Free The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) by Alan K Baker Page B

told him exactly what they had seen, he had looked at them in disgust and said he didn’t go in much for ghost stories (apparently, he had not heard the screams), and when the track search had revealed nothing – and no one – out of the ordinary, Fraser had told them that if they did anything like this again, the only way they’d ever be allowed onto the Underground would be as third-class passengers. He had then assigned Brennan and Tench to fluffer duty, clearly to teach them a lesson.
    ‘All right,’ said Tench. ‘Might as well start here.’ He set his lamp down on the stones of the ballast between the rails, took his broom and set to work sweeping up the assorted pieces of debris and dust which had collected there.
    It was amazing how much of this stuff found its way into the tunnels of the Underground over time. The strands of human hair, especially, were tedious and unpleasant to gather up. Above ground, you didn’t even notice this kind of thing – or if you did, you paid it no mind… but down here, it looked like it didn’t belong; it looked… unnatural , somehow. All the little bits and pieces of rubbish, scraps of litter, small items dropped or mislaid, the hairs which fell from people’s heads without their realising – everything found its way from the platforms into the tunnels sooner or later, blown in by the breezes caused by the movement of the trains. It was as if the tunnels were the mouths of some vast and ancient beast, some long-buried scavenging thing that swallowed whatever it could from the human beings who passed obliviously through it.
    Tench shook his head to banish the thought as he swept the lines with his broom. It was a stupid thought – a stupid, horrible thought which had sprung into his mind without warning. Most people using the Underground Railway spent little time in the tunnels, and when they did, they were inside trains… protected… not like this, standing on the lines, exposed, lingering in the darkness and the silence.
    He hated Fraser for giving them this job. Was it their fault that they had seen the girl? Was it their fault that they had had to perform a track search and postpone the testing of the atmospheric train? Tench sighed loudly as he swept the bits and pieces of rubbish and hair into his sack, and he glanced at Brennan, who had moved a little further up the line.
    And then Tench frowned, for something was not right… not right at all. He had looked up at his friend because he had heard the sound of footfalls on the stones of the ballast. In fact, he could still hear them.
    But Seamus was standing still.
    The Irishman stopped what he was doing and looked back at his friend. Tench could see his face in the fitful light of the Tilley lamps; he looked anxious and confused, an uncomprehending frown creasing his brow.
    The footfalls continued… crunch… crunch… on the ballast, echoing strangely in the still air of the tunnel.
    Tench grabbed his lamp and thrust it into the darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded in a quavering voice. ‘Who is it?’
    The crunching ceased.
    ‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ said Brennan.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Someone’s playin’ a joke on us!’ Brennan picked up his own lamp and spun around on his heals, peering frantically in every direction. ‘Where are you, you bastards? Come out. Come out, and I’ll knock you down!’
    Could that be it? Tench wondered. Could it be one of their workmates, crouching somewhere in the darkness and making noises to frighten them?
    The crunching of the ballast resumed, and as he swung his lamp around, Tench realised that no workman was causing it. He hurried over to Brennan, seized his arm and pointed. Brennan looked and drew in his breath sharply.
    There, beside the line, the stones were moving, as if heavy steps were falling upon them.
    ‘There’s no one there,’ Tench whispered in disbelief.
    ‘Yes there is,’ Brennan replied. ‘But we can’t see them.’ There was a tone of