evening,” he began.

The strange man glanced around, apparently trying to

find a sign of pleasantness.

“Where ya headed?” the stationmaster asked.

The stranger seemed almost startled by the question but

answered with a bewildered, “I –I don’t know.”

It seemed an odd answer, but he decided to keep it light

for now. “Well, where’d ya come from?”

After a pause, he repeated his reply. “I don’t know.”

Pursing his lips, the stationmaster shook his head. He

wouldn’t take chances.

He took another step toward him, abandoning the

friendly approach. Snatching the satchel from his grasp, he

examined the contents, ignoring the westbound passenger

train arriving—cars banging and brakes hissing. Then,

deciding the contents were not of much value, he thrust the

bag into the stranger’s chest. He didn’t know what this guy

was up to, but he was in no mood to deal with him.

Pointing his thumb over his right shoulder, he said, “See

that train?”

As if it was possible to not notice a locomotive stopping

twenty feet away, the stranger nodded.

“I want you to get on that train and get out of this town

and don’t come back.”

******

The stranger clutched his bag and stared after the

stationmaster, who turned on his heels and lumbered back up

the platform steps. Before entering the depot, he whispered

something to the conductor of the westbound passenger

train, who stood on the platform.

Hopping to the ground, the stranger proceeded to the

platform. He appeared to be the only passenger boarding.

The conductor stood like a guard near the entrance to the

Pullman car, not giving him notice. After a few minutes had

passed, the unsmiling conductor glanced down at his pocket

watch and shouted “Board!” as if he were addressing a great

crowd of would-be passengers instead of a lone, rather dusty

man.

Entering the coach, the stranger observed his surroundings.

There were only five passengers in this car. A young couple

was ensconced in the back, their attention focused on each

other. Near the front sat a woman with two children—a boy

approximately six years old at the window seat and an infant

in her arms, asleep. The lines on her face suggested the scowl

she wore was a permanent fixture. She and the boy stared

at him, unblinking, making him feel like he did not quite

belong there—which seemed likely.

He chose a seat two rows behind the sour woman, hoping

it would prevent further gawking. It did not. The pudgy

boy turned around, putting his knees on the bench, and

peered over the back of the seat. After a moment, the woman

elbowed the boy, who turned and sat in his seat.

The train jerked forward, reminding him of how badly his

head throbbed. The motion had the added effect of waking

the baby, who started crying loudly.

Closing his eyes, the stranger hoped when he opened

them that the world would be alright again. But when he

opened his eyes, he found the conductor hovering over him.

“Where to, mistah?” The conductor’s Boston accent was

clear.

Having been asked this question moments ago, he

knew better than to reply the same way as he had with the

stationmaster. However, not knowing the names of any stops

in Hell, he couldn’t be sure at first what to say.

The conductor cocked his head and tapped his thigh

rhythmically with his ticket book.

The stranger blurted out, “Next stop,” and handed him a

dollar, hoping American currency worked here.

The conductor returned forty cents and produced a

ticket. Before handing the ticket over, he studied the stranger

and punched holes in strategic places. Then, the conductor

turned and went through a door to a forward car. The stranger

examined the ticket and saw his physical features described

by the holes punched.

Gender: Male

Build: Stout

Age: Middle

Eyes: Dark

Hair: Dark

Beard/Mustache: None

To his relief, the movement of the train caused the

baby to go back to sleep for now, and he turned to look

out the window. But because of the lights in the train and

the darkness outside, he could see only his own ghost-like

reflection. The visage seemed unfamiliar. Who is that person

staring back at me?

The likeness revealed his disheveled condition. Using the

reflection as a makeshift mirror, he ran his fingers through

his hair. Is that dirt on my face? He licked his fingers and tried

to clean his cheek. Tightening his tie, he slapped some dust

off his trousers and turned his attention back to the window.

The stranger stared back.

In about a half hour, they rolled into the next town. He

found it to be as unfamiliar as Edwall. “HARRINGTON,”

read the depot sign. Like Edwall, grain elevators dominated

the skyline of Harrington, but it seemed to be a bit larger.

The station sat on higher ground, overlooking the town.

Hand in hand, the young lovers got off the train. Following

them, he wondered how they were able to keep their footing

while staring into each other’s eyes. They exited the platform

to the left, then descended the short steep hill toward what

appeared to be the main avenue in town. They crossed the

intersection at the bottom of the hill and entered a hotel.

Pressing his aching side with his hand, he followed the

route the couple had taken moments before until he came to

the entrance of the hotel.

An electric neon sign read “The Hotel Harrington.” Large

wooden double doors with brass handles formed the entrance

to a two-story brick building with a veranda on the second

floor. Elegant masonry decorated the top, and lively piano

music emanated from inside.

It looked expensive, but he didn’t see another hotel in

sight. He hoped he could sleep off this condition and get

back to a normal life in the morning. That is, if morning ever

came to this place.

He entered the hotel lobby.

A rather active crowd prevailed at this late hour. The couple

he had seen on the train was now engaged in conversation

with others in the lobby, all sitting in cozy overstuffed

chairs situated on a Persian rug. A fireplace adorned with

painted tiles popped and crackled in a corner. Ragtime music

cheerfully emanated from an upright piano played by a man

in a pinstripe suit.

“Welcome to Harrington.” The voice came from behind

him. Turning around, he discovered a desk clerk eyeing him

with a stiff smile.

“I need a room,” the stranger said.

“Well, you came to the right place.” The clerk stood erect

with his hands folded in front of him.

“How much?”

He cringed when the desk clerk informed him that the

cheapest rooms were a dollar a night. The clerk then passed

him the guest registry to sign and retrieved a key from under

the counter.

Stumped, he wondered what name he would register

under.

“Is there a problem?” the agent asked, bemused.

“No, no. I have it.” A name popped into his head. He

had no idea where it came from, but he signed the registry:

“Larkin, J. A.” For a hometown, he added, “Helena, Mont.”

He noticed some of the other guests in the registry were

from Montana, and he remembered the name of its capital.

Convinced his real name would be quite different, he also

doubted that Helena was his hometown. But he had to write

something.

When he finished signing, the clerk handed him his key.

“Your room is number eight, Mister Larkin. Go to the top

of the stairs and turn left down the hall. You’ll see the room

on the right.”

Larkin retired to his room, hoping the sun would rise in

the morning.