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Second Place Winner: Michael R. Unda

The Ghost Man - download as a pdf      I will never forget those strange events that happened on that steamy August night. I was only sixteen and my parents and I had just moved from New York City to the small Pennsylvania town where my folks had grown up, a town of mountains and railroads. My two remaining grandparents had been sick on and off during the past year, and Mom and Dad had decided that we should be close to them in case anything happened. “Anyway,” they said, “it will be good for you to get to know your roots.” Personally, I was not that happy about the move. In New York there was always something happening. I was not sure anything ever happened here.      It was a small coal-mining town, surrounded by mountains. The streets were lined with houses that were crammed together. Most of them were at least two stories tall, narrow with gabled roofs. The mountains were covered with forests and, in the fall, people from miles around came to see the trees change colors. School hadn’t started yet, so I felt like my only friend in town was my dog, Jip.      The night that it happened my parents had just presented me with their old 1979 black and white Malibu. When they moved to New York, they had left the car with my grandfather who fixed it up and put it in his garage and only drove it on Sundays to the local drive-in for the weekly classic-car meet. It had black leather seats and an AM-FM radio, and, when they gave it to me, they looked so proud. “It handles like a dream. You couldn’t ask for a better car,” my Pop said. It may have handled like a dream in 1979, but it handled like a tank in 2004. Still, though, it was cool looking and it was my own. So I decided to take my very first car out for a spin around the neighborhood.      When I came home, Mom and Dad were waiting for me on the porch, with worried expressions on their faces. “Son,” Dad said, “Jip’s gone.” I couldn’t believe it. My only friend--gone! I had lost him. As soon as I heard this, I whipped my Malibu out of the driveway and headed down the road. “Jip, where are you?” I screamed. “I need you!” That’s when I started crying. I drove around for hours, looking for him. Finally, I banged my head against the steering wheel, giving up. That’s when I heard a bark, and Jip was right outside my door. I picked him up and hugged him.      I looked at my watch and realized how late it was. I needed to get home fast and the fastest way home was to stay on the road I was on, turn right at the dead end, cross the railroad tracks and head into town. My parents had warned me not to ever cross those tracks (some accident had happened there years before), but there was no other way. There was no harm; at least that is what I thought. I was wrong.      As soon as Jip and I were in the middle of the tracks, my car stalled. I tried the engine a couple of times, but it wouldn’t start. I grabbed Jip around the neck and shoved the door handle, but the door was jammed, and I couldn’t open it. That’s when I heard the scariest sound of my life- a whistle. A TRAIN WAS COMING!      I panicked, reaching for the other door handle, and Jip leaped out of my arms. I grabbed for him but didn’t get him. I prayed for someone to help- anyone, anyone. Suddenly, there was a bright, white light, and I braced for the crash. I felt sure that Jip and I would die. Several seconds passed, and, when I looked up again, I saw a man standing in the light, between me and the train. I banged on the window, trying to warn him, but he took no notice of me. There was nothing I could do. Facing certain death, he raised his right hand, and, as if by some unspoken command, the train screeched to a stop. The engineer jumped down from the train and started running toward me and shouting. “Are you OK? I didn’t see your car until my lights hit it and by then it was too late! I don’t know how the train stopped.”      I pushed harder on the jammed door, and it opened. Jip and I fell out onto the tracks. “What about the man?” I cried. “Did you hit him?”      “There wasn’t any man,” the engineer replied. “Your eyes must have been playing tricks on you! You’re sure a lucky young man.”      A policeman had pulled up by this time. “ This was almost like the accident in ’85 when that train hit the Booth family. John O’Hare was the engineer that night. Never forgave himself. Died the next year of guilt and a broken heart. Anyway…a tow truck is on its way, kid. I’ll take you and your dog home.”      “But, what about the man on the tracks?” I exclaimed. But the policeman didn’t hear me. I turned to grab Jip, and he had something in his mouth. “What’cha got there, boy?” Jip held it firmly with his teeth. When I finally wrestled it out of his mouth, I could see that it was an engineer’s cap. And on the band inside was the name “J. O’Hare.”