I
As I lay in bed that fateful evening, I recalled with mounting unease an unsettling conversation I’d had with Farnsworth just a few days prior. With an intensity far beyond his mere decade, he swore to me that there would be no visit tonight from an ancient, long-buried horror. There would be no arrival, he assured me, heralded by the spectral tolling of otherworldly bells, as the eldritch legends had foretold. Yet he was dogged in his insistence, almost monomaniacal, as though some unseen force compelled him to press the matter beyond all reason. His eyes burned with a fervor I dared not meet, their light clawing at the boundaries of his mortal frame, as though his very soul strained to break free and issue its ominous warning.
I had been entirely certain that this night would pass without significance. The tales of that vast and unthinkable civilization, far beyond the ice-choked northern seas, were nothing more than quaint folklore to me. That this empire sends its emissary, draped in blood-red, to infiltrate men’s chimneys and invade their dreams: but a poetic fantasy. I am a boy of science; my imagination bends only to the dictates of reason. True theories must rest upon the bedrock of fact, each stone laid with precision. Cities are not built upon clouds, nor are castles made to stand upon shifting sands.
I share this with you not to affirm my belief, but to issue a warning. For that night, I did hear a sound - but not the dreadful chime of spectral bells that would have sent my soul spiraling into the abyss. No, the sound was ordinary, that of hissing steam and squeaking metal. It was the 10:15 to Montreal, a leviathan of iron and coal. Its routine passage had never before disturbed my rest; yet, in my heightened state of unease, I perceived every groan, every shudder of its massive frame, as though the train itself were alive, emanating an unnatural vitality that set my nerves on edge.
It loomed at the station with an aura of ancient menace. The platform was nearly deserted, save for a few small figures that shuffled with an unnatural lethargy, their features obscured by the haze of the cold night air.
II
I know not what roused me from my bed. I only know the panicked sense of urgency, the inscrutable and primal drive that gnawed at my very core, spurring me to action. I threw my robe over my nightshirt and fled into the night as though pursued by some unseen malevolence. I reached the platform, breathless, my slippered feet scarcely registering the icy floor, so fixed was my mind on reaching the train before its departure.
Yet my haste was unnecessary. Though it defied all earthly reason, the train had been halted to await my arrival, as if by some preordained design. The conductor, a tall, foreboding figure clad in black tie and waistcoat, emerged from the shadows and addressed me the moment I set foot upon the platform.
“Well, are you coming?”
“Where?”
“Why, to the North Pole, of course!”
My throat constricted as a nameless dread coursed through me, my heart beating with an unnatural rhythm. Slowly, as though compelled by some otherworldly force, my gaze lifted to the brass nameplate affixed to the starboard side of the locomotive. The nameplate shone with a cold gleam in the dim light of the station, each letter etched as though by some inhuman hand: The Polar Express.
III
As my eyes adjusted to the light of the train car, I perceived dozens of children engaged in animated discourse. Only a handful occupied the plush scarlet seats; the rest stood, leaned against the chairs, draped over seatbacks, or lounged in manners of casual repose better suited to a leisure cruise than this enigmatic midnight journey to the North Pole.
I found my seat next to a boy with dusty brown hair wearing periwinkle pajamas adorned with white polka dots and struck up a conversation. He revealed that this was no haunted spectral missionary; on the contrary, it was a scientific expedition to investigate the origins of some perplexing cervid excreta recently discovered along various eaves and parapets in New England.
I was well-acquainted with these findings, having written a brief article for my regional science fair that detailed which attributes aligned with the local deer population and which remained inexplicably anomalous. My seatmate, it turned out, was similarly informed: hailing from Narragansett Pier, he had authored a paper examining the migratory patterns of the sika deer, a species native to the Orient but recently introduced in Chesapeake Bay and widely suspected as the source of these mysterious leavings. I had my doubts, and we quickly fell into a spirited discussion regarding the relative significance of trace pollen spores found only in the boreal forests of Labrador.
IV
Our conversation was interrupted by a white-coated man pushing a cart of hot cocoa. As he passed, I became aware of fragments of equally animated discussions around me. Phrases like “cervid ecosystems” and “pedicle morphogenesis” drifted through the air, revealing that we were far from the only investigators of this scatological mystery. Curious, I turned to inquire further of the pigtailed girl in the row behind me, who seemed to be at the nexus of the commotion. She looked at me aghast:
“This expedition is led by Dr. Elias Wetherby, the world’s foremost expert on cervids! Of course he selected the most promising biological minds of the next generation to aid in this vital fieldwork!”
Her look made it clear she doubted my inclusion among those minds. Embarrassed, I quickly changed the subject and asked how the hot cocoa was.
“As thick and rich as melted chocolate bars.”
My seatmate and I sat back with our cocoa, watching the scenery fly past. The lights of New England faded, replaced by shadowed forests whose ancient trees stretched skyward as though clawing at the stars. In the distance, the mournful howls of primal wolves pierced the night. Our train gathered speed, accelerating beyond any earthly technology I had ever conceived, as the land transformed into something out of myth.
Mountains loomed around us, their jagged peaks scraping the moonlit sky. I am no geologist, but these colossal formations surely warranted study for their sheer magnitude. Yet the Polar Express barreled onward, heedless of the orological mystery beneath its wheels.
V
Hours passed, and I drifted in and out of slumber. My dreams were haunted by phantasmical visions of spotted deer with snow-white tails, their vicious fangs bared as they morphed into elfin huntresses of ancient faerie legend. I awoke with a start and peered outside my window. The landscape had softened, transforming into a featureless desert of ice, vast and unyielding. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something that set my heart racing and my mind aflame. I scarcely dare speak of the horror I witnessed, an impossible vision that defied reason entirely. Yet my fellow passengers saw it too, boys and girls of sound minds. We only watched, breathless and speechless, unable or unwilling to articulate the elder and utterly alien sight that loomed in the distance.
There were lights, impossible, ethereal lights, kindled by a civilization untouched by any human hand. We clung to the faint hope of a natural explanation, but such hope was dashed as we neared the city. Grotesque apartments and factories, scaled for creatures half the height of a child, rose in jagged defiance of all earthly logic. The structures twisted with angles that mocked all mortal understanding of geometry. The streets were a maze of wild switchbacks and labyrinthine alleys, their layout beyond my comprehension.
But the city was empty, devoid of all life. We saw not a soul as the train crawled through the outer neighborhoods and continued its relentless passage toward its terrifying destination. We rounded a curve, and a great avenue opened between two looming gothic buildings, evidently intended as a civic space of some unfathomable purpose. As the building ahead slid past our view, we saw, in abject horror, the explanation for the soulless outer boroughs: the creatures were massed here, in this hellish place at the top of the world.
VI
My hand trembles as I write these nightmarish words. The stark impossibility of these creatures - so human-like, yet wholly alien - will haunt my nights for as long as I draw breath.
Hundreds of small bipedal beings, no higher than my shoulder, crowded into the square. They were clad in identical bright red coats and green slacks, but that was not what chilled me to my very core. No, what sent my soul spiraling into the abyss was their long, curved shoes, as if their podiomorphic appendages arched grotesquely back upon themselves in hideous, unnatural catenaries. My eyes were so fixed on these tarsal monstrosities that it was several moments before I noticed their twisted otic protrusions, jolting me from my dazed stupor.
I leapt to my feet and raced through the train car, urging my lethargic fellow passengers into action. We must flee! Turn the train around! Escape this accursed place!
I froze as I felt a heavy hand fall upon my shoulder. My eyes slowly panned in mounting dread until they met the cold, unyielding visage of the man who had stopped me: the conductor - Dr. Wetherby, I presumed - the architect of this stygian expedition into the polar realm.
“They gather in the city’s heart,” he intoned in a monotone. “Awaiting Santa.”
He paused, his gaze locking unflinchingly onto mine.
“He will choose one of you.”
VII
The train stopped and Dr. Wetherby led us outside. We were pressed into the throng, nightmarish extremities brushing against us, their textures cold and rubbery, wholly unnatural. My body shuddered with each touch from these alien hands.
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and we were thrust into a clearing, the mass writhing but never breaching the newly cleared space, awaiting some unspeakable purpose.
At that moment, I heard the sound I had dreaded since my foreboding conversation with Farnsworth last week: the unnatural tolling of ethereal bells. My spine shivered and my throat turned dry as I caught sight of an eldritch horror surpassing even those I had witnessed heretofore: a pack of fur-clad quadrupeds, certainly cervid in form, yet belonging to no species known to any boy or girl scout. These grotesque, misshapen deer were hitched to a mammoth sledge, strung with silver shimmering bells, the source of that haunting melody. Deer and sledge alike towered above the half-height creatures, casting long, distorted shadows in the faint light.
The mystery of the droppings was solved: clearly, Dr. Wetherby had uncovered their polar origins, enlisting us for some darker, demonic purpose.
At that moment, a cacophonic, nightmarish wail arose from the crowd, and I turned, desperate to find its source. A towering figure, clad in blood-red robes and bearing a monstrous white beard, appeared at the far end of the clearing, striding inexorably toward us.
My heart was in my throat as he approached our small group of terrified children. I felt a small hand grasp for my own - the pigtailed girl from earlier. Her face was a mask of sheer terror as she stared at the infernal hellspawn, now mere paces away.
He pointed a white-gloved finger at me, and I felt that digit as a dagger through my chest.
“Let’s have this fellow here.”
VIII
The hirsute demon suddenly leapt with an agility that belied his apparent age. At first, I thought he leapt right at me, and I was already beginning to call on St. Michael for courage and aid against this creature born of the boreal void when I realized he was leaping onto the sledge instead.
Before I could react, two rough hands - Dr. Wetherby’s - gripped my waist, lifting me onto the sledge and into the waiting arms of the great creature.
Frozen with terror, I watched helplessly as a half-creature cut a single silver bell from the sledge and handed it to the great red-coated beast before me. He began chanting - some spell or ritual, its dark purpose unknowable. He paused, looked around at the thronging masses, and gestured at me.
“The first gift of Christmas!”
A chill ran down my spine. What power, what unspeakable force, was I to be offered to? What cosmic aberration could my sacrifice be meant to appease? Or worse, what sleeping abnormalities might wake to resurgent life? My mind conjured visions of horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in time and space, their hunger vast and unending.
As his incantation continued, my mortal terror gave way to calculating, rational thought. Thankful for my years of boy scout training, I assessed the situation: the entire crowd, including Dr. Wetherby, stood fixated on the sledge, as if bewitched. Eight mammoth deer waited, latched to its front, appearing bored, even restless. The spell that enthralled the crowd seemed to have no effect on them. Behind me, the hostages - some fifty or sixty children, staring at us in horror - and behind them, the Polar Express, smoke still streaming from its black chimney.
I felt in my pocket: a few coins, a rubber band, some bits of string, and a small pocketknife. I took a deep breath, silently flicking the knife open with trembling fingers. The demonic presence continued to intone its horrible spell.
With a practiced motion, I pulled the knife from my pocket and stabbed it deep into his thigh. He let out a primal scream and dropped the sleigh bell right into my hands. I caught it easily, looped it in the rubber band, pulled it back, and let it fly straight toward the lead deer with a silent prayer to St. Sebastian.
IX
As the bell tore through the air, it emitted a piercing, shuddering scream so violent the entire congregation froze in unison. It flew true, striking the lead deer’s skull with a resounding impact. The effect was instantaneous: all eight deer panicked, and pandemonium broke loose.
The sledge lurched forward, wrong-footing the monstrous bewhiskered creature as he reached for me. I abandoned the sledge, landing easily in the soft snow, and fled toward the rest of the children. They, too, stood frozen in abject horror until the pigtailed girl snapped from her reverie and shouted, “Run!” The mass of humanity, isolated in this lonely polar wasteland, turned and ran toward the Polar Express.
I grabbed the pigtailed girl’s shoulder, motioning her to secure the rest of the children in the cars, and I ran for the gargantuan locomotive, black smoke still billowing from its chimney. I reached its glossy metal steps, lightly dusted with snow, and risked a quick glance behind me. The giant had regained his footing and advanced, leading a pack of grotesque half-creatures toward the train.
I flew up the steps, grabbing the slick railing to steady myself, and swung into the locomotive. Flickering lights and an array of cryptic switches sprawled before me. I frantically scanned the dashboard until I spied my goal: a large red throttle, as long as my arm.
I craned my neck to track the children; most were aboard, with about a dozen still scrambling in the snow or clambering frantically up the steps. The diabolical giant and his troop were now a mere fifty yards away. I threw the throttle, leaned out the window, and bellowed, “All aboard!” to the stragglers. Terror flashed across their exhausted faces, and I instantly regretted my decision, but a quick glance at the oncoming horde strengthened my resolve.
X
The train groaned as it attained a walking pace. Only three children remained on the ground, running alongside and frantically reaching for the railing. Two leapt onto the steps, but the last - a slight girl with curly black hair, sporting bright green silk pajamas - stumbled, and I was certain she was lost.
The pigtailed girl slid past the two boarders and, hanging sideways from the railing, stretched her arm toward the struggling child. Her grip was sure, and presently the two girls were solidly on the train car steps, just as the train began to accelerate beyond the limits of human pursuit.
It was not, however, out of reach for our red-clad pursuer’s long, nightmarish strides. My heart quailed as his white-gloved hand scrabbled for a handle on the side of the locomotive. One snarling, monstrous finger hooked around the handle, and he swung his massive body toward the threshold, stretching out his other hand. I despaired as he snagged my billowing robe with his unspeakable appendage. Time seemed to freeze as his gigantic frame hung suspended before me; on sheer animal instinct, I flung my pocketknife directly at his hideous face.
The giant reacted with inhuman speed, deflecting the knife before it could reach his awful visage. But in doing so, he lost his grip on both my robe and the locomotive. A great ripping sound pierced the air as he tore away a square of fabric from my pocket. His colossal form plummeted into the snowy void as the Polar Express roared onward.
XI
A deafening silence filled our return journey. Some of the children paced the aisle. Others sat with arms wrapped around their legs, slowly rocking back and forth. No one spoke.
I stared blankly out the window, watching the barren tundra morph into thick evergreen forests. The plaintive canine cries no longer gripped my soul with the same terror as on our outbound journey. My mind was numb, fixed on the sheer impossibility of the night’s events.
I vacillated between demanding oaths of silence from my compatriots or sharing this story as a warning to those who might trespass north, ignorant of the unspeakable horrors that lie in wait. I resolved on the latter: if the great Dr. Wetherby could be so corrupted by this evil, so too could any earnest researcher, driven only by the pursuit of truth.
I found a blank notebook in the locomotive’s cabinet and spent the remainder of the night recording these notes. Faint rays of dawn began to pierce the horizon as we approached Providence. I slowed the train to a stop at the station and relinquished command to the pigtailed girl.
As I stepped off the train, I heard her voice cut through the wind but couldn’t make out the words.
“What?”
She cupped her hands around her mouth and uttered that terrible curse, words seared into my soul that will haunt my dreams forever.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
XII
I must pause now, for even as I consider the wild and terrifying events of the evening, I tremble recalling what transpired that morning in the supposed safety of my home. I had not expected a restful morning, to be sure - the haunting memory of my arctic terror would stay with me until the end of my days. But to think that this terror could once more reach out to me across the void - this was beyond imagining.
My sister, Sarah, awoke first, padding softly downstairs. It was not unusual for me to already be sitting there in my robe, and she didn’t remark on the slight scuffs on my slippers nor the distant, haunted look in my eyes. My parents followed soon after, and we exchanged the customary gifts. I mirrored their joy, but inside, I felt hollow; these gestures of kindness seemed devoid of meaning.
When all the presents had been unwrapped, Sarah spied a small, crimson package half-obscured in the shadows behind the tree. It was addressed to me, with a note:
“Fix that hole in your pocket.” Signed, “Mr. C.”
My hands felt like lead as I slowly removed the wrapping paper and opened the insidious box. A beam of sunlight reflected off the harsh silver. It was that singular, ancient bell. A trace of red marred its smooth surface - looking closer, I saw it matched the delicate spray of hemal flow, surely the residue of the vital flux I had drawn from that eldritch horror, “Mr. C.”
I shook the bell. Its high, ethereal tolling froze my breath. I caught my sister gasp, her hand flying to her heart as she felt that cold, dark shock ripple through her.
But my parents did not react.
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Yes, it’s broken.”
The bell had no effect on them. Were their minds too far gone to perceive these ancient horrors? Or was it an omen, a cryptic message meant for me, that aid was inaccessible, that adults held no power over this elder force?
XIII: Epilogue
Each year on this fateful anniversary, I open the deepest drawer in my closet and retrieve the frightful bell. One by one, my friends have become unable to hear its awful sound. Even my sister Sarah, one year, could no longer hear it.
But I still hear it. I hear it every day as I muddle my way through school, and I hear it every night as sleep evades my grasp. I no longer expect any respite; my body, though not even a decade and a half old, longs for relief.
The bell’s sound does not fade; it sharpens, growing louder with each passing year. I resist its terrible call, but my strength wanes. I know not what will become of my soul when I finally break. But the bell is patient - it knows, as do I, that my resistance will falter. My doom is certain, sealed the moment I spilled unholy blood with my own hand. The bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.