Cliff clicked the volume knob a few times, the fiddle and banjo amplifying as he turned onto the dirt road. His headlights ran across the pasture as he turned, illuminating the eyeshine of a few whitetail deer grazing among the cows. 

Barbed wire fences ran along both sides of the road, and cottontails skirted away as the tires crunched closer to them. Fireflies splattered their neon across the windshield.

Cliff clicked the wipers on for a moment, creating a monochromatic rainbow of glow-in-the-dark gore. 

He had his window down, and the dark, summer night air clung to his skin. The radio was soft over the sound of the engine, and the wind in his ears made it hard to hear the bluegrass yarn of that old Silver Ghost.

He sang quietly, murmuring really.

Cliff was driving home. If he stayed on 51, he could go through town and maintain 50 miles per hour most of the way, but instead he liked this way. This dirt track cut through the hills and the trees and the wildlife themselves, and the best part was he never got over 25. 

He clicked the stereo, finding another bluegrass station. As he did, he passed a driveway. Blocking that driveway was an older Ford pickup, and he wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been driving at such a leisurely pace. 

In the dark cab, the glow of a cigarette.

Cliff found the station and sat back, humming to the whine of the steel guitar. 

He looked into his mirrors, braking slightly, noticing the red cherry now drifting quietly behind him. He couldn’t quite see the Ford itself, but the sound of its tires could just be heard over the sound of his own. 

“Turn on your headlights, bud,” Cliff muttered, shaking his head. 

After a few minutes, the cigarette was gone, and the sounds of the tires were no more. Cliff turned right at the four-way, driving for another twenty minutes before making the 180 at the bottom of the hill.

As he swung the nose of the truck close to the barrier, barely making the turn in his old truck, he passed under a street lamp. The Corps had street lamps running all along the road to the hydroelectric dam, and this was the very last one.

As Cliff drove on, into the darkness, a glimmer of light from the lamp caught the dark headlight of the old Ford behind him, like the glowing eyes of the deer in the pasture. 

“Damn!” Cliff said loudly. Only one reason to follow someone in the dark like that, he thought to himself, suddenly feeling watched in the lonely cab of his truck. Gonna be trouble.

Cliff swung his truck down the road to the river’s edge, driving along the bank slowly.

In silence, the Ford followed, keeping 200 feet between them.

Cliff accelerated quickly back onto the main road, blasting past his turn off for his house.

Cliff lost the truck, and quickly slammed on his brakes, pulling off the road and into the trees. He killed the lights and waited.

He parked here often when he took a break from working and wanted to come fish. It was a peaceful spot, and even now, he felt calm amongst the clammy, fish soaked air, and the sullen oak trees draped in deep darkness and tangles of white fishing line. 

Then, the Ford passed him on the road. Cliff breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned around and nosed closer to the road, still not exposing much of the truck in fear that the Ford would return. 

When it didn’t, he pulled out onto the road, turning his headlights on and pointed into town. Seeing nothing, he kept driving. Home was behind him, but he wanted to be sure that he had shaken this creep before sliding into a panicked state of relaxation back home. 

As he passed miles and miles of dark forest, and no Ford’s nor cigarettes followed him, he clicked the radio on, turning it up louder. 

On a cold and rainy night,

I was sitting in the light

Oh my switchman shack of mine post 

On the mountain.

He passed the Ford on the shoulder, and he heard the squeal of the tires as it raced to catch him, but it was going to have a hard time. Cliff held his foot flat to the floor, and the truck bucked through its gears like a ravenous dog given a pile of top-grade, freshly killed beef.

The storm was pretty bad,

And the telegraph was dead,

But it was just eleven hours

To the dawn. 

The speedometer climbed faster than it ever had before, dipping for the switching of the gears and then shooting skyward as the engine swallowed its gallons of fuel and air. 

She was pounding down below

I could hear her whistle blow

And I thought Lord that’s a high

And mournful sound.

Cliff glanced into the rearview as he ran along the open river, and that same, small, red glow followed behind him, gaining every second. 

“Come on, you!” He pushed the pedal harder, only shoving it deeper into the floor of the cab. 

Lord, she’s coming, now I see,

Around the bend and straight at me,

And her boilers glowing red

As coal in hell. 

He rounded the curve and shot up the hill, coming into town by the old Fort. He sped quickly to the gas station, not seeing the Ford behind him under the streetlights. When he arrived at the station, he pulled under the lighted awning, throwing his truck into park at the gas pump. He ran inside as the dark Ford pulled into the parking lot.

He ran to the counter, huffing loudly as he tried to catch his breath and still his racing heart.

“You again?” the attendant shouted.

“Huh?” Cliff managed, still sucking air.

“Why don’t you head on home, ok?” the attendant said loudly, pointing to the door.

“No, no,” Cliff said, confused. “There’s a man chasing me!”

The attendant rounded the corner of the counter and grabbed Cliff by the arm, shoving him out the door of the gas station. Cliff landed hard on the pavement, scraping his arm and filling the cut with small rocks.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard!” the attendant shouted after him. “Same old song as yesterday!” 

The attendant closed the gas station door behind him, and Cliff heard the lock click into place.

Cliff stood slowly, rubbing his arm. He looked out at the old Ford pickup, parked next to the gas pump, the driver’s side door swinging wide. 

He looked around the empty parking lot, but there was no one there.

He walked up to the truck, peaking into the cab. On the seat sat half a lit cigarette, still smoking.

He picked it up, taking a long drag. A familiar song played on the radio.

It’s a high a lonely wail,

Searching up and down the mountain.

It’s the train they call the Miner’s Silver Ghost. 

Cliff muttered the lyrics to the song, grabbing his head in his hands.

The train they call the Miner’s Silver Ghost. 

He climbed into the Ford and opened the pack of cigarettes that lay on the seat, lighting another. He flicked the headlights on. 

The train they call the Miner’s

Silver Ghost. 

Cliff pulled out of the parking lot and drove slowly through downtown. He made his way back to the river, heading home, unsure of what to make of the evening. As the river came into view, so did that same red glow. Cliff smiled, knowing he wasn’t crazy, and on the radio there began to play a new song. Cliff liked it, and clicked the knob to turn the volume up. He pushed the pedal into the floor, and the truck gave a big breath as the transmission shifted down, then shot off into the dark. The red glow followed close behind Cliff, and he sang along to the radio. 

On a cold and rainy night,

I was sitting in the light

Oh my switchman shack of mine post 

On the mountain.