A Train's Mysterious Call

I was instantly awakened one night by the distant horn of an approaching freight train.

The tracks were roughly two miles away and never came close to my house. Yet I could hear the alarming call clear as crystal, ringing out through the densely forested area in which I live. I listened, within the almost pitch-black darkness of my bedroom, as the train gave two long blasts, then a short, and then one more long. Indicating it was about to pass over the railroad crossing far off in the distance.

It didn't sound like a typical horn on a diesel locomotive—at least, not the ones I was used to hearing from trains passing through the area every once in a while. The horn rang out like a requiem bell, becoming mellow as it carried through the vast lonely woods. And it was the middle of the night, at around 2:00 AM. I was all comfortable, snug beneath my warm sheets on the verge of drifting into total slumber. Except the fact that the horn awakened me with a start; that had never happened to me with any other distant passing train.

I continued to listen as the rumbling of the train grew louder. Then came the distant, elongated squealing as the train's heavy cars glided through a turn, the wheels screeching as they scraped against the outer rail. It rang out like an emotionless, demented chorus, which lasted for several minutes. That's how I knew it was a freight train, and it was part of what unnerved me about freight trains as well.

Freight trains are a different breed from passenger trains—and especially different from the steam trains of the past, whose chuffing, puffing, and whistling sounded like a motivating voice. Now we’ve got longer and heavier trains. Grimy and rusty cars of rectangular or cylindrical shapes that workers don’t bother to maintain as long as they don’t spill their contents—things like coal or chemicals that could devastate the immediate vicinity should even one of those cars derail. The diesel locomotives themselves often have muted paint schemes, especially black, with windows and a sandbox up front that present an unfriendly face. The growling of the diesel’s engine sounds like it’s churning up something no good, and of course the horn—loud, annoying, and sounding more like the train yelling at whoever’s in its path to get out of the way.

Trains are dangerous too, and I don’t just get that sense from the danger signs, rail safety PSAs, and news reports of deadly train crashes. Merely witnessing a long train plow by in close range and feeling the heavy shudder of its cars in tow is enough to give me adrenaline. No less, the flashing red lights and dinging bell at crossings are a dire warning of the beast that’s coming—from a direction that sometimes you never know until you hear the loud, alarming blast of an air horn. I can tell by these things alone that trains in real life aren’t exactly the cheerful embodiments of moving forward that colorful graphics and children’s material make them out to be. They’re literal mechanical monsters that only care about taking things from here to there—except they can hurt or kill you.

So it should be no surprise I was deeply unsettled when I heard such a call from a freight train that night. Even as safe as I felt in bed, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was like far out in the woods—with the monstrosity of a diesel-powered train prowling through. I could only imagine being lost out there in the darkness, with no sense of direction and only the eerie sounds of nocturnal life to keep me company. Then, gradually, the spine-chilling sound of an engine and rolling wheels under heavy weight would fill the air—as if something big and dangerous was creeping up. I’d feel the ground and rails begin to vibrate, along with a cold breeze pushing against me.

Soon my surroundings would slowly illuminate with a golden glow, not from the rising sun—but from the ghostly headlamp of the oncoming locomotive. With its loud clamor now in full blast, the chilling blare of its horn—which here would be deafening—would give me every reason to be convinced I was standing face to face with a demon charging at me from hell. It would make any ghost, vampire, or zombie lurking in the forest look like a deer in the headlights—and I thought the forest I lived in would be the perfect spot for such demented entities to creep around at night.

At that moment I would be too paralyzed with fear to even get out of the way. Even if I did, the sheer feeling of the monstrous train zooming by would feel like the devil’s horde catching up with me. You don’t just feel the train’s wrath while on the tracks. Parts of its wrath extend to anything close by, making the ground shudder and buildings vibrate. If you’re caught in that vicinity, it’s like the train has gotten you. It makes you shake and gives you a rush of adrenaline.

Still, I had to reassure myself that I was nowhere near the passing train. I was safe in my house, in a space and time where I was able to completely relax and let my mind drift away. Then again, there was something absolutely haunting about that distant train horn. It was in fact a warning, sure, for anyone in its immediate path to get clear. But it felt like this train wasn’t just warning about that. 

It seemed like it was calling out to me—from two miles away. Warning me that it was coming through my area, to haunt me with its ominous sounds and earth-shuddering rumble as it hauled its nearly mile-long consist through the darkness. And to remind me of the danger it would bring on me if I ever got anywhere near it. That’s the only thing I think about whenever this sorrowful, creepy sound echoes up to my house—as I’ve only ever heard it at night.