Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For Marion the railway steam shovel, there was little to do during the holiday season. No construction jobs needed her — no one wanted to dig frozen earth. The clay pits still operated but only at the bare minimum.

Without digging, Marion found other ways to occupy herself.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!" She bobbed her shovel to the beat whilst passing a group of workers that were trying to enjoy their cocoa break One took out a pair of earmuffs and put them on. Another looked curiously at her. 

"Does it help?"

"'Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!" Marion's voice echoed from the back of the yard. The earmuffed worker solemnly shook her head. 

For Donald and Douglas, of course, there was no rest once the snow began to fall. With a coach between their tenders and snowploughs affixed to their fronts, they puffed up and down every line to keep them clear. They relished the work, but this year more snow fell than usual. 

"Almost to Tidmouth, Dougie!" Donald called back, "Then we can start up Duck's wee corner!" Douglas didn't hear him over all the snow being ploughed. 

"What?"

"I said- Losh sakes!" They stopped at a heavy drift half a mile outside the big station. Donald tried to push forward, but it was slow going. 

"Would ye like me to have a go at it, Donnie?" called Douglas. Donald sighed.

"Ye just had a turn. Remember the drift back at Crosby?" 

"Och aye, but ye took on the one on the hill."

“Both of us tackled that one, laddie.”

“Did we?” Douglas muttered, “I cannae remember.”

“It’s been a long day, Dougie."

With Donald charging and Douglas pushing, they managed to break through the snowdrift. Nonetheless, they were very late to the big station. Many engines were held up there, sizzling impatiently. Donald and Douglas received several dirty looks as they shuffled over the switches. 

"Come on, Donnie, go faster," whispered Douglas, "They're staring." Donald harrumphed.

"Let them stare. They're not the ones bearing the brunt of this blizzard." They whistled and sped through, allowing the engines to proceed. Most of them weren't particularly grateful, but someone else was. The Fat Controller had been observing from his office window, sipping hot cocoa.

"Mmm... I must make new arrangements — and quickly." He headed out the door, still holding his cup. 

The Fat Controller went straight to Winston's siding close to the station. Winston raised an eyebrow as the Fat Controller leaned on him, continuing to sip his cocoa.

"Can I, uh, help you, sir?" 

"As a matter of fact, you can, Winston." The Fat Controller placed the cup on Winston's hood. Winston watched it closely, expecting it to slide off. 

"Donald and Douglas are clearly struggling with all the snow we've been having, even if they won't admit it," the Fat Controller went on, "But I don't quite know how to solve that problem." Winston pondered for a moment.

"From what I've observed, sir, swapping engines around is a tried and true problem-solver." 

The Fat Controller chuckled ruefully. "Usually but not now. We can’t spare any engines.”

"Then perhaps what you need isn't an engine," Winston said — he meant this as a joke, but the Fat Controller sincerely thought about it. He shot up suddenly, nearly sending the half-full cup of cocoa flying. "That's it, Winston!" 

"It is?" Winston was startled as the Fat Controller grabbed the cup and got into his seat. "May I ask where we're-" Winston hadn't the chance to finish; the Fat Controller put his foot on the accelerator. They dashed out of the siding and out onto the main line.

“Follow me in merry measure. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”

Bill and Ben shared a look as Marion sang in the shed beside them. 

"Come on, you two, join in! It's fun!" 

“Oh, uh, I have a bad singing voice, Marion. Right, Ben?” 

“Uh huh,” agreed Ben, apathetically. Marion only smiled. 

"Anyone can sing, Bill! Follow my lead!" She paused before starting up again. “While I tell of Yule-tide treasure. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!" 

Ben perked up.

"Treasure?"

Bill blinked. 

“Yule-what now?”

Winston pulled up to the sheds as Marion continued to sing. Bill and Ben, attuned to the sound of Winston's arrival, looked away innocently. 

"I think we're interrupting something, sir," Winston whispered to the Fat Controller.

"Leave it to me, Winston." He honked the horn again, attracting Marion's attention.

"Oh, Mr. Hatt! Winston! Good tidings and happy holidays!" 

The Fat Controller took the last sip of his cocoa. 

"Er, thank you, Marion." He cleared his throat. "I understand you've been rather inactive recently, so I've found a new job for you — if you're interested." 

Marion's face lit up.

"A new job? Oh, thank you! Will I be digging up an ancient pyramid? Or a lost village? Oh! Maybe-”

"Settle down, Marion," laughed the Fat Controller, "You'll be helping Donald and Douglas clear the snow." 

Marion was no less excited by this revelation.

"Clearing snow! That's the most magical job of all! I'll be right on it, Mr. Hatt!" She puffed dutifully away, still singing and bouncing her shovel.

The Fat Controller tried to put Winston in reverse, but instead they shot forward, almost hitting the shed buffers. Bill and Ben suppressed their snickers. Winston ignored them, resigned to his fate as he flew back like a slingshot. 

"Winston, slow down! Slow dooowwwn!" The Fat Controller's plea died down as they disappeared. 

"That never gets old!" said Ben. He expected Bill to agree, but was instead surprised to hear quiet singing. Ben raised an eyebrow at Bill, who was trying to sing the song Marion sang. 

“ Deck the halls with boughs of… holly… ” Bill's face reddened as he realized that Ben was listening. 

The Little Western was sometimes treacherous to plough. Snow collected on the cliffs and hillsides that overlooked the line; if engines weren't careful, they could cause an avalanche. Donald and Douglas were always careful, but someone before them wasn't. 

"Blast!" Donald burst out. He came face to face with a drift that was almost taller than he was. Douglas raised an eyebrow.

"What is it now, Donnie?"

"We'll be here all day getting through this!" 

Douglas peered back at the drift. "We won't be getting through that at all. Think we may have to call it quits for today, lad." 

"We cannae!" said Donald, "Yon Duck'll never let us hear the end of it! Ye ken how he is about 'his' branch line." 

"Aye, he would find it very funny if ye got buried," grinned Douglas. Donald glared, but before he could retort, both heard what sounded like distant singing. 

"Who's dithering about in this weather?"

Douglas squinted as he tried to see who was approaching them on the other line.

“Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh… HEY!” A shovel appeared from the mist, scooping up a pile of snow beside the line and tossing it into the air.

It fell right on Douglas. 

"Greetings, fellow snow-clearers!" greeted Marion as she pulled up alongside, "Isn't it a perfect day for it? A winter wonderland!" 

Douglas shuddered from the melting snow sliding off his smokebox. 

"Aye... Perfect..." 

Donald cackled even if he couldn't see his twin's misfortune.

"Thanks, lass, but we've got things under control here." 

"Oh, silly me!" said Marion, "I forgot to tell you. The Fat Controller sent me! Must've slipped through my shovel!" 

"We dinnae need any help, lass. We're professionals." Donald charged towards the snowdrift. Douglas was taken by surprise as he was dragged along for the ride. The drift proved too much for Donald, however, and he bashed smokebox-first into it. His voice was muffled as he cried out in anger. Douglas glanced haplessly at Marion.

"One of us is."

Neither could tell, but Donald was glaring back at them. Marion rolled closer, eyeing the drift up and down.

"Not to worry. I can dig him out! I haven't really dug anyone out from snow before. It'll be a new experience for the both of us! Practice makes perfect, as I always say!" As Marion rambled on, Douglas watched anxiously. To his surprise, Marion's shovel made quick work of the snow. Donald coughed and sputtered as he was freed from his snowy prison. 

"Ye muckle nuisances! I ought to-" He stopped when he noticed Marion smiling at him. "Er... Did ye dig me out, lass?" 

"No need to thank me!" Marion said dismissively, "I'll just dig the rest of this bunch and we'll be on our way!" Donald wanted to protest; now that he was out, he was sure he and Douglas could tackle what was left on their own. But Marion worked so quickly and was so jolly about doing it that he let it go. 

Before long, the line was clear. Both twins were very impressed.

"Good show, lass!" said Douglas, "Sorry about doubting ye."

"Aye. That shovel of yours is as good as any plough," agreed Donald. Marion beamed.

"It is, isn't it? Personally, I’d rather have a shovel than a plough any day! No offense, of course, but scooping up things is so much more fun than simply pushing them aside.”

Donald opened his mouth to interject, but Marion went on.

“Oh dear, I’m rambling again, aren’t I? Come on! We have no time to lose!”

She whistled and continued onwards, leaving the twins to chuckle and follow after her.  

The three worked well together; whenever the twins couldn’t plough through a drift, Marion cleared the line for them. This sped up the work considerably, and they were heading home by that evening. 

"We make a pretty good team, lass," said Donald, "You're welcome to join us again anytime."

Marion wasn't paying much attention. She was admiring the white-blanketed fields and all the local children playing in them. Some were sledding down the hill, others were making snow angels. Close to the fence that blocked off the railway, a group of children were dancing around a snowman.

"Look at that! It's a man! Made of snow!" cried Marion in delight. She stopped near them to get a closer look. Donald and Douglas braked beside her, exchanging sly grins. 

"Funny-looking thing, isn't it?" mused Donald. 

"Looks like it'll start walking around on its own," added Douglas. Marion gasped.

"Really? Can a snowman do that?" 

"Frosty can." 

Donald and Douglas chuckled at the blank look on Marion's face.

"Ye mean to say ye've never heard of him?" asked Douglas. 

"Can't say that I have," Marion said, feeling a little silly. Douglas winked at Donald.

"Well, they say that one day," he began, "while building a snowman, some children found a top hat lying in the snow." 

"And when they put it on his head, he came to life!" continued Donald, "They found out the hat was magical!" 

Marion couldn't contain her excitement anymore.

"A magic hat? That brings snowmen to life? Oh, I can hardly believe it! It sounds too good to be true! But it must be. It is Christmas, after all! Everything is magical!" She continued to ramble on. The twins, used to this by now, decided to go home or else risk being stuck listening all night.

"See ye around, Marion!" called Douglas, stifling a laugh. Marion hadn't heard. She was still talking to herself.

"It would be wonderful to have a snowman for a friend. He can dance to my carols!" Now in a jollier mood than ever, Marion finally set off again — but not without one last glance at the snowman. 

As she'd hoped, it lacked a hat. 

Marion was unusually eager to get to sleep that night. Bill and Ben were disappointed. They wanted to know all about Marion's adventure in the snow. Timothy, for his part, was rather glad for the peace. Marion dreamed of having a living snowman as a friend and taking him with her everywhere she went. They'd sing songs together, share thrilling stories of digging up pirate treasure and whatever it was that snowmen did — meet Santa Claus? Marion would love to meet Santa too. And the reindeer! And-

Marion woke up. She looked around, half-expecting the snowman to have followed her to the waking world. Only Bill and Ben's expectant faces greeted her.

"You had a funny dream again, didn't you?" asked Ben.

"Even your dreams go on and on and on, eh?" sneered Bill. Marion would've indulged them at any other time, but now she was focused. 

"Sorry, you two, maybe some other time. I have to find a magic hat!" She whistled and stormed out of their shed. Bill and Ben looked on, nonplussed. 

Marion was no expert in hats, or any other sort of clothing for that matter. What she did know was digging and that wasn't going to help her here. Still, she knew Donald and Douglas' story. It didn't seem very difficult. 

"I wonder what his name will be... Will I have to choose for him? Suppose it doesn't have to be a 'he', does it? Could be anything!" Even more exhilarated than before, Marion approached a station. A crowd of passengers were exiting the waiting room and ready to briefly wait for their train. They were most surprised to see a steam shovel at their station.

"Excuse me! Pardon me! I need help!" She halted next to the platform. "Do any of you have a hat?" 

The passengers whispered among themselves, deciding on whether to indulge her or not. An older woman tipped her cap to her. Marion squinted at it for a moment.

"Doesn't look very magical..." 

The woman harrumphed and turned away. Marion didn't notice.

"Oh, silly me! It's a top hat I need!" She looked at the increasingly uncomfortable passengers. "Stay still for a moment, won't you?" They did so, reluctantly, as Marion's gaze shifted from head to head. Some more rebellious passengers covered theirs.

"Nobody wears toppers anymore except people who want to show off," one said to his friend. 

"What does that make Mr. Hatt?" quizzed his friend. 

"...he makes it work." 

Everyone had all sorts of hats. Bowler hats, cricket caps, pillbox hats, turbans, even a few berets. Whilst Marion was in the midst of her search, an engine came screeching towardf her.

"Marion, look out!"

Sparks flew from Rebecca's wheels. She barely managed to stop before hitting Marion's shovel.

"Phew!" sighed Rebecca, "Sorry, Marion. I would've come later if I knew you were already here."

Marion blinked, only then noticing that she was there. Her smile promptly returned.

"Oh, Rebecca! You're just in time to help me out! Do you see a top hat anywhere?"

Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

"Um...don't think so." 

Marion groaned, more dramatically than was really necessary.

“I don’t understand! How can no one be wearing a top hat? This would be so much easier if there were a bunch of them buried somewhere. Then I could just dig them up!"

"Maybe there's some at the dump," said Rebecca brightly, "Whiff and Scruff have everything!" Marion made such a horrified face that even the passengers felt sorry for Rebecca. 

"No, no, no. It must be magic. Nothing at the dump could have any left. That's why it's there!" Before Rebecca could suggest anything else, Marion went on, now frantic. “How am I ever going to bring my snow friend to life? They're just sitting there, all alone, waiting for me to help them!”

"Oh dear! Poor thing!" sympathized Rebecca, not questioning anything Marion just said, "You know, Mr. Hatt has, well, a top hat! You could borrow his! I'm sure he'd understand."

Marion's frown flipped at once.

"You're right! Why didn't I think of it before? Thanks, Rebecca! I'll come take my new snow friend to visit you!" She hurried out of the station, allowing Rebecca to pick up her very annoyed passengers. 

"She's so funny," Rebecca giggled to herself. 

Marion puffed along the line; she wasn't sure where she was running to, just that she needed to get somewhere

"Where could the Fat Controller be? That red car of his could've taken him anywhere." 

Douglas approached on the other line. Marion gasped and blasted her whistle.

"Douglas! You have to stop! It's urgent!"

Douglas did so, rather startled.

"What's the matter, Marion? Is there a blockage?" 

"More urgent than that," said Marion, "I have to see the Fat Controller. Please, do you know where he is?" 

"Aye, he's in a meeting with the dockyard manager. Dinnae think he wants to be disturbed, but if it really is that urgent, I-"

"Thank you!" Marion hurried off in the direction of the docks. Douglas blinked as she disappeared on the horizon. 

Brendam Docks was far busier than the clay pits. Ships lined the quay, waiting impatiently for their turn to be unloaded.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" barked Cranky. His entire arm was lined with seagulls, which was not moving things along.

A large green warehouse overlooked the tracks; the Fat Controller and the dock manager stepped out onto the balcony, each holding a cup of cocoa. 

“I'd have prepared something else if I'd known you’d already had cocoa today, Topham,” said the dock manager sheepishly. The Fat Controller waved him off.

“You can never have too much cocoa, I always say. Besides, the stands at Tidmouth were out of marshmallows, and it’s never a proper cup without marshmallows.”

“Amen to that.” The dock manager and the Fat Controller clinked their cups and took a long sip. 

Winston slept down below on one of the sidings out of the way. Marion crept alongside, squinting up at the warehouse balcony.

"Don't suppose he can hear me from up there, can he? What do you think?" She looked over at Winston, who let out a soft wheeze. "You're right, too risky." Marion sighed. "I'm sorry, snow friend. It's going to take a Christmas miracle to get you your hat." She began to back out of the siding. Suddenly, there was a cacophony of squawks. 

Winston thankfully didn't wake up, so Marion stayed to watch out of curiosity. A whole flock of seagulls was harassing the Fat Controller. 

"Shoo! Shoo!" He and the dock manager tried to swat at them, but it was no use. There were too many of them. 

One made off with a marshmallow. Another perched right on the railing and screeched in the Fat Controller's face.

"Gah!" He stumbled back, bumping into the dock manager. Both their cups of cocoa smashed on the balcony floor. To add insult to injury, the seagulls avoided the remains. Instead, they kept swooping around the Fat Controller and dock manager. In all the commotion, one nabbed the Fat Controller's top hat without anyone noticing. It took off towards the warehouses. At first it tried to swallow the hat, but it was too tall to fit down its gullet — and it didn't taste that good. 

Marion's eyes locked on the seagull with the hat. She gasped as the seagull dropped it over the warehouses, close to where she'd parked herself.

"I've got it!" she cried, speeding backwards. Just as the rails curved, the hat plopped right into Marion's shovel. She grinned from buffer to buffer. "I got it! Hooray!"

Winston jolted awake, looking every which way. 

"Huh? Did I miss something?"

Marion blushed and scampered out of sight before he saw. Winston's attention was quickly directed elsewhere anyway. 

"Shoo, you rats with wings! Shoo!" 

The flock of seagulls was still amassed on the warehouse balcony. 

"Oh dear." Winston looked around to see if anyone else was going to do anything. Resigned, he hooted his horn. That startled the birds. They scattered, allowing the Fat Controller and dock manager a chance to catch their breath.

"You all right?" the dock manager asked as he dusted himself off, "They didn't bite you?" The Fat Controller grunted.

"Only spoiled my cocoa — and had the cheek to only eat the marshmallows!" 

"Don't think gulls can eat chocolate," remarked the dock manager. He hastily cleared his throat at the Fat Controller's dull look. "We can go inside if need be."

"We've covered everything we need to," said the Fat Controller, "I must be going. Can never rest too long at this time of year." He began the long descent down the stairs back to the ground.

When he finally staggered over to Winston, Winston noticed some scratches in his suit. He also noticed the distinct lack of a hat on his head. 

"Are you, er, missing something, sir?"

"My bearings at the moment." The Fat Controller slunk into his seat. "Come along, Winston. Back to the big station we goooo!" Winston shot backward right out of the siding. 

Cranky, of course, had seen the whole incident. A particular gull flew up and perched on the tip of his arm. 

"You're definitely on the naughty list now, Stewart," Cranky smirked. Stewart squawked indignantly. 

The children had gone home for lunch, so their snowman stood alone in its field — though it wasn't for long. Marion puffed up to the field, cradling the Fat Controller's top hat in her shovel.

"Fear not, snow friend! Soon you will have your voice! No need to thank me. It's what anyone should do."

The snowman stared back with its beady coal eyes. Marion had wanted to make more of a moment out of it; it was a very special occasion, after all, but she couldn't bear the suspense. 

"Right, right! For you!" She plopped the hat directly over the snowman's head. The hat stayed, albeit crooked.  Marion watched excitedly for the snowman to spring to life.

Nothing happened.

"Maybe it takes a minute for it to work." 

So she did wait a minute. Still, nothing happened. Marion frowned, a little perturbed. She gasped as a thought struck her.

"Oh dear! You may just be shy. Don’t worry, snow friend, I won't look." She closed her eyes and waited very patiently. Her patience swiftly dwindled and they fluttered open again. "Welcome to the world, my..."

The snowman didn't dance or talk; it didn't even blink. Marion grimaced.

"Why isn't it working? I have a magical…” Her eyes widened as it dawned on her. “Oh, of course! Terribly sorry, snow friend. The Fat Controller’s hat has no Christmas magic!” Very delicately, she scooped the hat back off the snowman’s head. 

She flattened the head, but in her newfound excitement, she failed to notice.

“Don’t go anywhere!” she told the snowman, “I know just where to get some!” 

Marion ran off with a wide grin. It really had been too long since she’d paid them a visit.  

The Fat Controller and Winston’s trip back to the big station was extremely embarrassing — for Winston.

He vividly felt the stares of anyone they passed, person or engine. 

The Fat Controller remained blissfully ignorant to it all.

“I tell you, Winston, I’m not having outdoor meetings at the docks anymore. I had no idea those wretched seagulls were so fond of marshmallows.” 

“And hats,” muttered Winston. 

“What was that, Winston?”

Winston winced; an accident was up ahead and now didn’t seem the best time to point out the obvious. 

“Nothing, sir.”

The Fat Controller spotted it a moment later. The middle trucks in Samson’s train had come off the line at a bend. Harvey was now lifting them back onto the rails. Winston slowed down, though he wished he didn’t have to. 

The Fat Controller only gave the scene a passing glance.

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said, resigned, “Carry on, Harvey.”

Winston sped up again; not a moment too soon for him as Samson now gaped in awe at them.

“Would you look at that, Harvey?” Samson said, “His head’s so…shiny!”

Harvey pretended he hadn’t heard. 

To Winston’s dismay, the big station was very crowded. Almost every platform was occupied as engines waited to depart — no doubt they were delayed by the incident up the line. The yard was even worse. Almost every wagon or engine was moving in or out.

Winston scuttled onto his siding, trying and failing to keep a neutral expression.

The Fat Controller stepped out and patted his hood.

“You can get some rest now, Winston. I’ll be in my office for a while.”

Winston forced a smile.

“Okay, sir. Have fun.”

The Fat Controller chuckled and was about to turn on his heel when he heard hushed voices. He swung around and spotted Nia and Thomas snickering at each other. The Fat Controller raised an eyebrow at them.

Both promptly avoided his gaze. 

“Hmm.” The Fat Controller, thinking it some joke they were sharing that didn’t concern him, headed for his office. He didn’t get very far before Harvey entered the yard.

“Ah, Harvey! I see you’ve already sorted out Samson. Good work!” smiled the Fat Controller. Harvey stopped a bit too abruptly, stumbling out a very forced reply.

“Er, thank you, Mr. Hatt. I’ll be going now.” He ran off in the opposite direction he’d come in. The Fat Controller was left taken aback.

“What is going on?” he muttered. Winston’s face was red from holding in the truth; luckily for him, he wasn’t the one to break first.

“Very bold fashion choice at this time of year.” Charlie pulled up with some empty trucks, smirking at the others. “You could even say it’s minimalist!”

Thomas and Nia stifled laughter. 

“ Ahem.” 

The engines subsided at once. 

“Now,” said the Fat Controller, losing his patience, “I want to know what it is that’s so funny.” 

There was a long silence. 

“I’m experimenting,” Charlie said at last, trying not to giggle, “You know, joking about something detached from everything going on right now. Completely detached,” he added with emphasis, albeit while peering at the top of the Fat Controller’s head. 

“What Charlie means to say is…” Nia faltered.

At that moment, BoCo arrived. He took one glance at the Fat Controller and immediately intoned, “Your head’s showing, Mr. Hatt.” 

The Fat Controller slowly felt around his head. Of course, something was missing. 

“My hat! Where’s my hat?” He ran over to Winston and searched in the seats and compartments. “Winston, why didn’t you tell me I didn’t have my hat?”

“Um…” 

“I swear I just had it! Where could it have gone?” He made a beeline for the office door, leaving the engines to stare at BoCo. 

BoCo raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

At Arlesburgh West, ballast had just been dropped into Donald’s trucks. Mike moved off the chute with his empty wagons. 

“All set, Donald,” he called.

“Aye, I’ll be off then. Take care, lads!” Donald whistled as he departed. A chorus of whistles sounded in response. 

Donald had hardly made it out of the station throat when a vague steam shovel shape whizzed past his vision. Donald considered stopping to verify, but he had a train to deliver. 

“Eyes playing tricks,” he grumbled. 

Marion stormed into the station like a bull in a china shop.

“Yoo hoo! Magic engines!” 

Rex and Bert shared a glance. 

“Is that who I think it is?” Bert whispered. Rex chuckled at Mike’s bulging eyes. 

“I expect so.” 

Mike abandoned his trucks to make a run for it. He was quickly stopped by a large shovel in his face.

“GAH!” 

“Hello again!” Marion grinned, “Sorry to come on such short notice, but I really, really need your help with something!” 

“W-Well, we can’t! Right, guys?” Mike looked to where his colleagues just were, only for them to now be gone. Mike gaped and glanced at the shed; Rex and Bert had taken the chance to hide. 

Rex winked at Mike. 

Mike’s safety valve nearly flew off. 

“Some friends you are!” he hollered. 

“Please don’t be cross!” interjected Marion, “I only need an itsy bitsy favor!” She lowered her shovel to Mike’s eye level, allowing him to see the top hat inside. 

“What am I supposed to do about a hat?” 

“Give it some of your magic! I’d have thought you’d know that already."

Mike glanced between the hat and Marion.

“Whose hat is this?”

“I’m only borrowing it for a little while,” said Marion hastily, “Just to bring my snow friend to life. Please, magic engine, it’d be the best gift a steam shovel could ever have!” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Well, maybe not the best gift. I could always use two shovels. No Marion, stay focused. Your snow friend’s the one in need, not you.”

Mike watched Marion talk to herself with increasing horror. 

Inside the shed, Bert frowned at Rex.

“What’s going on?” 

“I think good ol’ Mike’s stuck between a rock and a hard place,” said Rex with very apparent schadenfreude. Bert squinted outside.

“I can't see any rock. Stop talking nonsense, Rex.”

Rex didn’t bother to explain.

Marion, meanwhile, looked expectantly at Mike. Mike wanted nothing more than for her to leave him alone. So he did the only thing he could think of — whoosh steam all over the hat. 

“Tada! Christmas magic!” he said with faux enthusiasm. Marion had too much genuine enthusiasm to notice.

“Wow! You really did it! Thank you, thank you! My snow friend will be very happy!” Taking extra care not to bounce around the hat in her shovel, Marion steamed away.

Mike sighed in immense relief. 

“I’m free…” He glared at Rex and Bert as they rolled back alongside him. “No thanks to you two.” 

Bert, however, looked scared. 

“What have you done? Now that steam shovel’s going to bring snow to life!”

Mike rolled his eyes.

“Cool your boiler, Bert. ‘Magic hats’ aren’t real; I just made her buzz off. You’re welcome.” He furrowed his brow as Rex burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Rex managed to steady himself, if only for a minute. “You’re in trouble, that’s what! She’s going to find out your ‘magic’ doesn’t do anything. What’re you going to do when she comes back?”

Bert gulped at the thought, but Mike didn’t care a bit.

“Can’t you let me bask in my victory for a second ? Not like you had any oh-so-bright ideas!” He stormed off to collect more ballast hoppers. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Rex called after him. 

The Fat Controller turned his office upside down. He rustled through drawers, double and triple checked his hat rack (which now had nothing hanging on it), and even fished around in the trash bin. 

But there was no sign of his hat anywhere.

He slumped into his chair. 

“Botheration…” He had plenty of spare hats at home, but he couldn’t spare the trip back. Something would come up. It always did. “I suppose I’ll have to ask Jane…” 

He dialed Jane’s number and waited anxiously for her to pick up. There was only a buzzing noise. 

“My poor, poor hat… Oh, I miss it already.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hatt?” 

The Fat Controller looked over his shoulder. The stationmaster was at the door, holding something behind his back. The Fat Controller sighed and motioned for him to come in.

“Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I’ve found something that’ll help you in this trying time of yours.” The stationmaster held out a large Santa hat that was much too big for a person to wear but much too small to be one of the engines’. 

“No.” The Fat Controller’s reply was immediate. “No, no, no. I’m not wearing a decoration. It-” He was cut off by the sound of children’s giggling. 

A small group had gathered outside the office and now peered in through the window. One pointed, thinking they couldn’t be seen. Another took her hat off and pretended to cry. 

The Fat Controller glared, sending them away in an instant. With much reluctance, he took the Santa hat from the stationmaster and placed it on his head. The stationmaster smiled expectantly.

“Well?”

“It’s itchy.” The Fat Controller blew the hat’s dangling pom-pom out of his face. 

Douglas found himself preoccupied as he carried out his jobs. It wasn’t any concern to him, not really, but it bothered him not knowing what had made Marion so anxious. What was she even doing on the main line? 

He almost didn’t see the closed level crossing ahead. Douglas just managed to avoid hitting the gate. Startled lorries honked crossly at him, but Douglas didn’t apologize. He was still thinking.

Donald pulled up in the opposite direction, whistling in annoyance.

“Blasted roads. We have the right of way!” Of course, all his fussing did nothing to speed up the traffic. He sighed and looked at Douglas, surprised at how pensive he appeared. “What’s on yer mind, Dougie?”

“Saw Marion in a strange place,” said Douglas, absentmindedly, “I ken what ye’ll say. I’m a meddler.” 

“Marion?” Donald thought for a moment. “No, lad. Thought I was seeing things, but maybe I saw her myself. Cannae imagine what she’d be doing at Arlesburgh, though.”

“I think she’s up to something.” 

“Ye’re right there,” agreed Donald, “though with her, it could be anything.” The crossing gates opened, allowing them both to proceed. Neither really wanted to, yet, with their little conundrum left unsolved. 

Winston came along on the middle line, trying not to be noticed by either engine. It didn’t work; Donald and Douglas stared at the Fat Controller’s abnormally large Santa hat. 

“Just keep driving…just keep driving…” muttered Winston. He bounced around even more than usual; the Fat Controller kept getting distracted batting the pom-pom away. 

“I can’t stand it anymore, Winston. This silly thing won’t stop getting in my eyes.” 

“It’s not so bad, sir. It’s…festive!”

The Fat Controller heaved a long sigh. He didn’t even acknowledge that Donald and Douglas had stopped in the middle of the line. Winston rolled out of sight, allowing the twins to laugh safely. 

“Wonder who put him up to that!” said Donald.

“His mum, likely,” Douglas grinned. His mirth faded as a thought struck him. “Say, Donnie. Ye dinnae think Marion did, do ye?” 

“Dinnae realize Mr. Hatt and the lass were that close.”

“The snowman story, Donnie.”

Donald’s eyebrows shot up. 

Without another word, they raced off in the same direction — the direction of the snowman's field. 

Marion couldn't contain her excitement as she approached the field.

"I've got it, snow friend, I've got it!" she called, waving her shovel, "No need to thank me!" The snowman was unresponsive, but Marion didn't mind. It would be very alive in a moment. 

By then, the children had returned and were playing in the snow. They were having too much to see or care what the big steam shovel was doing. 

"I suppose this makes today your birthday, doesn't it? What day is it?" Marion pondered for only half a second. "Never mind, I'm sure you'll know."

“What are you doing with our snowman, ma’am?” One particularly bold boy trudged through the snow up to Marion. 

“Oh! Hello there. I didn’t see you. You are very small.”

“Am not!” said the boy; Marion had already moved on.

“You see, I have a hat filled with Christmas magic.” She motioned towards the battered and soaked hat inside her shovel. “And I’m going to use it to bring my snow friend to life!” 

That piqued the children’s interest. They all ran up to the fence in a mass. 

Marion’s eyes locked on the snowman as she brought her shovel over its head again.

“On my count of three! One…” 

No one noticed puffs of smoke in the distance. 

“Two…” 

To Marion, it seemed like the snowman’s smile curled at the edges, ready to be born into the world. 

“MARION!” 

Two deep-toned whistles echoed around the wintry countryside. Marion jumped, so startled that she jolted her shovel. Donald and Douglas rolled up alongside, red-in-the-face. 

“Think we got here in time, Donnie!” panted Douglas.

“Marion,” said Donald, as sternly as he could manage despite being utterly knackered, “ye need to give the Fat Controller his hat…” Only then did he and Douglas spot the crumbly remains of the snowman’s head beside its body. “...back.” 

Marion and the children were frozen. 

A younger boy sobbed into his brother’s sleeve. 

“My…my snow friend! I’m sorry, so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please forgive me!” Marion babbled. 

“Lass, it’s just a snowman,” intoned Douglas. Marion gave the twins such a fierce glare that it actually startled them. 

“They’re not just a snowman!” she said, “They were going to be my friend! Are going to be my friend,” she corrected hastily, “I can fix them!” 

As Marion scrambled to scoop up the remains, Donald and Douglas shared a glance.

“Marion, snow cannae come alive,” Donald began, but Marion swiftly interrupted him.

“Don’t say that! You said so yourself! We can’t give up now!” 

“Frosty’s only a silly story people made up,” said Douglas, “It didn’t really happen.” Marion stopped, then stared.

“...it didn’t?” 

Donald and Douglas laughed.

“Och, could ye imagine?” Donald said, “A wee hat bringing a ‘snow friend’ to life! Wouldn’t that be the day!”

Marion’s cheeks flushed.

“Oh… Only a story… Yes, that makes sense. Really should’ve thought of that before borrowing this.” She scooped up the hat — and a bit of snow by accident. 

“Ye really should give that back,” murmured Douglas, “The Fat Controller’s not doing so well without it.” 

Marion peered inside her shovel; the hat was now in a rather sorry state. She sighed ruefully. 

“I suppose my…snow friend won’t be needing it anyway. Do you think the Fat Controller will be cross?”

“Aye,” put in Donald. Douglas shushed him.

“‘Tis the season and all that. He’ll be in a forgiving mood.” 

They were about to set off for the big station when Marion glanced at the snowman again. Even if it wasn’t alive, and was never going to come alive, she still hated seeing it desecrated. 

“Just a moment.” She dumped the hat beside the line, then scooped up what remained of the head. It still retained most of its shape, so she was careful not to accidentally destroy it outright. 

Donald and Douglas watched curiously as Marion then plopped the head on the snowman’s torso. The children cheered and scrambled to put the coal pieces and carrot back on. 

Marion smiled as the children began to dance around the snowman. 

“Okay, let’s go.” She scooped up the hat again and puffed off. Donald and Douglas followed behind, staying respectfully silent.  

The Fat Controller had retreated to his office to focus on a first draft of the Christmas Eve timetable. The mocking children outside the window made it a misery. 

“Ho ho ho! You have caused confusion and delay!” said one child with a rather poor Fat Controller impression. The others thought it was hilarious, though, and some fell over from laughing so much.  

The stationmaster tried to shoo them away — with little success. 

“Go on, scram! Mr. Hatt’s a very busy man!” 

“He doesn’t look busy.” Another child pointed through the window. The Fat Controller now laid his head on his desk and groaned.

“I could do with some blinds…” he mumbled.

“He’s, uh, busy mourning,” said the stationmaster. 

Before the children had the chance to make fun of him instead, Marion, Donald and Douglas bustled in. Marion stopped close to the office door, grimacing. 

Donald and Douglas offered encouraging smiles.

“I have something that belongs to Mr. Hatt-” Marion didn’t get to finish before the office door flung open. The Fat Controller roved around the station like a starving animal.

“My hat?” 

He broke into an ecstatic grin as Marion lowered her shovel to him, revealing the hat inside.

“ My hat !” The Fat Controller ran over, grabbed the hat and cradled it in his arms. He ripped off the Santa hat decoration and threw it at the stationmaster.

“Take that back; I have my hat!” He put it back on his head. Despite everything, it still fit. “This is the best present I could ever have!” 

“I’m sorry for taking it, sir,” Marion said, plucking up courage, “I was only going to borrow it, but I really should’ve asked you properly. Although,” she added proudly, “it now has Christmas magic, courtesy of the magic engines.” 

Donald and Douglas shared a look. 

The Fat Controller hadn’t heard a word. He swaggered past the engines and towards Winston’s siding, tipping his pride and joy whenever he passed a lone porter or confused passenger.

“Look, Winston! My hat has been found! I won’t have to wear that Santa decoration anymore!” He tossed it up in the air, snatching it immediately in case the wind decided to be cruel. 

Winston hadn’t the heart to tell him that the hat was now battered and weathered from its misadventure. 

Although still a little upset at her lack of a new companion, Marion still enjoyed the holiday season the way she always did. She even learned a new song to add to her list of carols.

“Frosty the snowman was a jolly, happy soul! With a corncob pipe and a button nose…”

She strolled into Arlesburgh West again, scooping up a mound of snow that had collected on the line. She ended up dropping it right on top of a passing Mike.

“Bleh!” Mike shuddered and stopped, but Marion was too caught up in herself to notice. 

“...and two eyes made out of coal!”

Donald and Douglas idled in the yard near their turntable. They chuckled and joined in. 

“For Frosty the Snowman had to hurry on his way. But he waved goodbye saying, ‘Don't you cry, I'll be back again someday!’"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike spotted Rex and Bert trying not to giggle. 

He subsided into grumbling as Marion continued on her own way. 

Even if she didn’t have a friend made of snow, she could still dig it — with her two new, real friends.

Chapter Text

Rex and Mike loved teasing each other, but it was much easier to push Mike’s buttons. His hot temper made him an easy target for Rex’s clever barbs.

“It’s not fair! You always know just what to say to make me cross!” Mike whinged. Rex smirked.

“It doesn’t take much!”

Mike grit his teeth. “Like that! Just like that! How do you do it? I can never make you cross!”

“Never mind, Mike. I’m sure someday you’ll be as thick-painted as me!” Rex whistled and puffed away. Mike rolled his eyes, but then a thought struck him.

“Wait, what does ‘thick-painted’ mean? Rex?” But Rex had already left. Mike’s face reddened. “Rex!"

One morning, the small engines were being steamed for work. Mike and Bert were still drowsy, but Rex was wide awake. He glanced at Mike, who was scowling in his sleep. Rex giggled.

“Oh, Mike. Can’t even win in his dreams.” Just then, he heard a whistle. Rex peeked out to the big railway, where Ryan was approaching the station with a goods train. At the station stood Daisy, who was picking up passengers.

“Daisy!” called Ryan, “Oh, you’ll never believe what I’ve just learned!”

Rex raised an eyebrow.

“What’s he so excited about?” Curiously, he edged out of the shed and towards Ryan to listen closer. Daisy didn’t seem too thrilled.

“What is it, Ryan?”

Ryan’s smile wavered. “Well, Philip just told me that he got his number by saving sixty-eight sheep! Can you believe it?”

“Sixty-eight?” Rex repeated in awe. Ryan yelped as he only then spotted the little engine right next to him.

“O-Oh, hello Rex! Uh, yes, that’s what he told me!”

“Are you sure it was exactly sixty-eight? They counted?”

“That’s right! Farmer McColl counted them himself! It’s an incredible story. I could never be so brave!” Ryan gushed. Daisy rolled her eyes.

“Philip never tells the truth. He still goes on about beating Gordon in a race. You don’t think that happened, do you?”

“It might’ve.”

As Daisy and Ryan conversed, Rex noticed the number on Ryan’s bunker.

“And what about this number, Ryan? One, zero, one, four...”

Ryan peered back at his number and chuckled.

“Oh, that? I don’t know, that’s just the number they gave me on the mainland, I suppose. What’s yours?”

Rex glanced back at his cab, but there was nothing there.

“Er...it doesn’t look like I have one.”

“You ought to! Every engine has a number!” Ryan insisted, “Duck’s number eight, Oliver’s eleven; even Daisy has one!” Daisy perked up at this.

“Oh yes! ‘D1’, in fact. Number one of the diesels!” she smirked. Rex blinked, looking Daisy over.

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s not painted on me, silly. It’d ruin my look. Au revoir!” Daisy hooted her horn and scuttled away. Ryan and Rex shared a look.

“Maybe you’re the same, Rex! You might have a number and not even know it!” Ryan whistled and carried on with his train, leaving Rex to ponder.

Practically the moment Mike and Bert awoke, Rex could talk of nothing else.

“I don’t understand it,” he muttered, racking his smokebox, “Ryan says every engine has a number, but we don’t.” Bert was puzzled.

“Numbers? What are those?”

Rex thought for a moment.

“I’m not sure. I think people use them to count things, like those sixty-eight sheep.”

Bert’s eyes widened.

“Are they counting us?”

“Don’t be silly, Bert,” interjected Mike, “There are only three of us.”

“If we had numbers of our own, surely we’d know,” Rex mused, completely ignoring Mike, “The Small Controller wouldn’t simply not tell us.”

Mike was about to snap at Rex when he suddenly smirked. “And how do you know?” That gave Rex pause. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to hurt your feelings."

Bert and Rex shared a glance.

“And how do you figure that?” asked Rex, hesitantly.

“Because someone has to be the number one - and everyone knows that whoever’s number one is the most valued.”

"Is that true, Rex?” Bert whispered.

Rex shot Mike a glare. “Of course it isn’t! He just made that up!”

“Oh really?” grinned Mike, “What else could it mean?” Rex’s silence was telling. Mike chuckled with triumph. “You’re just afraid of being number three.” He paused impressively. “Last!”

Bert gasped; Rex harrumphed.

“I’m not afraid! Being number three would be perfectly fine.”

“That’s just what a ‘number three’ would say!”

Rex promptly stormed out of the shed, shooting steam in Mike’s face. When the steam cleared, however, Mike’s smirk remained.

Rex tried not to let Mike's words bother him, but something about the idea of being “last” irked him to no end.

“Silly Mike’s just trying to upset me. He’s not very good at it,” he grumbled as he puffed along with his first train. Presently, his wheels began to slip on the rails. Rex glared down at them.

“Come on! Not now!” But Rex’s complaints didn’t make a difference; he slowed down as he struggled to regain his traction.

Rex rolled over the points where the passing loop branched off, just as a whistle sounded behind him. Rex looked back, surprised to see Mike storming up the line with some coaches. The points were switched to the loop almost as Mike reached them.

“Can’t dawdle about like you, Rex!” Mike teased, “Some of us don’t have time to be last!”

Before Rex could retort, Mike was already out of sight. Rex snorted and tried to ignore him - but as the day wore on, it became harder and harder when it seemed he really was last at just about everything.

“Sorry, Rex. Mike already took the ballast we’ve mined,” explained a worker when he reached the mines, “You’ll have to wait for yours.” Rex glared at Mike, who whistled to himself as he left the mine with his long line of ballast hoppers.

When his own hoppers were finally filled, Rex began making his way back to the bottom station.

He’d wanted to stop and get water at Arlesdale, but...

“Mike?!” Already standing at the water stand was Mike, having his tender filled. Mike donned a smile.

“Hello, number three.” His insult didn’t register, though, as Rex’s attention was on someone else.

“Bert!?”

Bert, patiently waiting his turn behind Mike, glanced back at the agape Rex.

“Oh hi, Rex. You are last, aren’t you?” 

“N-No I’m not!”

“Yes you are,” snickered Mike, “You see? There’s perks to being number one!”

Rex stared, then spluttered. “Who made you ‘number one’?”

“The Small Controller did, obviously. I’m number one, Bert’s number two, and you’re number
three!” Mike burst out laughing at the look of horror on Rex’s face.

“Th-There must be some sort of mistake. I can’t be!” Rex protested.

“Never mind, Rex. Being number two isn’t so bad,” said Bert.

“But number three is always last!” Mike finished. Rex went red-in-the-face. He was about to leave, but then he remembered: there was no other water stand.

Rex only grew more bitter.

“There’s no chance Mike is number one!” he hissed, “It’s too convenient! The Small Controller would never be so silly!” He sulked in silence for a moment - and then he got an idea.

“Of course! I can just ask the Small Controller what our real numbers are! That’ll shut Mike right up!” Rex chuckled to himself as he approached the bottom station. He saw the Small Controller on the platform, chatting with the station staff.

“Mr. Duncan! Mr. Duncan!” he called. The Small Controller swung around, surprised to see the small green engine hurrying up.

“Yes, Rex?”

Rex hesitated; a terrible thought had struck him.

“What if Mike’s right? What if he really did make him number one and me number three... Mike would never let me hear the end of it. Perhaps it’s better not knowing.”

“Rex?”

Rex jumped as the Small Controller raised an eyebrow at him.

“U-Um, just wanted to say hello, that’s all.” Rex was grateful that the smile he donned seemed to be enough to convince him.

“You’re just in time then, Rex; there’s a special job that needs doing and I think you’re the perfect engine for it.”

Rex gasped.

“Me? Are you sure?” he asked, as if he’d heard wrong. The Small Controller was surprised.

“Certainly. You’ve a steady smokebox, so you should be able to handle waking up early. You’ll find-”

“Yes, thank you! I won’t let you down!” Rex whistled and bustled away, cutting the Small Controller short.

“Strange...” the Small Controller muttered, scratching his head.

That night, Mike and Bert arrived back at the shed first, to Mike’s delight - and Bert’s concern.

“Poor Rex is really living up to his number,” he remarked to Mike. Mike just guffawed.

“I told you both, didn’t I? Serves him right anyway for riling me up all these years. Who’s laughing now, eh?” Mike cackled again just to prove his point. Bert, figuring it best to be polite, joined in. Presently, they heard a familiar whistle, and Mike’s grin grew when he spotted Rex approaching the shed.

“Well, well, well! Last again!” To both his and Bert’s surprise, Rex was smirking in his usual way as he backed into his berth.

“Keep your steam in, Mike. I’ve spoken to the Small Controller,” he said in a sing-song sort of way. Mike’s boiler ran cold.

“...y-you did?” 

“And do you know what he said?” Rex paused and considered what he should reveal. On one rail, keeping Mike in the dark would be funny. On the other, telling Mike right away and seeing his face would be even funnier. “He said he had a special for me first thing tomorrow.” Sure enough, Mike gaped in horror, but Rex wasn’t done twisting the knife.

“Surely the ‘least valued’ engine wouldn’t be so trusted,” he mused slyly, “Do you know what I think? I think you’re number three.” Self-satisfied, Rex drifted off to sleep. Mike’s face was redder than ever.

“No! Th-That’s...gah!”

“Are you, um, alright, Mike?” asked Bert slowly.

“I’ve lost, Bert! The one thing that made Rex as cross as me, and it’s gone! What am I supposed to do now?” Mike lamented, looking down at his buffers. Before Bert could suggest anything, an idea flew into Mike's funnel.

“I’ll just have to take his ‘special’ myself, won’t I?”

The following morning, Rex’s fire was quickly made so he could collect his special. He yawned, casting a glance at Mike and Bert, who were still asleep. Rex quietly chuckled.

“Better luck next time, Mike.” He was about to venture out when he heard another chuckle from the other side of the shed. Rex froze, astonished to see Mike's eyes flutter open.

“M-Mike? What are you-”

“I have a wager for you, Rex, old pal.”

Rex blinked as Mike smirked back at him.

“Mike, can’t this wait? I have my very important-”

“My very important special, you mean,” interrupted Mike, “If you ask me, there’s been a mistake.”

“No need to be such a sore loser.”

“The point is,” Mike went on, his temper already flaring, “whoever gets to the station first takes the special. How about it?” He waited expectantly for a “yes”, but Rex just rolled his eyes.

“I’m not playing games, Mike. Now, if you excuse me, my train’s waiting.” He edged out of the shed. Mike did the same.

“Wh-Whoever loses becomes number three forever!” Mike added hastily. Rex promptly stopped and narrowed his eyes at him.

“You’re on. Ready, steady, GO!” With a will, Rex hurried towards the station. Mike tore after him in hot pursuit.

Mike quickly caught up to Rex, the two exchanging a glare.

“Just give up, Rex. Number three suits you,” Mike taunted. Rex clenched his teeth.

“It suits you more!” They were so invested in their little competition that they had forgotten that their lines joined at the points just before the station. Rex realized his mistake first.

“Mike! Stop!”

“Nice try, Rex! I’m-”

Mike and Rex bashed into each other at the points, knocking each other off the rails and onto the ballast. Their drivers had jumped clear, but when the dust settled, both felt rather sore.

“Ooh... What happened?” groaned Mike. Rex didn’t answer; he felt very foolish indeed.

The Small Controller arrived not long after; Mike wished he hadn’t.

“Mike!” he snapped, “Rex’s special hasn’t been delivered, and from the looks of it, you’re the reason why!” Mike’s face reddened.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan, I-”

“You’ve blocked Bert in the shed, damaged yourself and Rex! What on earth were you thinking?”

Mike looked down at his buffers in shame. Rex grimaced.

“It’s my fault too.”

The Small Controller turned to Rex, even more surprised than Mike.

“You, Rex?”

“It was Mike’s idea, but I went along with it. We were racing to see who would have to be numbered three.”

The Small Controller stared.

“‘Numbered’?” he repeated plainly. Rex and Mike shared a look.

“Don’t you know?” said Mike, “We have numbers, just like the big engines.”

“But we don’t know what they are,” added Rex. The Small Controller glanced between the two engines and sighed.

“Rex, Mike, none of you three have numbers.”

The engines gaped.

“But...but Ryan said every engine has a number!” protested Rex. The Small Controller chuckled.

“Ryan doesn’t know everyone. I think you’ll find that even some of Mr. Hatt’s engines lack a proper number. You don’t need them; there’s only three of you. In any case,” he finished sternly, “this railway is not a competition.” He turned on his heel and strode away.

Bert had a good laugh when he woke up and saw the accident. So did Judy and Jerome when Ryan brought them.

“Would you look at that, Jerome? It looks like someone crashed the trains on their playset!” she mused, causing Jerome to giggle. Mike seethed, but he quickly clammed up when he was lifted into the air.

“Careful not to move too fast, Judy. The little guy looks like he’ll come right off in the breeze,” Jerome said as he lifted Rex. Judy, who was lifting up Mike (who looked absolutely horrified), snorted playfully.

“Just keep your eye on your own hook, Jerome.”

Ryan was more sympathetic.

“Sorry about your accident, you two. Did you ever learn what your numbers were?”

The dangling small engines shared a glance. Rex winked at Mike.

“We consider ourselves lucky we don’t have them. Numbers are silly. Aren’t they, Mike?” he grinned. Mike, catching on, grinned back.

“Very silly!”

Ryan was utterly baffled.

“Oh. Okay then.”

As Judy lowered Rex down to his flatbed, he noticed Bert being coupled up to a line of empty ballast hoppers near the turntable, looking very smug. Rex realized what his “special” was supposed to be.

He decided that perhaps it was best if some things were left unsaid after all.

Chapter Text

One autumn day, Thomas, Annie and Clarabel pulled into the top station. As they stopped to let passengers off, the coaches noticed the station staff putting up a poster next to the waiting room door.

Clarabel gasped when she saw what was on it.

“How could we have forgotten, Annie?”

Thomas, feeling rather left out, looked back.

“Forgotten what?”

“Have a look, Thomas!” said Annie. Thomas eyed the poster apathetically. In the middle, children and adults alike dressed up in various Halloween costumes. Below, orange and purple text read, "Ffarquhar Costume Party: Prepare for a Scare! Halloween Night, 7:00-10:00 P.M.”.

“The costume party?”

Annie and Clarabel shared a confused glance.

“You don’t sound very excited, Thomas,” noted Annie. Thomas harrumphed rebelliously.

“Why should I be?”

“You love the costume party!” Clarabel exclaimed in horror, “We take everyone to the station for it every year!”

“And then someone would be declared to have the scariest costume!” added Annie. Thomas considered responding to this, but he knew the coaches wouldn’t take his true thoughts on the matter very well. Thus, he donned a smile.

“Oh, of course! It’s all coming back now! I do love the costume party!” Thomas said this through clenched teeth, but Annie and Clarabel weren’t quite so perceptive at the moment.

“Aha, so do we! Don’t we, Annie?”

“We most certainly do, Clarabel! What will be the scariest costume this year?”

Thomas was rather glad he was leaving to be coaled and watered.

“Probably the same as last year,” he muttered.

Unfortunately for Thomas, his respite didn’t last. Annie and Clarabel talked of nothing but Halloween costumes all the way back to the junction. Needless to say, he wasn’t in a very good mood when he went to have a rest in the shed.

“‘Prepare for a scare’... Rubbish...” Thomas yawned and was just about to fall asleep when a shrill whistle and a bell woke him back up. Percy and Toby approached the sheds, avidly chatting.

“The costume party’s soon! I can’t wait to see all the costumes people make! They’re all so different!” enthused Percy. Thomas snorted at this but no one heard.

“I know! Perfect for the season too,” said Toby, “Some of them keep me up at night!”

This was too much for Thomas.

“You’re really scared of people playing dress-up?” he remarked plainly. Toby blushed; he hadn’t seen Thomas.

“They’re very creative,” he began, but Thomas cut him off.

“No they’re not! They’re all the same! Ghosts, skeletons, goblins. What’s so scary about those?”

Toby was most surprised. “I thought you liked them.”

“I did when I was young and easily impressed, but I’ve seen it all now,” Thomas boasted, “Nothing rattles me anymore.” 

“You were certainly rattled by my ghost!” Percy huffed. Thomas rolled his eyes.

“That wasn’t a costume, that was an accident. I wouldn’t be fooled again anyway.”

Before Toby or Percy could answer, Thomas fell asleep. Toby grimaced and puffed away to his next job.

Days passed, and Halloween drew nearer and nearer. Toby couldn’t help but think about what Thomas said.

“Thomas has to still be scared of something. Everyone is,” he told Henrietta as they made their way along the tramroad. Henrietta chuckled.

“Yes, even you, I know. You don’t have to be so embarrassed, Toby. The holiday’s made for it!”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Toby muttered, “People just come up with scary ideas. Last year, someone dressed up as a spider.”

Henrietta shuddered. “Eugh. Don’t make me picture it.”

“Well, everyone has to be scared of something!” grinned Toby.

“Oh, hush.”

Talking with Henrietta always made Toby feel better, but Thomas remained on the mind.

“I wonder...”

Toby slowly smiled as an idea flew into his funnel.

Later that day, Toby was on his break. He was resting near the shed and watching the birds in
their birdhouse.

“Hmm... What’s the scariest thing?”

The birds made him think of large dinosaurs. He knew some things about dinosaurs: they were very tall, made loud noises and had sharp teeth. Toby, however, still found it difficult to picture them.  

“No, that won't work... What else, what else?”

From his place in the yard, Toby spotted the group of passengers assembling on the platform. One had a porcelain doll that Toby thought looked rather unnerving.

“A haunted doll...?” He burned that idea almost immediately; he knew just what Thomas would say about a doll, even if professed to be “haunted”. Toby groaned in frustration.

“This is hopeless.”

“What is, old fellow?” Toby’s crew walked up to him, each holding a biscuit. Toby, somewhat reluctantly, told them about his scheme. The driver laughed.

“So you’re upset Thomas teased you about being scared of-”

“No!” cut in Toby, blushing, “It’s just, er, I want him to know the Halloween spirit again!”

The stoker rubbed his chin. “Do you want to be dressed up, Toby?”

Toby was abashed.

“I can dress up?”

“You could, if you had some sort of costume idea.”

Toby pondered and looked around the station again. Nothing caught his attention, to his dismay. Just as he was about to tell the crew he’d run dry, he glanced back at the shed. After a moment of staring, Toby slowly smirked.

“I think I do.”

It took some convincing to get the crew to agree to go, which Toby understood; he didn’t exactly like going to the Waste Dump either...most of the time. Today, he was actually excited as he drew to a halt at the entrance. He wasn’t daring enough to go further into the stench in case he changed his mind. He rang his bell to alert anyone that he was there.

There was a loud gasp from beyond the walls.

“A visitor! We never have visitors! I’ll be right there!” called the voice. Toby gagged at the increasingly foul odor that drifted closer and closer. Finally, Whiff approached, beaming from buffer to buffer.

“Toby! What a nice surprise!”

Toby’s cheeks had turned a light green.

“H-Hello, Whiff. Do you-”

“And you’re not bringing any rubbish, which means...” Whiff gasped again, now with stars in his eyes. “...you came to just say hi!” Toby grimaced as Whiff rolled closer until their buffers were almost touching.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be friends! You should’ve said something sooner!”

“I want cardboard,” blurted out Toby. Whiff blinked.

“Cardboard?”

“You do have that, don’t you?”

Toby’s crew (who wisely had plugged their noses) leaned out of Toby’s cab, anticipating Whiff’s answer. He thought for a moment before grinning.

“Of course we do! Right this way!”

Toby discreetly sighed with relief as Whiff reversed back into the dump.

A few days later, Halloween arrived. People young and old dressed up in all sorts of costumes crowded the platform at the junction. Annie and Clarabel were equally eager, pointing out each and every costume they could see.

“Look at that! They really went all out this year!” Annie said, eyeing a man with a collared shirt, bowler hat and a pipe in his mouth. Clarabel giggled.

“There’s the Fat Controller!”

A plump little boy wearing a miniature version of the Fat Controller’s attire leapt aboard the train, his family hurriedly following. The coaches laughed, but Thomas just stared dully ahead.

“Thomas, at least look excited!” urged Annie, “You’ll make everyone upset!” Thomas grunted.

“Then they should come up with better costumes.”

Annie and Clarabel gasped indignantly.

“How can you say that? These are the best ones yet!”

“Indeed! Just because you’re a...a... Annie, is there a Scrooge for Halloween?” Clarabel whispered. Annie frowned.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

Thomas just sighed as he waited impatiently for the guard’s whistle. But there was no whistle or flag. Thomas glared back.

“Where's the guard? If I have to pull this silly train, I’m at least going to be on time!”

The door to the station cafeteria swung open, and a clown with big floppy shoes and an equally big twisted smile charged at the coaches. Annie and Clarabel shrieked.

“Clown!” they exclaimed together. The clown stopped just before reaching them and pulled out a guard’s whistle.

“Only me!”

Annie and Clarabel laughed, as did the passengers, but Thomas just scowled.

“Mr. Giggles is a clown, and he’s not scary...” he grumbled. The clown guard blew her whistle and hopped aboard Clarabel’s compartment. Thomas was only too glad to leave.

Thomas was soon cross all over again; he had to stop at every station and pick up more people, which meant more costumes that Annie and Clarabel fawned over. Station after station, it was the same.

“She has a pumpkin on her head, Clarabel! It has such a scary face!”

“Oh goodness, there’s someone with bat ears!”

“And a cape!”

Needless to say, Thomas was growing quite fed up. Not even picking up Mrs. Kyndley at her cottage could cheer him up.

“Hello, dearies!”

The only change to her usual attire was a very large shark head over her own. Cane in hand, she trudged down the steps towards the railway.

“Hi, Thomas!” she waved. Thomas tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Annie and Clarabel laughed like hyenas. 

“How magnificent, Mrs. Kyndley!”

“She should win ‘scariest costume’ if you ask me!”

“But she wears that every year,” Thomas mumbled, disappointed.

At last, Thomas, Annie and Clarabel neared Ffarquhar. To Thomas’ surprise, the station was dark and no one was around. Usually, there’d be lit-up decorations of jack o’lanterns, bats and lights. Thomas hadn’t cared much for it in recent years, yet everything being so empty made him feel uneasy.

“Where is everyone?”

The coaches shared a glance.

“Oh dear. I hope the party hasn’t been canceled,” fretted Clarabel. Thomas didn’t answer; his eyes were glued on something else.

“Was that shed always there?”

In the sidings near the station, a one-road shed stood tall and static.

Thomas wasn’t sure why, but it felt like it was watching him.

Annie and Clarabel looked over at the shed.

“That wasn’t there this morning,” remarked Annie.

“They do build things quickly!” said Clarabel, “Perhaps it’s a new goods shed.”

Thomas didn’t answer; he just kept staring at the strange shed.

“I’m having a look.”

“It’s only a shed, Thomas,” Clarabel put in, but Thomas wasn’t listening. He motioned to his coupling, which a nearby worker unfastened. Thomas slowly maneuvered over the points and over to the shed.

“Hello?” he called inside, but there was no reply. Thomas awkwardly glanced at the coaches, who he thought were smiling cheekily at him.

Thomas scowled.

“They think I’m scared... I’m not scared.”

A red glow emanated from within the shed.

“It sounds like you are.”

Thomas lurched back in surprise; the voice was low yet undeniable.

“W-Who’s there?” he stammered.

The red glow appeared to blink. Thomas paled. Annie and Clarabel hadn’t heard.

“You’ve had your fun, Thomas. Get back here!” ordered Annie, but Thomas’ wheels were frozen.

The voice, whatever it was, still hadn’t answered.

Suddenly, a row of teeth seemed to emerge from the mouth of the shed.

“I like my food steamed.”

Thomas screamed and reversed away as quickly as he could. He hadn’t even made it out of the station, however, before he heard howling laughter. Thomas screeched to a halt, gaping as the echo of a familiar bell made itself apparent.

“...T-Toby?”

The walls of the “monster shed” promptly collapsed, revealing Toby laughing his sideplates off.

Thomas blinked, unable to process what just happened. Annie and Clarabel began laughing too.

Slowly, it dawned on him that he’d been had. Thomas blushed as red as Toby’s tinted lamp.

The costume party went off without a hitch; all the participants thought Toby’s costume was wonderful too.

“You and your crew have made the best costume I’ve ever seen!” enthused one, “How ever did you do it?” Toby looked around for any sign of Thomas. He’d apparently made himself scarce.

“I shouldn’t reveal my secrets, but...” Toby winked at the crowd. “Maybe just this once. You’d be surprised what Whiff’s Waste Dump has to offer. We got more supplies than we knew what to do with!”

“And you made such creative use from all of it!”

“You certainly frightened the bolts off Thomas!” laughed another. Mrs. Kyndley, still wearing her shark head, pushed herself through the crowd. “We think you deserve to win ‘scariest costume’, Toby!”

The rest of the crowd rallied in agreement.

Toby beamed

.
When Percy came home later that night, he was surprised to see a framed piece of paper on the wall of the shed.

“Huh? What’s this?”

“My award!” Toby backed into his berth, which happened to be the one with the award wall.

Percy gasped.

“An award? For what?”

“For winning the costume party.” Toby quickly explained all that had happened. To Toby’s confusion, Percy groaned.

“Percy? What’s wrong?”

“The ‘monster shed’ was so much better than my ghost! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Toby just laughed.

“Don’t worry, Percy. You’ll have plenty of chances to try again. The townspeople said that we engines can wear our own costumes for the party from now on!”

Annie and Clarabel cleared their throats from the carriage shed.

“We’re going too! We already have so many ideas!” said Clarabel.

Percy only then noticed that the third berth was empty.

“Where’s Thomas?”

“Sleeping outside,” smirked Toby.

Sure enough, far away from the shed was Thomas, struggling to fall asleep.

Toby chuckled.

“And here I thought a silly little costume couldn’t keep him up at night.”

“Be quiet!” called Thomas crossly, “I just, uh, don’t want to stare at your silly award!”

Toby couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“Never mind, Thomas! You can always try and scare me next year!”

Thomas didn’t answer; he just subsided into troubled grumbling.

Chapter Text

Ned was a very large steam shovel with a very large bucket. He'd been a member of the Pack for many years, but from the way he worked, passerby would be forgiven for thinking he'd only recently been built. Ned never meant for it to happen, but he had a habit of making a mess wherever he went. 

Once, Ned dropped the load of dirt he'd dug up directly on top of Alfie - just as the excavator drove by. Ned winced. 

"Oops."

Alfie's already existing smile widened. "Ooh, thanks Ned! I needed that refresher!" he called as he drove off. Ned managed a smile. He was not always so lucky, however. 

Another time, he'd been scooping some rock from a large pile. He sang a tune as he worked, as he tended to. He turned to head to the dumping site when he heard a scream of horror somewhere close by. Ned promptly screamed too. His eyes darted around. He couldn’t see anyone.

“Huh?”

“Ned, watch where you’re going! You could’ve flattened me!”

Ned peered down to see Jack glaring up at him.

Ned chuckled. “Sorry. You’re very small.”

His latest incident involved Miss Jenny's toolbox.

"Ned," Oliver said. He kept his voice steady, but annoyance seeped through. Ned couldn't look him in the eye. He always felt more ashamed when it was Oliver who gave him the talking-to. "Did you really not see it?" 

Behind Ned, the remains of the box and its contents were strewn about. Ned blushed. 

"Um...I didn't see it." This was true, but Oliver remained unimpressed. 

Miss Jenny wasn't pleased about the state of her toolbox either. She maintained her composure and told Ned he'd be sent back to the Yard early. Ned understood; Miss Jenny took safety very seriously.

That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

"It's not fair," he complained to no one, "I didn't mean to do it." He lazily looked around the Yard. Nobody was about, not even a stray worker or two. Ned sighed. He hated being alone in the Yard. It made it seem less like home and more like a container.

“I hope everyone’s not upset with me. I really did try today.”

Presently, he heard a horn, one that he wasn’t keen on hearing then.

“Oh no...”

Oliver trundled through the gate and towards the shed. Ned promptly began to snore. Oliver stopped and frowned at Ned. Ned, knowing that Oliver was watching, snored even louder. Oliver stared for a moment before rolling his eyes and heading off to his place in the shed. Once he thought Oliver wasn’t looking, Ned giggled mischievously.

“That’ll show him.”

Just as Oliver was getting settled, Nelson sped into the Yard and screeched to a halt in front of him.

“Nelson? What’s the rush?” asked Oliver. Nelson sighed in frustration.

“We’ve got an unexpected job. An old shed needs to be torn down. You’re needed there right away.”

Ned’s eyes flickered, but before he could say anything, Oliver smiled.

“Of course, Nelson. It’ll be nice to round the day off with some demolition.”

Nelson grimaced as he positioned his trailer so Oliver could roll onto it.

“But demolition is so...crude.”

“Not if you do it right!” Oliver replied simply.

Ned pouted; he was sure that Oliver was putting him down. After all, the only time he ever demolished anything was by backing into a large chimney — by accident.

He was glad to see Nelson and Oliver go.

“Silly Oliver,” grumbled Ned, “Getting all the good jobs..." He shut his eyes, and this time he actually fell asleep.

Ned blinked and turned from side to side. In all directions, he could only the vast expanse of grass. Ned slowly grinned.

“Hooray! Nothing to break!”

He whooped and cheered as he trampled the grass. No matter how far he went, it seemed as though he didn’t move at all. Ned frowned.

“Huh... Everything looks the same here. I wonder why.” Just as he started to try and think about it, he heard a voice calling him in the distance.

“Ned! Ned, over here!”

Ned’s eyes widened.

“That’s Miss Jenny! She wants me!” He instinctively hurried in the direction of the voice. “I’m coming, Miss Jenny!”

Trees erupted out of the ground to block his path, but Ned smashed right through them with his bucket. At last, he made out Miss Jenny waving to him.

“Oh, Miss Jenny! There you are!”

“Happy to see you too, Ned. I’ve a very important job that needs doing, and you’re essential for it!”

Ned’s face lit up. “‘Essential’...” He wasn’t quite sure what “essential” meant, but he knew it was something good.

“Yes, essential!” smiled Miss Jenny, “I need you, Jack and Alfie to each build a shed.”

Ned turned and was surprised to see Jack and Alfie standing right next to him. Neither acknowledged his presence.

“Where did they come from?” he gasped. No one answered the question.

“Your shed must be structurally sound if you want to withstand the wrecking ball,” Miss Jenny added.

“Yes, Miss Jenny,” chorused the machines, and they set to brainstorming at once.

Ned was worried. He wasn’t very good with ideas. No matter how much he thought, he couldn’t think of what to build his shed out of.

“Um...grass?” he suggested aloud. Jack laughed as he approached him.

“Grass won’t make a good shed, silly!”

Ned was very embarrassed as Jack sped off.

“Oh dear. I’m going to get my shed knocked down,” he lamented.

Jack wasn’t sure what to make his shed out of either.

“Shed, shed... What makes a good shed?” Jack struggled to think of a material. Worse still, there was nothing surrounding him to give him any inspiration. All there was was the grass.

“Oh bother... What if I don’t make a shed at all? I’ll lose by default!” Jack cried in horror. “I must build something quickly!” Piles upon piles of straw sprang up in a circle around him. Jack gasped.

“Straw! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that before? This’ll be easy!” He scooped some straw with his bucket and took it to his building site, invigorated.

It didn’t take him long to finish; when he was almost done, Alfie rolled past. Alfie stopped and stared at Jack’s shed.

“Jack? What’s that?”

“That, Alfie, is a very strong shed!” smirked Jack as he drove up from behind the structure. Alfie gazed at the shed again.

“It’s straw.”

“It's all I could find!” Jack huffed, “What are you building your shed out of?”

Alfie grimaced. “I’m still not sure.”

“Better hurry up!” teased Jack, “I’m almost done!” With that, he hurried away, leaving Alfie to sigh.

“What’s a shed usually made of?” he pondered, sitting a distance away from Jack and his straw shed. A grin spread across Alfie's face. “Of course! Wood!” Piles of sticks and twigs popped into existence near him. Alfie laughed triumphantly.

“And wood is very sturdy! Oliver can’t possibly knock it down!” Pleased with himself, Alfie somehow began assembling the sticks and twigs into a shed.

Jack happened by to see how he was getting on. He wasn’t expecting much, but he was most surprised to see that the shed was already built.

“H-Huh? How did you...”

“Oh, hi Jack!” Alfie rolled out from inside, smiling proudly. “What do you think?”

Jack peered up at the roof, which had a large red flag mounted to a pole.

“Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know. It just appeared! Thought I’d include it. Doesn’t it make the shed look nice?" Alfie asked, admiring his handiwork. Jack was astonished.

“I...I...suppose it does. I-It’s not a prettiness competition, mind you,” he went on, recovering, “What matters is if Oliver knocks it down.”

“He won’t!”

Jack harrumphed, a little jealous. “What if both of our sheds stay up?”

Alfie thought for a moment.

“Then we both win?” he suggested. Jack grinned.

“Sounds good to me! Just so long as Ned doesn’t win.” The two laughed uncharacteristically rudely.

Poor Ned hadn’t started to build his shed yet; he still hadn’t even thought of a material to use.

“Oh, Jack and Alfie have already built theirs...” he groaned, eyeing the two machines circling their sheds and laughing, “I might as well give up...”

But what would he tell Miss Jenny? He couldn’t let her down. Not again.

Ned took a deep breath and paced his patch of grass.

“Okay, Ned. Think. What’s the strongest thing?”

Ned strained as he tried to think of a material. He didn’t notice Patrick coming up behind him.

“Concrete,” he said matter-of-factly. Ned didn’t seem to hear.

“Um...straw? Wait, no, Jack’s already done that. Can we use the same thing?”

Patrick glared.

“Concrete,” he repeated, but Ned still didn’t acknowledge him.

“Wood? No, no, no! Alfie’s done that!” Ned’s mind remained empty. He was so upset he wanted to cry. Patrick's cheeks flushed red.

“Concrete is the strongest material to ever exist, you-” Patrick’s insult was cut off by Ned’s loud gasp.

“I know! I’ve got it! I know what to make my shed out of!”

Patrick sighed with relief. “Oh, good. You do have some sense.”

“Bricks!” grinned Ned. Patrick gaped.

Ned sensed someone staring at him. “Oh, hello! Are you...” He turned around, but no one was there. “Huh. That’s strange.”

Presently, a brick smacked him on the roof. “Ouch!” Ned turned again and was thrilled to see red bricks piled high in front of him.

“Hooray!” Humming his tune, Ned set to work.

It took quite a bit time for Ned to construct the shed, but it was well worth it in his opinion. Jack and Alfie stopped nearby to see what he was doing. They each gasped.

“Whoa. That actually looks like a nice shed,” Alfie noted. Ned beamed, unaware that his bucket was swaying and almost toppled the whole structure.

“Thanks!”

“Ah, I see you’re all finished then?” Miss Jenny walked up, surveying the three sheds the machines had built.

“Yes, ma’am,” they replied with confidence. Miss Jenny stepped back to admire Ned’s shed.

“Very good work, Ned. Let’s hope Oliver doesn’t knock it down.” She was only teasing, but Ned’s heart sank.

“He’s going to tear it down for sure... Oh, what am I going to do?” he mumbled sadly.

The ground began to tremble. Ned gasped as a large brown excavator with a grizzled beard and cold, empty eyes approached them. No one else seemed disturbed by the sight of him.

“Ah, Oliver! You’ve made it just in time!” said Miss Jenny. Oliver grunted.

“I’m going to enjoy this...”

A wrecking ball appeared on Oliver’s arm. He glared at Ned but nonetheless loomed over Jack’s straw shed. Jack chuckled.

“Good luck, Oliver! You’ll-” He couldn’t finish his sentence before the wrecking ball swung forward into his shed. It promptly collapsed in on itself, leaving only a pile of straw in its wake. Jack was horrified.

“But... But... I worked so hard on it!”

“Not hard enough,” sneered Oliver. Jack stared sadly down at the ground as Oliver turned to Alfie’s shed. He eyed it up and down. Alfie managed a nervous smile.

“I-It’s good, isn’t it, Oliver?”

“We’ll see.” Oliver swung his wrecking ball forward, and it smashed right through the wall of sticks. Alfie gasped; just like Jack’s, the shed collapsed in on itself, spilling sticks and twigs everywhere.

The flag sat solemnly atop the wreckage.

“Just as pathetic as the last," said Oliver, "Is there no one competent enough to do as Miss Jenny said?” He narrowed his eyes at Jack and Alfie, who each yelped and ran off.

The only one left was Ned. Oliver grit his teeth.

“You? Don’t make me laugh! You couldn’t possibly have-”

“I did!” interjected Ned, trying his best to glare back.

A tense silence ensued.

Finally, Oliver pulled up to Ned’s brick shed. His eyes roved from the bottom all the way to the top. He seemed almost impressed, but he didn’t dare say so. Ned wasn’t sure if he was excited or terrified.

“Go on. Knock it down!”

Oliver glowered. “Yes. I will.” With a mighty effort, he swung his wrecking ball forward, but all it did was bump off the wall. Oliver was taken aback. “Huh?”

Ned giggled. “I won! I won!”

“Not just yet, Ned.”

Ned jumped; standing right next to him was Miss Jenny, eyeing him doubtfully.

“M-Ma’am?”

“Oliver has three attempts with each shed. If he knocks it down on one of them...” She nodded at Oliver, who shot a nasty smirk at Ned.

“Only a fluke. This time, your rotten shed will be rubble.”

Ned frowned as Oliver swung the ball again. Like before, however, it merely biffed the wall. Oliver growled.

“One last try, Oliver!” called Miss Jenny.

Oliver slowly backed away from the shed. He then sped forward, swinging his wrecking ball.

Ned shut his eyes.

Jack and Alfie watched with interest.

The ball smacked into the shed. Once again, nothing happened. Oliver gaped.

“W-W-What?! How could you... It’s not possible!” he thundered. Ned beamed as Miss Jenny ran up to him.

“Well done, Ned! Using bricks to build your shed was a brilliant idea! You’d make a mother proud!” She began clapping, and Jack and Alfie began cheering.

“Woo! Go, Ned!”

“You sure showed Oliver!”

Flowers fell from the sky, draping themselves lovingly all over Ned.

Ned laughed in delight.

“Thank you! Thank you, everyone! Except you, Oliver, you big bully.”

Oliver’s eye twitched, and he promptly vanished. Ned didn’t care, nor did anyone else apparently.

“Hehe, thank you!”

“Thank you, thank you... Thank you...” Ned mumbled in his sleep. It was getting late, and the other machines would be returning home soon. The first to show was Nelson, towing a satisfied Oliver on his trailer. Nelson hooted his horn.

“Here we are, Oliver. Now we- I mean you can have a rest,” he said, obviously goading Oliver into saying “thank you”. Oliver, however, noticed Ned in the shed, smiling to himself. He was still somehow asleep.

“Nelson, did you hear anything just now?”

Nelson raised an eyebrow.  “No. All that’s here is Ned, and he doesn’t look like he's done much of anything today." 

Oliver frowned at Ned, who even with closed eyes looked upset by the comment. Oliver thought for a moment, then smiled.

“Ah well. There’s always tomorrow. Good night, Nelson.”

Oliver reversed off his trailer and trundled toward the shed. Nelson glanced between him and Ned, who was now smiling again.

Chapter Text

“Oh heavens!”

Millie eyed the groundskeeper nervously. He was on one knee, looking through his magnifying glass at the ground. It was not often he made such sudden exclamations.

“What’d you find, Mr. Alfred?”

“We’ve quite the scandal on our hands, Ms. Millie.”

Millie’s eyebrows shot up. “You found the centipede, Mr. Alfred?”

“No, that scoundrel had the decency to go back into hiding. One of our flowers has been consumed.” He stepped aside so Millie could see. Out of the cluster of petunias, one had been bitten clean off, leaving a sad-looking rump of a stem behind.

“You’d only just planted those!"

“I know. I turn my back for one second, and suddenly-”

The groundskeeper was rudely interrupted. A flash of brown burst from the bushes and galloped straight towards him.

“Mr. Alfred, look out!” cried Millie. The groundskeeper shrieked and leapt just before it reached him. Millie studied the animal in the swift moment it stopped at the railway line.

“A horse?”

As if it knew she was on its case, the horse turned its head towards Millie and bared its teeth. It then trotted right over the rails and disappeared into the bushes on the other side.

“Are you alright, Mr. Alfred?” Millie called frantically. The groundskeeper laid on his stomach with a grimace.

“Give me a minute, Ms. Millie.” He struggled to push himself up to his knees and gingerly rubbed his back.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Hmph. I need to see that beast driven out of here.” His anger drowning out any newfound aches, he rose and stomped towards Millie’s cab. “Let us inform the Earl of this treachery.”

It was an understatement to say the groundskeeper was surprised to find the Earl inside the castle - with the horse.

“Get away from it, sir!” exclaimed the groundskeeper, “It might be feral!”

The Earl waved them in as rubbed the bridge of the horse’s nose. The horse stared back with its content black eyes.

“No need to be frightened, Alfred!” said the Earl, “This horse is in perfectly good health!”

From the glisten in the horse’s brown coat, Millie knew the Earl was right.

“Where did it come from, sir?”

“I rode him here!” the Earl chuckled.

“Ah,” said Millie, entirely unfazed. The groundskeeper was very fazed.

“You brought that here?” He pointed accusingly at the horse. “It nearly flattened me!” The Earl patted the horse on the head.

“Wadsworth’s saying hello, I’m sure!”

“You named it already?” Millie asked with a knowing smirk. The Earl laughed.

“Any good horse needs a name! He’ll make a fine addition to our little group, don’t you think? It’s been so long since I’ve gone horseback riding, too.”

“Sir, you really must reconsider,” began the groundskeeper, “It- He’s not trained.” The Earl waved a dismissive hand.

“He doesn’t need it. You won’t even know he’s here, Alfred!” With a gentle tug of Wadsworth’s head collar rope, the Earl led him away. The groundskeeper shook his head.

“I cannot believe this. We’re infested.”

Millie giggled.

“It’s only a horse, Mr. Alfred. It can’t do that much.”

It turned out that it could.

A pair of deer often grazed near the tracks. They were used to trains, and so paid no mind when Stephen came crawling up with his train of eager visitors. The shorter deer cast a nervous glance at them.

“Aww!” said all the visitors. Suddenly, the deers’ heads shot up. They stared through the trees for barely half a second, then pranced out of sight. Leaves rustled near to where the deer once stood. Stephen raised an eyebrow.

“What the devil’s that?”

Wadsworth burst from the trees and neighed to announce his presence. The visitors groaned and stowed away their cameras.

“How lousy!” someone loudly complained, “We’re supposed to be deer-watching, not...not horse-watching!”

Stephen, tired of the horse standing around making a nuisance of itself, let off steam. Wadsworth neighed even louder and stood up on his hind legs. Stephen remained stoic as the horse retreated back into the greenery.

“Silly thing,” he grumbled.

Later in the day, two of the open-topped carriages returned from their visit to the Works. Glynn whistled his thanks to the engine that brought them, then pushed them towards the siding in the middle of the castle station. He gently halted and smiled at the carriages’ glossy finish.

“They did a grand job on these. I hope the passengers like it.” He began to reverse away, but he hadn’t even left the siding when-

WHAM!

Glynn froze.

“What was that?”

His crew hopped down to inspect. It didn’t take long for them to find the problem.

“One of the coaches is dented!” exclaimed the driver, pointing to the imprints. Two, hoof-shaped imprints at that.

From the corner of his eye, Glynn spotted Wadsworth sticking his head around a tree in the distance. The two made eye contact.

Wadsworth promptly galloped off in the opposite direction. Glynn grimaced.

“Oh dear.”

Stephen puffed into the castle station with yet another disappointed set of visitors.

“I don’t like the horsie, mum,” a boy complained, tugging on his mother’s sleeve, “Can we go now?” The mother shot Stephen a dirty look as she escorted him across the platform. Stephen sighed as Glynn pulled alongside.

“What happened this time?”

“That silly horse almost knocked the boy over. That family’s definitely not coming back.” He chuckled, but there was a bitterness in his voice. “You know, I’ve met some temperamental horses in my day, but this ‘Wadsworth’ fellow is something else.”

“So it seems,” said Glynn, “I wonder what’s wrong. Do you know?”

“Ah, I’m no trainer, old sport.” Stephen cracked a smile. “Maybe he ate something he shouldn’t have.”

At that moment, Millie bustled in. “Wadsworth gobbled up the rest of the cornflowers. Mr. Alfred worked so hard on getting them to grow too.”

“Wadsworth’s hardly been here a week,” fretted Glynn, “He’ll make us close at the rate he’s going.”

Stephen snorted. “We won’t let a horse bring us down! We’ll persevere! We’ll run him out! We’ll...” He glanced at Millie and Glynn. “...don’t suppose you have any ideas.”

“Oh? You sounded so sure, Stephen,” said Millie, unimpressed. Stephen gave her a look.

“Right, right, I did. I do! I’ll think of something...”

They waited for a solid minute, and still Stephen hadn’t said anything. Millie lost patience.

“All we need to do is tell the Earl. He’ll believe us.”

Stephen and Glynn shared a glance.

“Okay,” said Stephen slowly. He motioned to Glynn.

“Not it!” both exclaimed, and they scuttled away with their empty coaches before Millie could stop them.

“Hmph! Fine! I don’t need them anyway!” With a pout, Millie set off for the castle.

But Millie hadn’t gone very far when she heard the Earl whooping and hollering. Millie looked
around.

"Sir? What are you-”

Wadsworth flew past her and towards the castle entrance. On his saddle was none other than the Earl.

“Good tidings, Millie! Isn’t Wadsworth wonderful? Haha!”

Millie noticed that the drawbridge was not down and gasped in horror as Wadsworth and the Earl headed straight for the gap.

“Sir, sir! Wadsworth’s luring you into a trap!”

The Earl whistled, and at once the drawbridge swung down right as Wadsworth approached it. Wadsworth galloped across the drawbridge and into the castle. Millie reluctantly followed after him.

Inside, Wadsworth had stopped, and the Earl slid off the saddle.

“Good lad, Wadssworth.” He patted the bridge of the horse’s nose again, and the horse stared back. He then turned to the approaching Millie.

“You really must have more faith in Wadsworth, Millie. I know you listen to Alfred a lot, but Wadsworth means no harm to anyone. He’s the friendliest horse I’ve ever met!” The Earl began to laugh. “And I’ve met a lot of horses!”

As the Earl led Wadsworth away with the guiding rope, Millie was left at a loss for words.

“You do look glum, Ms. Millie.” The groundskeeper attended to a bush with his clippers as Millie puffed up behind him. Millie sighed.

“What are we going to do about Wadsworth, Mr. Alfred?”

“The horse doesn’t need a name,” muttered the groundskeeper, “How Earl has such an attachment to the blasted thing is beyond me.” Millie frowned.

“He told me stories of when he’d ride horses on his travels. I think he even went racing a few times.”

The groundskeeper harrumphed. “If he’s building a racetrack just for that ‘Wadsworth’, I’m handing in my resignation. Though if he keeps eating everything, there won’t be much left for me to do anyway,” he added dryly. Millie was about to retort when an engine whistled from nearby. An engine that Millie wasn’t thrilled to see.

“Oh no. Not Samson,” she groaned. The groundskeeper promptly disappeared into the bush he was clipping.

“And a good day to you too,” huffed Samson as he approached, “Is that really any way to greet the one who has come to you in your hour of need?” Millie rolled her eyes.

“I never heard of any delivery.”

“You just don’t listen! I’ve brought the dear sustenance your Earl’s companion needs.” Samson smiled proudly; behind him was a whole train of stacked hay bales. Millie was a little surprised that it was all still in the trucks. She swiftly recovered.

“Leave it at the station,” she said, and she scuttled off.

“You could say ‘please’!” shouted Samson, but Millie took no notice. Samson scowled.

“Silly little engine.” He began pushing his trucks back towards the station, grumbling to himself. He didn’t notice two eyes peering out from the bush.

Samson shunted his trucks of hay into one of the sidings between the platforms. Just as he was being uncoupled, Samson heard what sounded like the trot-trot of a horse. He was startled to indeed see a horse sticking his head into one of the trucks.

“Where’d you come from?” he sputtered. The horse briefly looked up, snorted, then went back to his impromptu meal. Samson was alarmed.

“Hey! You can’t eat that all right now! You’re supposed to ration it!” He was quite proud that he knew what "ration" meant.

But Wadsworth didn’t care how proud Samson was. He just kept on eating. At last, when his stomach was full, he trotted over and whinnied. Samson couldn’t be cross anymore.

“Oh, you were just really hungry, weren’t you? Poor thing.” Samson whistled, but this unfortunately made Wadsworth kick in fright.

“Oops. Sorry, horse. Until we meet again.” Samson rolled off towards the castle to use their turntable. He glanced back at the horse, which now ran back into the trees out of sight.

Samson tried not to think about his guilt.

“Ahem.”

Samson screeched to a stop.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, only to be met with “Ssh!”. The groundskeeper strode out from behind one of the lamp posts that lined the platform. Samson gaped.

“How’d you do that?”

“It would seem you and the horse get along,” said the groundskeeper. Samson chuckled in what he thought was a modest way.

“I know. I am very amiable!”

“Mmm, yes.” He didn’t hesitate whatsoever before saying what he did next. It might’ve been better if he did. “How would you like to keep it?”

Samson gasped. “Do you mean it?”

The groundskeeper looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Seeing no one, not even Millie, he sighed in relief.

“It doesn’t belong here, so if you-”

“Say no more. If you won’t take good care of him, I will. I’ve even brought a ride for him.”

The groundskeeper grimaced and eyed the open trucks behind Samson.

“You need a legitimate cattle wagon if you’re going to transport it.”

“Oh.” Samson’s smile swiftly returned. “No trouble! I’m on my way to the shunting yard. I’ll just find one there!” He whistled and puffed away light-engine. The groundskeeper glanced around before disappearing into another bush.

Samson was thrilled the whole way to the shunting yard.

“I’ve never had a horse for a friend before!” He rolled into the yard, not even noticing that he just cut off Stafford trying to pass with some flatbeds. Stafford blinked and narrowed his eyes.

“Samson?”

“Greetings, Stafford!” Samson called back, “Happy to help. I know my strength is desperately needed around here.” Before Stafford could reply, Samson set to work, albeit in a rather distracted manner.

This was normal for Samson, so Stafford didn’t question it.

“He usually at least shows up on time,” he muttered before addressing his colleague. “Charlie, can you do me a favor? There’s some stock that needs to be looked at. Samson was supposed to take them to the out-of-use sidings, but...”

Charlie, who was having his bunker refilled at the coal hopper, snickered to himself. Stafford gave him a look.

“Charlie?”

“Huh? What? Oh, uh, yeah, Staffy. Got it.”

“Murdoch’s heavy goods should be arriving soon too. There’ll be a lot of trucks for Samson to stow away.”

Charlie’s eyes flickered. “Hey, Staffy, pal. I’ve been on my game lately. Can I...?”

Stafford was too preoccupied to notice.

“I should charge my battery, but...” He regarded some stray coaches that were sitting in the carriage shed. Almost, anyway; they jutted outside into the sun. “...I should tidy those up some. It’ll be fine.” With a hoot of his horn, Stafford hurried away. Charlie sighed.

“If I was a battery, he’d listen to me.” He began to chuckle. “Heh. Battery.” Charlie puffed over towards the stock Stafford was referring to. It was a random lineup of wagons, with a rickety cattle van at the front.

“Guess I’ll get this over with.” Charlie buffered up to the cattle wagon and was coupled up. Just as he was about to move, Samson suddenly reversed alongside.

“Hello, Charlie. Are you having trouble moving those?”

“No,” said Charlie defensively, “It’s just boring, you know? None of these are very receptive to jokes. Or anything else, for that matter.” Samson smirked at the cattle wagon at the front of the line.

“Let me handle it. A job meant for me should be done by me.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at him. “Can’t let Staffy and Stan see me slacking off, though.”

Samson scrambled to think of something to say to rebuke this, but nothing came. Murdoch’s distant whistle punctured the silence.

“Oh, yes! How about you handle whatever he’s bringing in?” suggested Samson brightly.

Charlie’s face lit up.

“Really? You mean it?”

“I always do what I mean.”

Charlie snorted at this but nonetheless was uncoupled and backed up from the cattle wagon.

Samson took his place, bumping the cattle wagon as he did so.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I owe you one, Samuel.” With a cackle, Charlie scuttled off to stow away Murdoch’s trucks. Samson puffed out of the yard with his singular wagon, grumbling to himself.

“Samuel... No respect at all, these engines.”

Samson took his cattle van back up to the castle. It creaked and groaned as if it didn’t want to go, but Samson didn’t care what it thought. He slid through the gates and eyed the station suspiciously.

No one was there.

“Samson here, at your service,” he whispered aimlessly, hoping that the mysterious man in the black suit would hear him.

He almost expected it this time when the groundskeeper popped out from behind the lamp post.

“Good, you...” The groundskeeper gazed at Samson’s choice for horse transportation. “Was this really the highest quality you could uncover?”

“It is the best!” protested Samson, “It has ventilation!” There was a concerning crack in the roof.

The groundskeeper shifted from one *** to the other.

“Er, very well. We’ll have to be quick now.”

Samson watched with interest as the groundskeeper shuffled from the trucks of hay to the cattle wagon, grabbing clumps of hay and tossing them onto the floor.

“Making him a bed! How very thoughtful of you.”

The glower from the groundskeeper shut down any more discussion on the matter. Within a few minutes, the groundskeeper was satisfied.

“This should be enough. Now, we just need to lure the be-” He swiftly corrected himself. “-horse into...it.”

The cattle van creaked, sounding as though it were offended.

Millie idled at the far end of the grounds. This part of the line overlooked the valley and the village nestled within it. Millie enjoyed the view, but it made her feel rather small.

“Everything’s acceptable over here, right, Mr. Alfred?”

There was no answer from her cab. Millie glanced around. Usually, the groundskeeper was at least within shouting distance, though they’d never shout at each other. That would be undignified.

“Mr. Alfred?” Millie shouted. Her voice only echoed down the cliffside. The fire in her firebox grew brighter.

“Where did you go? Mr. Alfred!” She moved backwards down the track, still scanning her surroundings. He knew how to blend in, but she always knew how to find him.

Or, she usually did.

“Mr. Alfred!”

“Ms. Millie?” The groundskeeper seemed to pounce out from behind a tree. Millie shrieked for the briefest moment before realizing who it was.

“Mr. Alfred!” she cried with both joy and annoyance, “Where have you been?”

The groundskeeper brushed a stray ant off his neck.

“Deepest apologies for scaring you, Ms. Millie. You left me behind when you were settling a score with Samson.”

Millie gasped.

“Oh, Mr. Alfred! I’m sorry!”

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Millie. No harm done.” He climbed back into Millie’s cab. “Would you say we’re done for the day?”

“We’ll need to get more flowers later, if Wadsworth eats any more,” grinned Millie, but she was interrupted by the groundskeeper’s sudden cough.

“Mr. Alfred! Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you, Ms. Millie.” The groundskeeper wasn’t wheezing or making any other awful noises, so Millie took that as a good sign and set off without any further objections.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Samson and Wadsworth. The strongest tank engine and...well, I’m sure you have some talent.” Samson looked back at the cattle van, inside of which Wadsworth munched on bits of hay.

Wadsworth stared through the cracks in the side of the wagon. Glimpses of green and blue flashed before him.

He snorted.

“Everything alright back there, Wadsworth?” asked Samson. The horse, of course, didn’t answer.

Suddenly, Samson felt a jerk on his coupling.

“Hey! Stop that!” he demanded, and the movement stopped. Samson smiled, but not for long.

Clangs and bangs came from the cattle van.

“Wadsworth! Behave yourself! I’m helping you, remember?”

But Wadsworth kept on bashing against the door. The coupling kept tightening, and Samson’s buffers kept getting bumped. Samson glared back.

“You’re bumping me? Unbelievable! After all that I’ve done for you!” He gave the wagon a stern bump back. Wadsworth’s indignant neigh flew out to Samson. Samson harrumphed.

“Don’t blame me. You asked for it.” He bumped the wagon again for good measure, and finally all was still. Samson smirked to himself.

“Ha! All it takes is a bit of discipline.”

Ahead was a red signal. Samson, surprisingly, saw it in time and managed to stop, though not smoothly. He bumped the cattle van once more, but Samson didn’t notice.

“Oh, bother. What’s the holdup?” He soon got his answer. After a few moments of waiting, a passing train tore past, making such a noise that Samson couldn’t hear himself think.

He also couldn’t hear the door to the cattle van bursting open.

Wadsworth poked his head out and watched the train become a speck in the distance. He turned to look at Samson, who was fussing that the signal hadn’t yet changed back.

Without a second thought, Wadsworth leapt out of the cattle van and into the countryside. The signal dropped and Samson whistled importantly.

“Finally. Come on, Wadsworth. You’ll be happy when we get to your new home.” Samson started off again, nonethewiser.

When Millie and the groundskeeper arrived back inside the castle, they found the Earl pacing theplatform.

“Sir?” Millie gasped. The Earl stopped and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Millie! Thank goodness! Have you seen Wadsworth anywhere?” He sounded so hopeful that

Millie hated to disappoint him with the truth.

“I saw him yesterday if that helps, sir.”

She was sorry that it didn't as the Earl paced around again.

“I don’t understand. He was right where I left him this morning.”

“Horses are unpredictable, sir,” remarked Millie gravely.

“But Wadsworth is so well-behaved!” the Earl said, grieved, “He wouldn't leave on purpose. He was so happy here!”

Millie doubted this, but she supposed the Earl was better at knowing how to read horses than her.

“We must find him!” declared the Earl, “He must be so terribly lost and afraid! Oh, poor Wadsworth...” Millie hated seeing him like this, even if the object of his sorrow was, in her humble opinion, not worth missing all that much.

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll do everything we can. You never know. He might still be around.”

The groundskeeper coughed again, making his presence known for the first time in the conversation.

“Indeed, sir. I’ll be on the lookout for the...fellow.”

“You’re too kind,” the Earl smiled, “Thank you. Perhaps you’re right. He does fancy a bit of hide and seek!” With a bit more energy to him than before, the Earl opened the door and entered the castle.

“He couldn’t have gone far,” Millie said at last, “Come on, Mr. Alfred.” She whistled and scurried off to begin their search.

Their search proved to be as thorough as any other inspection they went on. Millie whistled, the groundskeeper (with a halfhearted performance) called, but still, Wadsworth didn’t appear.

The groundskeeper was rather relieved. The last thing he wanted was for Wadsworth to miraculously show up again.

“Don’t you think we’ve exhausted our options by now, Ms. Millie? It’s quite apparent he’s not here.”

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Alfred.” She paused, then looked back. “Mr. Alfred? Do you really want to find Wadsworth?”

The question utterly astonished the groundskeeper. He had no response to it; none that he could say without immediately incriminating himself, at least.

“Er, I don’t know. Do you, Ms. Millie?”

There was a silence before Millie answered.

“The Earl does. What I think doesn’t matter right now.”

The groundskeeper found Millie’s loyalty to the Earl admirable most of the time, but this was an instance where he thought it a bit disturbing.

“...I see.”

“Do you have any ideas on where he could be?”

The groundskeeper instinctively felt his graying mustache.

“Not the faintest one,” he said, truthfully.

Samson neared Vicarstown now. He hadn’t been stopped or questioned once, at least not to his face, and he grew more excited by the minute.

“Bradford’s gonna love having you around, Wadsworth. He really likes horses. Something about them having honor.” His ensuing chuckle oozed self-importance. “I’m honored to be taking you, Wadsworth.”

As he approached the station, he thought he heard a muffled snicker. Samson looked around, but he only saw Rosie pushing some empty coaches out from the far platform.

“Hmm.” Samson narrowed his eyes at her, but she didn’t seem to have even noticed him. Samson carried on, unconcerned.

“Those castle folk really don’t know what they’re missing. Sure, you’re a bit temperamental, but we all have our weaknesses.”

There was another snort, this one louder than the previous. Samson slammed on his brakes and shot an accusing glare at Rosie.

“What’s so funny then, huh?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing funny about imaginary friends. Nothing at all,” Rosie grinned. Samson whooshed so much steam that he and the cattle van were covered.

“I’ll have you know,” he snapped, “that Wadsworth is very real!”

“Sure he is,” replied Rosie, regarding the groaning cattle van with obvious pity.

“Let’s go, Wadsworth. Someone’s jealous.” Samson whistled and departed, but not before Rosie saw the open door on the cattle van swaying about.

“Hey, Samson! Maybe you should take your friend to the Works first. Could use some fixing up!”

That gave Samson pause.

“Horses don’t go to the Works...” Now unsure, he glanced back. “Right, Wadsworth?”

Silence.

“...Wadsworth?”

Not a whinny or a snort. Not even a pat on the floor with his hoof.

“W-Wadsworth! Speak to me!”

Rosie frowned and switched to a closer track.

“You think there’s a horse in there?”

“There was!” insisted Samson, “There is!” Rosie glanced at the open door on the cattle van.

“Nope. Just some hay-”

“WADSWORTH!” wailed Samson in anguish, and he reversed back down the line before Rosie had the chance to say anything else.

Millie and the groundskeeper arrived back at the castle station Stephen and Glynn were already there.

“Any sign of Wadsworth?” inquired Millie. Stephen sighed. 

“None. It’s like he disappeared by magic!” He and Glynn giggled, and Millie had to keep herself from joining in.

“This is serious, you two. I don’t know what the Earl will do if we don’t find him.”

From inside her cab, the groundskeeper squirmed, though Stephen was much less convinced. 

“He’ll get some other horse, Millie. There’s enough of them around.”

“Maybe one without such a disposition,” added Glynn.

“The Earl wants Wadsworth,” said Millie, halfheartedly. Stephen and Glynn shared a look.

“Everyone has bad ideas, Millie,” replied Stephen, “You know as much as anyone how awful that horse is. You don’t really want him back, do you?”

“I...” Millie didn’t have a good answer to that. She didn’t want him back, not after he made everyone (including herself) so cross.

The groundskeeper hopped down from Millie’s cab whilst no one was watching. He shuffled into the bushes and disappeared.

The groundskeeper popped in and out of bushes, clipping flowers as he went. He tried not to think too much about the pit in his stomach.

“It’s for the greater good,” he muttered. He avoided looking at the bluebells he stuffed them in his pocket.

“This ought to be enough.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been caught - or worse, was being followed. Unsurprisingly, the engines were still discussing the horse.

“What if we found a different horse that looked the same,” suggested Glynn. Stephen began to laugh.

“That’s a grand idea!”

“It’s deceiving,” put in Millie crossly, “I won’t do it.” The groundskeeper didn’t stick around to hear anything else.

There was a hiking trail that snaked down the hill that Ulfstead Castle rested upon. Personally, the groundskeeper never took much interest; he was too old for such rigorous exercise.

As such, he wasn’t thrilled when he made his way down it. It took a long time, and the idea of being in the woods as day turned to dusk wasn’t tantalizing.

“Horse?” he hissed. The grass near him rustled, and a deer scampered off. The groundskeeper groaned and felt his pocket to make sure he hadn’t dropped all the flowers.

“Horse?” he hollered again, cupping his hands over his mouth. Some birds flew away in protest, but Wadsworth didn’t show himself.

“Of course he wouldn’t,” the groundskeeper said to himself bitterly.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by an unfortunately placed stone on the trail. The groundskeeper tripped and found himself face-first in a bush. He scowled and dragged himself back up.

“Blast it all.”

The trail took a hard right, but he ignored it and maneuvered his way across some rocks. The trees cleared, and to his horror, there was the railway line.

A whistle blew in the distance. The groundskeeper bristled and hid behind a tree. Samson came into view, shouting at the top of his voice.

“Wadsworth? Wadsworth, I’m coming! I’ll find you, I promise!”

“Oh bother.”

Samson still had his cattle van, though his high speed wasn’t doing it any favors. It rocked and rolled, it bounced and swayed. More cracks were forming in the wood, and those already present were widening.

The groundskeeper’s heart sank.

Samson had lost him.

He should’ve guessed this would happen. Perhaps he just didn’t care before. He doubted he did now.

“I still have some hay left!” called Samson. The groundskeeper wanted to go out and tell him it was hopeless, but he didn’t like giving himself away if he didn’t have to.

Suddenly, both man and engine heard a faint but undeniable neigh.

“Wadsworth!” they exclaimed together. The groundskeeper covered his mouth, but it was too late.

Samson screeched to a stop. He gazed at the trees for a moment before gasping.

“Hey! I know you! You’re that plant fellow! You’re not having him back!” He whistled and sped off in the hopes of catching him first. The groundskeeper grit his teeth, cursing himself for such an amateur mistake and ran alongside the railway line.

Wadsworth was gnawing on a twig, shrouding himself in the shadows of the leaves above, when his pursuers caught their first glimpses of him.

“Wadsworth, it’s me!” called Samson excitedly, “Come on, get in the truck and let’s go!”

Wadsworth, quite a visible distance away from the railway, only gazed at Samson and his trembling cattle van and promptly turned to chew somewhere else.

“Wadsworth, wait! Come back! Wadsworth!” But no matter how much Samson pleaded, the horse wouldn’t listen. The groundskeeper came panting up, still somehow holding onto his flowers.

“Wadsworth! Over here, old chum!” He waved a sad petunia in front of him. Wadsworth stopped and turned. He took one look at the petunia and stepped cautiously closer.

“Bribery!” cried Samson, but neither the groundskeeper or Wadsworth paid him any attention. The groundskeeper held out the flower, and Wadsworth sniffed. Deeming it safe, the horse took it from his hand and ground it to bits between his teeth.

The groundskeeper couldn’t look. Neither could Samson.

“That’s it, lad. Follow me.” The groundskeeper took several steps back before holding out his next flower, this one a bluebell. Wadsworth trotted over to him, and the process repeated. The groundskeeper went back along the trail, and Wadsworth ate whatever colorful flower was put in front of
him.

Samson was horrified.

“Wadsworth?”

But Wadsworth didn’t even look back as he followed the groundskeeper into the woods.

Going back up the hiking trail with a horse wasn’t easy, but the groundskeeper wasn’t about to try and ride him. He was just glad Wadsworth hadn’t bitten off a finger.

They were almost at the castle now, though no one knew of their approach. The groundskeeper preferred it that way.

“Almost there, lad,” he coaxed, reaching for more flowers. The horse nibbled on yet another bluebell, and the groundskeeper turned to see if they’d be spotted. The engines, including Millie, were still idling at the castle station. They were probably still discussing the very thing he’d brought back.

He still couldn’t believe he was doing this.

“Alfred!”

Someone wrapped their arms around him, pulling him into a bear hug. The groundskeeper let out a gasp for air.

“E-Earl?”

The Earl released him, enabling him to breathe again, and pranced over to Wadsworth. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, but Wadsworth’s nose wasn’t picking up any more flowers.

The engines heard the commotion and puffed over.

“Mr. Alfred!” cried Millie, her shock a bit too exaggerated. Stephen and Glynn put on forced smiles.

“Would you look at that? He actually found him,” Stephen whispered.

“Not a scratch either,” added Glynn.

“How can I ever thank you enough, Alfred? Taking precious time away from your passion for plants to save Wadsworth! Didn’t you miss us, Wadworth?”

Wadsworth slowly blinked, then turned and trotted away to find any more flowers he’d missed.

The Earl was stunned.

“W-Wadsworth?”

Millie frowned; the gears were turning in her smokebox.

“Sir? We need to talk.” She glanced at the now-interested Stephen and Glynn. “Alone.” The other two engines whistled innocently as they puffed off.

The groundskeeper naturally hid in a bush, as far away from the horse as he could manage.

“What’s the matter, Millie?” the Earl asked kindly.

“It’s Wadsworth, sir.”

“Ha! He’s a bit rambunctious, isn’t he?”

“Sir.” Millie said this with more force in her voice. “I know you really wanted a horse, sir, but he's rude, and gets in everyone’s way, and I’ve just realized the only reason he hadn’t run off sooner was he wanted to eat all our flowers first, and...and...” She suddenly found herself getting cold wheels. Who was she to dispute the Earl on what he wanted? He always knew what was best.

“Millie?”

To Millie’s surprise, the Earl looked upset but not offended.

“Is this...really all true?” 

The groundskeeper popped out of the bush and next to the Earl.

“I can verify it all, sir. He...” He was about to go off on a tirade about all of Wadsworth’s wrongs, but Millie gave him a look, so he cleared his throat and simply said, “...only came back with me because I gave him what was left.”

Millie gasped.

“But Mr. Alfred! All your hard work!”

The groundskeeper gave her a look in return, and Millie subsided. The Earl paced between them with his hands clasped behind his back.

“This won’t do. This won’t do at all.” He turned to the groundskeeper. “Alfred, I’m very sorry about all this. I promise I’ll make up for it.”

“You don’t need to, sir-” the groundskeeper began, but the Earl shushed him. “I insist! Full replacement of flowers lost. It’s the least I can do. I’m glad you told me the truth,
Millie. You must know I do value your input.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Millie, sounding sufficiently dignified, “What are you going to do with
Wadsworth? You could train him.”

“I haven’t the time, I’m afraid. I have a big project in the works, and I shouldn’t distract myself...too much.” He stepped closer and whispered. “I’d like your feedback on some of my new ideas.”

Millie beamed.

Edward arrived that evening (with an intact cattle wagon) to take Wadsworth away. Millie and the groundskeeper watched from a distance as the Earl walked up to the wagon.

“Farewell, Wadsworth. I know Charles will take care of you. Perhaps if you’re good, you can come visit! How’s that sound?”

Wadsworth gave no verbal reply. He just stared dully back at him.

“I think he’s pleased to be leaving,” whispered Millie to the groundskeeper, who couldn’t help chuckling.

“Aren’t we all?”

The door to the cattle wagon was shut and latched. Edward gave a short blast of his whistle and departed with Wadsworth in tow. Just as Edward left, Samson arrived, though not with his rickety cattle van. Instead, he had several trucks filled with all different kinds of flowers, from bluebells to petunias.

“Thanks for the delivery, Samson,” called Millie. The groundskeeper had mysteriously disappeared.

“Hmph.” Samson apparently hadn’t gotten over what had happened.

“Bad day, Samson?” Millie asked knowingly.

“I’m in big trouble now,” muttered Samson, “After I leave these flowers here, they want me to stay in that shunting yard for a few days. I’m not allowed to go near the out-of-use sidings.”

“Why?”

“None of your concern,” said Samson hastily. Without another word, he was uncoupled from the flowers and rushed off. When he was gone, the groundskeeper leaned out of Millie’s cab. Millie giggled.

“Afraid of your accomplice, Mr. Alfred?”

The groundskeeper went white as a ghost. Millie laughed heartily.

“I won’t tell! Though, really, Mr. Alfred, Samson? Of all engines?”

The groundskeeper tugged at his collar.

“May we cease this line of discussion, Ms. Millie?”

“Of course, Mr. Alfred.”

Chapter Text

The Small Controller was a professional man. With his tall stature and ironed brown suit, he had a way of making anything he said important.

But recently, the Small Controller behaved in a rather peculiar manner. He’d whisper to fellow staff, who returned the excitement. He often disappeared into his office for hours on end; sometimes, someone else came to brief the engines on their duties.

The engines didn’t like being left out - especially Rex.

“There’s a secret floating around,” he said to Mike and Bert. Mike rolled his eyes.

“Well done, Rex. None of us figured that out.”

“I know. That’s what I’m here for,” smirked Rex. Mike clenched his teeth, but Bert spoke next.

“He snuck into the woods yesterday. I saw him. He didn’t see me, thank goodness for that. Maybe,” he finished thoughtfully, “that’s the secret.”

Rex pondered for a moment. “No, no, that’s not right. People like to walk around. It’s just what they do. It has to be something else.”

“It is indeed.”

The engines stopped talking at once. Coming towards them was the Small Controller.

“Sir!” Rex cried, abashed, “I...”

“You engines are too curious for your own good,” smiled the Small Controller, “One of these days, we won’t be able to keep anything from you.” Rex blushed, as did Bert. Mike, rather unashamed, kept his sour face.

“But for now, I’m pleased to reveal some very good news. Today, you shall see a new set of bogie hoppers arrive.” He paused impressively.

Mike’s face promptly lit up. “Oh thank you, Mr. Duncan! I always said we needed more of them.”

“But why would you go to the woods?” protested Bert, “Are the trucks hiding in there?”

The Small Controller whistled through his fingers. The engines subsided.

“You’re all aware of the junction by Marthwaite?”

The engines murmured in vague understanding. Truthfully, none of them had paid much attention to it.

“That line leads to a granite quarry. It was used by the previous railway, and we thought it no use to us. But...” The Small Controller grinned from ear to ear. “We’ve discovered many untapped deposits. Which means you’ll be very busy taking granite from the quarry on top of all your other jobs, but I trust you’ll handle it well.”

“Yes, Mr. Duncan,” chorused the engines. Rex immediately edged forward.

“Please, can I be the first to the quarry?”

The Small Controller nodded in approval.“That’s what I like to hear: taking the initiative. You can start tomorrow. The rest of you will join in as needed.” He strode away, just in time for Mike to almost burst a valve.

“Why do you get to go? I take care of my trucks! I don’t leave them lying on the lineside!”

Bert snickered, but Rex took no notice.

“You’re just cross you didn’t ask first. Ah well, You win some, you lose some.” Rex slowly smirked. “Or all, in your case.” With a triumphant chuckle, he puffed away to work.

Mike’s scowl was as wide as his frames.

On the other side of the river, Oliver the Excavator trundled along the dirt lane. He had his chisel attached to his arm and felt very pleased about it.

It was a long and solitary drive, not helped by him not having a ride, but Oliver didn’t mind at all.

“They need a careful digger up there,” he said, keeping a close eye on his chisel, “and I must be that digger.” The lane turned ahead and plunged into the woods.

Tall, undisturbed trees sprung high into the air. Their collective leaves formed a canopy that blocked much of the sunlight from reaching the ground.

Oliver peered down the lane. It was dark but not dark enough where he’d need his lights on.

He shivered; he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s only trees,” Oliver muttered, reproachfully. Even so, he hesitated before he rolled forward toward the woods.

The trees replaced the waves of grass. Soon, trees were all Oliver could see. He looked back; the light from the outside world seemed to coalesce into a wall that he’d foolishly knocked over.

Oliver shrugged it off. He would never boast, but he thought he worked just as delicately in the dark.

Wheel turn by wheel turn, Oliver went deeper and deeper into the woods. Light became scarcer, and the path ahead grew more difficult to track. Fallen leaves and branches tried to obscure the packed earth.

Oliver suddenly felt something snag on his arm. He glared up; a large branch had locked itself in place, preventing him from going any further. Oliver harrumphed.

“It is rather cramped in here,” he admitted aloud, “Perhaps Jack should’ve...”

Oliver froze. He’d heard something.

A voice.

The faintest voice, the kind of voice that he’d normally attribute to his imagination, but now...

His eyes darted around.

He saw nothing but trees.

“Wh-Who’s there?” he called.

“He’s heard us.” The voice was only a whisper, but Oliver discerned that it was eerily high-pitched in tone.

“Have you come to play with us, mister?” This voice was ever so slightly higher than the previous.

Oliver didn’t want to respond, but it was rude not to speak when spoken to.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, slowly, “Do you have clippers by any chance? It appears this
forest isn’t quite my size.”

Oliver began to wonder if he did imagine the voice after all.

“Never mind. I can get out of this myself.”

He rotated himself to try and dislodge the branch from the tree. That did the trick; it snapped off. A piece flew into Oliver’s face.

“Ouch!”

A pair of soft giggles drifted through the leaves. Oliver stopped again; he was sure he heard that.

“Come on out. I won’t hurt you,” he said. The giggling continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“He’s gonna be stuck forever.”

“With us.”

“With us,” they whispered together.

“He’ll rust away there until there’s nothing left.”

“Dust in the wind.”

“Doesn’t that sound like fun, mister?”

Oliver had had quite enough. He jerked backwards and began reversing back the way he came.

The whispers didn’t stop.

“Stay with us. Stay with us.”

“No thank you,” Oliver blurted out in an attempt to be polite. This didn’t dissuade the disembodied voices.

“Why must you go, mister?”

“We want to keep you.”

More branches tugged on Oliver’s arm. Oliver cried out in horror and sped up. No matter how far he traveled, the whispers were right alongside him. Oliver burst out into the sunlight, panting for breath.

Still all he saw in front of him were tall trees - but now they were disturbed.

Oliver gulped.

“I think,” he said in a wavering voice, “that I can’t make it today.” He rotated so as to properly reorient himself. Oliver wasn’t very fast, but he sped away as much as his treads would let him.

At Arlesburgh West, Rex was waiting patiently by the big railway for the new hoppers to arrive.

They were due on Donald’s incoming train, and although he hid it well, he was very excited for them to finally be unloaded onto his own rails.

The ground trembled beneath his wheels.

Rex looked down in alarm.

“W-What’s happening?!”

Rex swiftly got his answer; a big, brown excavator rumbled across the yard towards the chute.
Towards him.

Rex shrunk back as Oliver glanced in his direction.

“Excuse me,” Oliver called, “Is Mr. Fergus Duncan around?”

“He should be here any minute,” Rex said, thinking he sounded very brave, “He’s coming to see our new stock. ...sir,” he added hastily.

Oliver scanned the yard and, sure enough, a door opened and out stepped the Small Controller.

“Excuse me? Mr. Duncan?”

The Small Controller stopped in his tracks and turned around. He took a step back in surprise.

“Oliver? What are you doing here? You should be at the quarry by now.”

“I’m sorry, but I won’t be making it to the quarry. I’m not going through those woods.”

The Small Controller gaped, but Oliver was already on his way before he managed to collect himself.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head, “Jenny spoke so highly of him too...” He sighed and walked over to Rex, who somehow kept a neutral face.

“The Council insists I go on vacation. I just hope things don’t get worse while I’m gone. They might shut down the quarry if it doesn’t perform well.”

“I’m sure it’ll all work itself out.” Rex forced a smile. The Small Controller managed to smile back and hurried back to his office.

The moment he was gone, Rex frowned in thought.

“I wonder what rattled a giant like him...”

Rex decided it best not to think about it too much.

“They say elephants are scared of mice,” he murmured, “it must be something like that.” Assured he’d solved the mystery with very little effort, Rex was eager to go.

The next day, however, when Rex backed down onto the new hoppers, he noticed that while there were five of them, three of them weren’t attached to the train.

“What’s the matter? They’re not broken, are they?” he asked his driver. The driver shrugged.

“The miners haven’t made as much progress as the Small Controller hoped.”

Rex found his curiosity piqued.

“Why?”

“Whatever that big excavator heard,” the driver said with subtle contempt, “he must’ve blabbed about it so no one else came.” Rex didn’t really care about the construction vehicles; if anyone asked him, which they should, he’d say they were too big and there were too many of them.

“We can still make it worthwhile,” he said. He was about to leave when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mike glaring enviously at the hoppers from the station. Rex chuckled.

“I’m sure you’ll have your turn, Mike. Patience is a virtue.”

“Shut up, Rex,” muttered Mike, and he promptly left to fetch his coaches. Rex departed too, keen to get started.

Everything went well at first. The hoppers sailed along without so much as a cheeky bump. Rex was very pleased.

“Here we go, here we go.” He didn’t bat an eye when they reached the junction to the quarry.

The line that crossed the river before heading straight into the woods.

“Silly,” said Rex to himself, “This whole railway’s woodland. Nothing out of the ordinary about it.” He plunged into the trees; over half the sunlight he took for granted smothered out.

Rex’s determined smile wavered some.

“Very ordinary. Heh.”

His small size made the branches above seem less like obstacles in the way and more like creaking hands from above threatening to grab him like a toy.

His driver patted his cab repeatedly. Rex looked back, flustered.

“What?”

“Don’t you hear that?”

Rex listened. The wind howled through the leaves. A desperate, lonely bird called out for companionship.

“It’s just a bird,” he said, more relieved than he meant to. The driver pulled his cap over his eyes.

“Birds don’t talk.”

“Of course they don’t,” began Rex, but another voice broke in.

“He’s right, you know. We’re not birds.”

“But you could be, if you let us.”

Rex’s eyes widened. He shared a horrified glance with his driver.

“Y-You...?”

“Faster, Rex, faster.” The driver threw open the throttle, but Rex didn’t speed up as much as he wanted. “What are you doing?” he whispered hoarsely.

Rex didn’t answer. He just kept staring ahead, at the other wall of light that waited to embrace
him.

“Don’t ignore us.”

“You can’t.”

Rex grimaced. The driver tried to hide within the cab.

“We can make you fly.”

“Don’t you want to fly, mister?”

Rex almost shouted no but just barely restrained himself.

The wall of light, the portal back to the outside world, drew nearer and nearer.

Rex almost smiled.

“Almost there,” he said as softly as he dared to his driver.

“Why do you go?”

“You can be here with us, forever.”

With one final effort, Rex popped out the other side of the trees. Ahead was rocky terrain that led to the granite quarry.

“What were those things?” the driver exclaimed. Rex finally let himself show the fear he’d been holding in.

“...I don’t know...” He paused to think. “...but we’ll keep this between us.”

The driver gripped the cab roof to pull himself up.

“You’re kidding!”

“We can’t let the Small Controller’s new quarry go under.” Rex glanced back at the woods they’d just come from. He wondered if eyes were watching them from between the trees.

Or if they were listening.

“We can deal with them,” he said quieter than before, “Just keep doing what we did then until we find what’s really going on.” He whistled and started off again. The driver wasn’t sure, but he knew better than to try to win a fight against Rex.

When they reached the granite quarry, the miners complained of the lack of any big machines. Rex found it in poor taste, but he said nothing. Even without any industrial help, Rex’s shiny hoppers were filled with what the miners dug up.

Rex did the same as before; he plowed through the woods and locked his eyes on the light at the
end of the tunnel.

He didn’t hear a single peep from the trees.

Whether this was due to his concentration or the voices were gone, Rex didn’t care then. He just wanted to go home in one piece.

So did his driver, who only leaned back over the tender in sheer relief once they were safe again in broad daylight.

Rex was last to the sheds; not that he cared. He was safe and sound in his berth, even if his colleagues were as incessant as they usually were.

“The hoppers are still in one piece,” Mike remarked snidely, “I see you didn’t go flying off the rails for once.” Rex’s eyes flickered. He looked across to Mike.

“Mike,” he said in a low voice, “Where were you today?”

Mike raised his eyebrows. He glanced at Bert, who returned his baffled expression.

“Pulling the passenger. Just like the Small Controller keeps asking me to, even though he knows I don’t like it.”

Rex gazed at him suspiciously for a moment before sighing in frustration.

“No...it would never be them...” he mumbled.

“What? What’re you saying? If you’re going to insult me, say it to my face.”

Rex didn’t answer. He stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Mike and Bert shared a look.

“What’s he staring at?” demanded Mike.

“I don’t know,” said Bert, “He’s got his thinking face.”

“What could he possibly be thinking about?”

Both looked at Rex, who hadn’t changed much since the last time they’d observed him.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said, not necessarily to them but more for himself, “It’s just been a long day.” He promptly shut his eyes. Mike blinked.

“What’s up with him? He didn’t brag about his little adventure or mock me or anything.”

“Maybe the new quarry’s very tiring,” suggested Bert, “I’d like to find out for myself.” Mike rolled his eyes.

“Tough. Rex laid claim to all trains and hoppers that go up there.” He glared at Rex, who had a troubled expression despite his slumber.

The next morning, Rex and his driver set out for the Marthwaite goods yard. Just like before, they collected two of the hoppers.

Just like before, Mike watched them enviously as they departed.

Just like before, the journey was perfect until they reached the junction.

Unlike before, there was no wind. Not even a breeze. Rex carried on without hesitation.

“I’ve been thinking, driver,” he said, “Those whispers we heard. They have to come from something.”

“I don’t wanna know what they come from, and you shouldn’t either.” His driver eased open the regulator. “Some things aren’t worth prying into.”

But Rex wasn’t listening.

“It’s not the other engines. They can’t change their voices like that and besides, they have alibis. So,” he went on, uncertainly, “it must be a human. You know, like you.”

The driver’s stare lingered for a moment too long.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

It didn’t make Rex feel much better either, but as they crept further and further into the woods, he maintained his bravado.

“It’s probably just some children having a laugh. Children are very cruel.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered the driver. They fell silent after that. Nothing spoke to them. Not even a desperate bird.

Rex smirked.

“They must be in school.”

The driver weakly chuckled, and they made their way to the granite quarry without further
incident.

The way home wouldn’t be as luxurious.

The last hopper hadn’t passed the border into the woods when Rex made out the tiniest whisper. It
seemed close by.

“I know you’re there,” he shouted, “Come on out. You’re not funny.” The driver gasped.

“Rex! Stop!” he hissed, but Rex wasn’t deterred. He halted right in the middle of the line.

“You’re not scary either! So why don’t you go on home where you belong and stop bothering us honest, hardworking engines?”

“REX!” The driver’s shout echoed all around. Rex glared back at him, but he was unable to speak before someone else did.

“He thinks we’re children.”

“How insulting.”

Rex’s boiler chilled. His driver tried to make him move, but he wouldn’t. Rex was completely frozen.

“You should be careful...”

“...Rex.”

Rex goggled.

The voices giggled.

“Or else you might end up on your side again.”

“Forever.” ”

Rex glanced from side to side. The higher-pitched voice seemed to be coming from the other side of him now.

Like they were surrounding him.

“We don’t wanna hurt you, Rex.”

“But you may leave us no choice.”

If Rex wasn’t horrified before, he certainly was now.

“Stop it!”

“Or you can remain here.”

“It’s better here.”

“Everything is here.”

“Nothing is here.”

Rex shut his eyes.

“No! I won’t!” His wheels finally worked. He took off, puffing faster than he ever had before. But the voices followed him.

“You can’t run, Rex.”

“You will tire, Rex.”

“We will wait, Rex.”

“We’ve been waiting, Rex.”

“You don’t scare me!” Rex shrieked. His driver opted to throw his cap, presumably as some sort of bait.

The wind arrived. It blew right into Rex’s face. Rex thought it was trying to push him back.

“I won’t stay! I won’t stay!” he bellowed. His driver shouted something, but he didn’t hear it. All he heard was the whispering.

For the briefest of moments, Rex considered what they said.

Perhaps the woods weren't so bad.

No.

Rex scowled. He wasn’t falling for it. He was going to leave.

“Rex! Stop!” His driver must’ve turned. He felt him trying to brake, but Rex resisted. The driver could jump out and do whatever he pleased in the woods, but Rex was leaving himself out of it.

Suddenly, he heard a whistle.
“REX!”

Rex blinked and gaped. He was out of the woods. He’d made it.

He was also barreling straight towards Ffarquhar Road. Bert waited at the platform with a passenger train, now whistling in horror.

“Slow down, Rex! Slow down!”

Rex tried to stop, but his traction was failing him.

“I can’t!” he exclaimed.

“Quick, switch the lever!” Bert shouted at his driver. Without a second thought, Bert’s driver ran out to the points. He was just in time.

Rex sped by on the passing loop and disappeared.

When Rex did stop at Arlesburgh West, his driver had to catch his breath.

“We are not doing that again!” he hissed. Rex stared blankly at his buffers.

“The Small Controller’s counting on me. I have to go.”

The driver knew there was no changing his mind, but this didn’t make him any less snappy for the rest of the day.

Despite Mike and especially Bert’s protests, Rex kept volunteering himself for the granite trains.

With the Small Controller away, there wasn’t much either could do about it.

But as the days passed, it was clear that somehow the job was taking a toll on him - and his driver.

It was difficult to put a read on the driver. Usually the light of discussion, his responses seemed almost automatic and he vehemently shut down any questioning of what happened to him.

Rex fared far worse.

He’d always struggled with traction, as Mike was all too willing to let him in on, but now he seemed to struggle more than ever.

He never said a word to anyone but his driver.

He seemed to be in a daze much of the time, not sure where he was or how he got there.

At first, Mike liked not being baited into arguments, and Bert liked the peace, but the longer it went on, the more concerned they became.

While Rex was out, they agreed to discuss the matter in the goods yard in the secrecy of the hoppers.

“Something’s wrong with Rex,” said Bert. Mike grunted.

“You can say that again. He’s embarrassing himself. It’s painful to watch.”

“Do you think it’s something serious?”

“Pah, he’s full of it,” snorted Mike, “Going to that quarry can’t be that exhausting. You just sit there and wait until your hoppers are filled up. If he doesn’t like it so much, why doesn’t he let us go?”

“I tried asking, but he wouldn’t even say no. He just left! I hope the Small Controller comes back soon. He can fix this, can’t he?”

Before Mike had the chance to reply, Rex trundled past with his full hoppers. His expression was blank; he stared off into the distance.

“They’re unexplainable, they’re unexplainable, they’re unexplainable...” he said in a monotone voice. Bert looked wide-eyed at Mike.

“What’s he talking about?”

“...I don’t know,” Mike said, notably more shaken than before, “but I know we can’t wait for the Small Controller. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take his train to the quarry and figure out what’s...you know.”

Bert spluttered in protest.

“What about me?”

“Er, you distract him. Yeah, do that.”

Bert wasn’t happy with that, but Mike left before he made a fuss about it.

The next morning, Mike and Bert were horrified to discover that the third berth was empty.
“Where’d he go?” cried Bert. Mike gasped.

“He left early! Right under our buffers!” He growled despairingly. “Why does he have to be so clever?”

“Maybe we can catch him?” suggested his driver.

“Too late for that now. Full steam!” Mike rushed out of the shed towards the open line. Bert shared a nervous glance with his driver and followed.

“What are you doing, Mike?”

“What I already should’ve done. If you’re too scared, you can stay behind.”

Bert was scared, but now he wanted to prove Mike wrong more.

"I’m right behind you, Mike. Let’s go.”

Mike smirked, and the two engines gained speed.

As they puffed along the line to the quarry, they spotted Rex’s driver running out of the woods
like his life depended on it.

“Mate! What’re you doing?” called Mike’s driver. Rex’s driver stopped to catch his breath.

“In...there...” He pointed towards the woods. “Rex...” Mike’s driver hopped down and guided
him to the cab.

“Easy, we’ll find him.” He patted the side of Mike’s cab. “C’mon, Mike.”

“W-Wait! We can’t go in there!” cried Bert, “Rex doesn’t have a-” Mike plunged into the woods before he finished.

Bert grimaced but nonetheless followed.

Suddenly, Mike spotted a hopper on the line ahead.

"Whoa!" He screwed on his brakes but nonetheless ran into the hopper. Mike groaned in frustration. "Who left this here?"

"Stay with us, Mike."

Mike blinked.

"Rex?"

"It's me, Mike.” Rex sounded like he was talking in his sleep. “Me and my new friends."

Mike narrowed his eyes and just managed to see Rex at the front of the train of hoppers. Mike kept his laughter inside his head.

"New friends? Don't be ridiculous. You already have Bert."

At that moment, Bert pulled up behind Mike. His face was pale.

"Mike," he hissed, "I heard someone."

"It's just Rex," said Mike, but Bert spoke over him.

"No! No, it's-" But he didn't finish.

A slew of high-pitched giggles filled the woods. Mike looked around frantically.

“Who is this? Go away!” he shouted, but it was no good. The giggling continued. It seemed to circle the three engines like vultures.

“I-I don’t like this, Mike,” whimpered Bert.

“Do not be afraid. We are no threat.”

“We can be anything you want us to be.”

Mike buffered up to the hopper in front of him and his driver coupled them up.

“You can leave Rex alone for a start. Come on, Rex. We’re getting out of here.” He tried to move, but to his horror, the train wouldn’t budge.

Neither would Rex.

“You don’t understand, Mike. You never do. But you will.”

Mike would never admit it, but that sent a chill down his boiler.

“It’s safe here,” went on Rex, “Everything makes sense. It doesn’t matter what they are. They’re our friends. Don’t you understand, Bert?”

Bert gulped. “What’s happened to him?”

“He’s trying to join us. He’s trying very hard.”

“But he doesn’t understand either. None of you do.”

“We have much work to do with him.”

“And with you too. We’ll be a big happy family.”

“A big happy family,” Rex repeated.

“Absolutely not,” snapped Mike, “Bert, help me out here.” Somewhat reluctantly, Bert buffered up to Mike. Mike grit his teeth. “On three! Got it?”

“Got it. One!”

“You cannot escape now.”

“Two!”

"You are making a mistake.”

“THREE!”

With a mighty heave, Bert and Mike jerked backwards, dragging Rex and the hoppers with them.

Rex jolted; his eyes widened.
“No! What are you doing?”

Their progress slowed as Rex tried to pull them back from the other end.

“Pull harder, Mike!” Bert called.

“I’m trying! He’s being stubborn!”

“All this, for what?”

“You could be so much happier.”

Mike and Bert weren’t listening. Their wheels slipped, their couplings tightened. Slowly, Rex and the hoppers began to move.

“Come on, Rex! Snap out of it!” shouted Mike. Rex was still fighting, but he was growing tired.

His eyelids drooped.

“Maybe...I can go...and come back...” he mumbled, almost incoherently. The whispers were muffled for a moment but thundered through the tree trunks.

“You disappoint us, Rex.”

“You are not worthy. None of you are.”

Rex’s eyes popped open.

“Wh- Wait! WAIT!”

But the voices said no more.

He stopped fighting then.

Mike and Bert easily pulled him and the hoppers out of the woods.

All three were at a loss for words.

“What do those silly things think they are?” burst out Mike indignantly, “Of course we’re worthy! Huh!”

“I don’t care what they think,” said Bert, “Let’s just go home.” The two looked to Rex, who remained forlorn and silent at the front of the train.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Mike took the hoppers to the granite quarry while Bert took Rex home. Mike promised that if anything whispered into his smokebox, he’d tell them to get lost.

Bert was just glad it wasn’t him.

When Rex was finally well-rested, it was getting dark. Rex was coming to his senses, and his senses told him he’d been a very silly engine.

“Never mind,” said Bert kindly, “The Small Controller’s coming home tomorrow. We won’t say a word about it, eh?”

Rex managed a smile, but it didn’t last.

“I don’t know what came over me. Those whispers...they have a way of staying with you. I tried to understand them, but I was careless. They almost took me.”

“I’m sure they’re gone now,” said Bert, who wasn’t sure but found it comforting to say so, “and the quarry can now be really useful.”

“I hope so,” murmured Rex, “but why...why were they here? What did they want?”

Bert pondered for a long time.

“Maybe,” he said cautiously at last, “there’s some things we just can’t understand.”

Rex sighed. He hated that thought. It made him feel his size.

But he knew deep down Bert was right.

It was too late to send the granite off to the big railway, so the miners opted to keep the hoppers for the night.

They offered for Mike to stay too, but he declined.

He had a point to prove.

He puffed slowly through the woods; only his lamp brightened the way. Compared to the size of the trees, it was about as strong as a human’s flashlight.

“You still there?” he shouted into the trees, “You’re not wanted! Find something else to do, huh?”

Nothing answered back.

Mike chuckled.

“Cowards. They know not to mess with me.” He sped up and made his way out of the woods, eager to boast to the others that he made the whispers in the woods leave.

Little did he know, two pairs of eyes watched him from behind the lineside bushes.

The eyes looked at each other.

“Hehehe. You were right, sister. That was fun.”

“They never even guessed.”

"Of course they didn’t. They don’t know we exist.” The eyes disappeared into the brush. With them went two boxy shadows.

Chapter Text

“Are you still there, Diesel?” Daisy didn’t bother looking back to check. It would be a fruitless effort; Diesel blended in very well with the night, and he knew it.

“Hmph.” Diesel trailed far behind her and was not thrilled to be present.

“You’re not going to the Halloween party with a face like that,” scolded Daisy, “I’m bringing you to socialize.”

“None of them want me there anyway,” Diesel huffed bitterly.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I thought you liked this silly holiday.”

“It’s not silly!” objected Diesel, “It’s the funnest night of the year!”

“Then you don’t have anything to complain about, do you?”

Before Diesel could protest, they rounded the bend to Tidmouth Sheds. Not only was the shed full, but even the outside was flooded with engines from all over the railway.

Engines Diesel most certainly had some sort of bad blood with. The party was already well underway. Blinking purple and orange lights lined the walls while spiders and bats hung precariously from the roof. Diesel hoped to keep a low profile, but Daisy immediately tooted her horn to announce their presence.

“Happy Halloween, everyone,” she said. Diesel noticed her enthusiasm sounded rather forced. Daisy stopped near Nia and Rebecca, who shared a bemused glance.

“You’re very late, Daisy,” remarked Nia, “You missed the skeleton.”

“Fashionably late, dear.”

Diesel perked up. “Let me see!” He tried forcing his way through the crowd but was met with frowns and hisses.

“Why’d you bring him?” James motioned towards Diesel, who promptly scowled. Daisy rolled her eyes.

“He needs to get out more.”

“No I don’t! Let me see the skeleton!” He peered over the tops of the engines in front of him, but he saw no sign of his prize.

“Sorry Diesel, but it’s gone now,” said Rebecca, “You should’ve seen it. It did a little dance and laughed a lot!” She shuddered but somehow kept her smile. “It sure rattled my rods!”

“It was someone in a costume,” added Nia. Diesel backed up alongside her and huffed.

“Should’ve known. Nothing really scary happens ‘round here.”

“I like it that way,” said Daisy, “Scares are bad for my swerves.”

Nia raised an eyebrow at her. “You might want to leave then. Edward’s telling us stories now.”

On cue, Edward’s whistle cut through the crowd. All conversation stopped as Edward puffed onto the turntable. He cleared his tubes.

“Thank you all for indulging me. I hope you’ll like the yarns I’ve spun.”

“Get on with it!” shouted Diesel. The engines glared and shushed him. Edward chuckled.

“So it shall be.” With a twinkle in his eye, he began his story. “Long ago, before any of you came, there was a big engine. A jolly sort of engine who loved nothing more than helping anyone in need.”

Diesel loudly yawned.

“But one day,” Edward continued, lowering his voice, “another, smaller engine said they felt ill and couldn’t take their train. Of course, being so helpful as they were, the big engine obliged. It was a foggy day, and the rails were slippery. When they went down the hill...” He paused to gauge the reception.

Almost everyone waited with bated breath. Daisy looked away, grimacing.

Diesel looked bored.

“No one knows how it happened,” went on Edward, “but the engine became separated from their train. They tumbled down the hill, never to be seen again. Some say the ghost of that engine returns to-”

“-to warn unsuspecting saps,” interjected Diesel, “Blah blah blah. Same old story.” The engines
gasped.

“Be quiet, Diesel!” hissed Daisy, “I’m trying not to listen!” Diesel didn’t care. He rolled towards Edward.

“Your pathetic ‘tales’ are all the same, Edward. There’s always some ghost that ‘comes back on Halloween night’ and prances around doing nothing! I want something different! I want something scary! Give me scares!” Diesel bellowed to the heavens, “Give me-” He was swiftly given steam to the face.

“I’d like to see you do better!” snapped James.

“You wouldn’t know scary if it knocked you off the rails!” added Henry.

“You’d be the first to run away if Edward’s ghost engines were real,” said Nia. Diesel sneered at all the colleagues he’d upset.

“Who cares? They’re not! None of them are!”

Edward squirmed as the other engines hurled more verbal arrows aimed at Diesel’s feelings.

“I know!” said Rebecca brightly, raising her voice over the noise, “Why don’t you say something nice about the story, Diesel?”

A moment of tense silence ensued. All the engines looked at Diesel to see what he would do.

Diesel burst out laughing.

“I’m glad it’s over!” He raced away from the sheds and into the night, still cackling.

“Diesel!” cried Daisy, but he was long gone by then.

Diesel sauntered into the big marshaling yard between Cronk and Killdane. In the center, his fellow shunters chatted about things Diesel definitely didn’t care about.

“Oh hey, Diesel!” Paxton called as Diesel approached, “I thought you were going to the Halloween party.”

“Daisy made me go. I wanted to stay here.”

“With your friends?” grinned Dart mischievously. Diesel blushed and clenched his teeth.

“No. No. Stop it.”

“Come on, mate, just admit it. Ya like us.”

“Shut up,” growled Diesel, “You’re just...less annoying than everyone else.” Den and Dart shared a glance.

“So you didn’t like the party then?” Den ventured. Diesel gagged in an exaggerated manner.

“Everyone’s made of glass! They can’t have anything remotely frightening near them or they’ll
shatter!”

Paxton frowned. “I thought we were made of metal.”

“It-” Diesel then decided it wasn’t worth trying to explain. “Daisy said ‘scares are bad for her swerves.’ Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” said Den and Dart together. Sidney furrowed his brow.

“Who’s Daisy?”

“Diesel’s friend,” replied Paxton, “She has swerves.”

“Oh. What are those?”

Before a long and ultimately pointless discussion began on swerves’ existence, Diesel broke in.

“But we know how to celebrate,” he said, allowing some pride to shine through, “Don’t we?”

“Sure do,” smirked Dart, eyeing the singular skeleton face mask that hung above the
entrance to Diesel’s shed.

Norman, who’d been suspiciously quiet up until now, spoke up. “I know what’ll cheer you up, Diesel! I have a very scary story!”

Den and Dart raised dubious eyebrows at this, but Diesel (who really should’ve known better) grinned in anticipation.

“Surprise us, Norman.”

“It goes like this,” began Norman in a theatrical tone of voice, “There once was a ghost...” He paused and looked at Diesel, who now looked much less enthusiastic. Norman coughed suddenly. “...a monster.”

Diesel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Yes, and the monster liked to...um...” Norman looked absentmindedly around and spotted the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. “...eat stars.”

“Oh, that’s not so scary,” smiled Paxton. Diesel narrowed his eyes, and Norman promptly shifted course.

“I mean, uh, it liked to growl at engines. Yes,” he said, emboldened by Paxton and Sidney’s cries of horror, “It shouts ‘Grr! I’m a monster!’ which is very scary, I think.”

“It is,” agreed Sidney.

“What? No it’s not!” blurted out Diesel. Norman gulped.

“Th-That’s not all! The monster hides in trucks and pops out when you try to shunt. It goes ‘Grr! I’m a monster!’”

“No!” gasped Paxton.

“Yes!”

“And then what happens?” quizzed Dart.

“Well, uh, the engine tells all the others and they don’t believe them, but then the monster jumps out at them too and goes ‘Grr! I’m a-’”

“Stop it!” interrupted Diesel, and just like that, Norman’s storytime was over. “That was terrible! It wasn’t scary at all!”

“I’m glad,” said Paxton earnestly, “I don’t like scary things.” Diesel’s eye twitched.

“You’re all a mockery to the season! Can’t something be scary just for once? I want to be scared!” As he shouted this, ‘Arry and Bert crept into the yard with some empty trucks. They heard the commotion and sidled on over.

“Oh, you want to be scarred, do ya?” oozed Bert. Paxton grimaced.

“I think he said ‘scared’...”

‘Arry and Bert halted a little too close to Diesel.

“We’ve got...” ‘Arry chuckled darkly. “Heh, it’s more than a story, we reckon.”

“More like gospel,” said Bert. Paxton, Sidney and Norman shared a glance and scuttled away. Diesel, who was a little nervous himself, put on a brave face.

“You don’t frighten me. You’re just gonna go on about how entertaining it is to watch some hapless soul be scrapped. Oh yes, all the pain and suffering, nothing beats that. But I know you haven’t even scrapped an old bicycle! Ha!” He forcefully laughed much longer than necessary.

Diesel shrunk back under ‘Arry and Bert’s steely glares.

“Lucky for you it ain’t about that,” rumbled Bert.

“But we’re fair chaps,” said ‘Arry evenly, “so you get fair warning. It’s more than a rat like you deserves.”

“Some things, no one’s meant to know,” Bert added, “and we’re not responsible for whatever happens when you find out.”

That was the final straw for Den and Dart.

“I don’t wanna know what...uh...” Den began, uncertainly.

“What you mean is, you don’t wanna be cursed,” said Dart, “Understandable. Me neither.” He ooked over at Diesel. “Well, it was nice knowing you, buddy.” They rattled away, leaving Diesel all alone with ‘Arry and Bert.

Diesel didn’t care in the least.

“Cowards. Now, where were we?”

“If ya were smart,” sneered ‘Arry, “ya’d have gone with ‘em.”

There was silence. Diesel grew impatient.

“Are you gonna tell a story or not?”

“You keep blabbing like that and we’ll shove you down the pit,” snarled Bert. Diesel yelped and subsided.

“Ya remember being built, mate?” 'Arry asked suddenly. 

Diesel squirmed. He didn’t and he’d never thought twice about it before. No engine remembered their construction. They couldn’t.

“...no,” he said at last.

“Ah, so you were lucky then.” ‘Arry grinned at Bert. “We ‘ave it on good authority that there’s some engines that do.”

“They don’t like to talk about it, but...we ‘ave ways of getting information,” smirked Bert, “They don’t see much of anything. Dark void, the abyss, something like that.”

“Where you came from and where you’ll return,” interjected ‘Arry in a forcefully ominous tone.

Diesel gulped.

“And yet,” continued Bert, “in that dark void, they do see something. Something watching ‘em. Watching...with one eye.”

They paused and looked at Diesel. He stared wide-eyed back at them, silently begging them to continue.

“It’s a kettle,” said ‘Arry, “A small, frail old one at that. Legend has it it’s the oldest kettle ever built...”

“Well,” put in Bert, “not really, since it never was built. It just showed up one day. Long before they came to their senses and built all of us.”

“That’s not possible!” sputtered Diesel.

“Oh yeah? It’s been passed down, goes way back. Even to the time of castles. Why, this chap was a peasant working with his mates, and ya know what he saw?”

“The kettle,” Bert put in, “Sitting there in the middle of the field. It had no face, if ya can believe it. He didn’t wanna get near it, but everyone was so curious. Not much happened in those days, ya know. So they go on over and find that it’s sunken into the dirt, like it’d been there for ages.”

“Nothing happened, so eventually they went tilling away on their little plots like the good peasants they were. After about a week, though, they began hearing a voice inside their heads. Our friend described it as the loveliest thing they ever heard. They all went to look at the thing and now...it had an eye.”

“...an eye?” Diesel reflexively blinked.

“Just one. Covered the whole door. It looked at nothing and it looked at everything. The pupil would get real big, then real small.”

“Our friend, quite a clever chap he was, ran off into the woods. He waited it out; it was quiet. Too quiet. He looked back; all his fellow laborers were gone, and so was the kettle.”

“W-What happened to them?” stuttered Diesel. ‘Arry and Bert ignored the question.

“Best part is, no one believed ‘im since the dirt was normal again,” said Bert, “It didn’t leave a trace.”

“It never stayed in one place too long,” added ‘Arry, “It appeared anywhere and everywhere. Even in many places at the same time.”

“No one else got a good look at it - no one that stuck around to blab. No one knows what it wants either; ya can’t get a read on the thing. Well, people can’t anyway.”

“It seems to like engines. Especially likes to watch ‘em.” ‘Arry winked at Bert. “Can’t say I blame it. Engines are easier targets. Only so many places they can run.”

Diesel’s feelings by this point were beyond words.

“If ya can’t remember nothing before being built, ya got lucky,” went on ‘Arry, “Means it’s not interested in ya...yet. Those that do, heh, only they can see and hear it. No one else can, so the people think it’s some kinda defect.”

“Nobody can handle it too long. We never got exact quotes unfortunately, but ya can imagine it, eh? The begging, the pleading... Music to our ears.” Bert smirked.

“‘Course, you’re never safe. It can latch onto you at any time. Why, even... Ah, never mind. It’s already happened.”

Diesel’s eyes nearly popped out. “W-What? What’s happened!?”

“We’d say sorry, mate, but honestly, you asked for it. We could use a good payload anyway." ‘Arry grinned at Bert, who returned the gesture.

“We may or may not scrap things, but we do melt ‘em. So, look forward to that. Tell it we said ‘ello.”

Before Diesel could shriek, scream or yell about what they’d just done to him, ‘Arry and Bert rattled slowly away. They kept the exact same pace, droning in the exact same low voice. “Long live Lady. Long live Lady.”

They faded into the shadows, and the yard fell into complete silence.

Diesel didn’t move, he didn’t speak. He hardly even thought.

The lamp post above him that previously gave some sort of comfort switched off.

“GAH!” He glanced around. No one was about, not even a distant passing engine. Everyone else was still at the Halloween party.

Diesel whimpered like a lost puppy.

“H-Hello? I-Is anyone...th-there?”

No one responded. Diesel relaxed, ever so slightly.

“Hmph. That’s what I thought. They didn’t do anything; they’re just bluffing. I know it when I see it.” He scuttled over to his shed. “They can tell a good story, but it wasn’t that scary. Yeah, not scary at all. I’m not scared. Nope.” He promptly shut his eyes, and only then did he realize how tired he was. Sleep was just what he
needed.

Diesel’s eyes popped open, and he suddenly found himself most disoriented. He couldn’t see, hear or worst of all feel anything. It was as if he was floating in a vat of nothingness. Diesel tried to talk but he found that he couldn’t.

“You are strained, child.”

Diesel would’ve jumped if he could’ve. He definitely heard something, but what that something was he didn’t entirely understand.

Of course, it was a voice, but to him it sounded more like various voices rolled into one. Diesel glanced around, but nothing appeared from the void.

“I have been watching you. You are a very special engine indeed. Do not be afraid.”

Diesel squirmed; it felt as though he were being judged.

“Oh, child. You are not being judged.”

The void filled with blinding white as though a switch had been flipped. Diesel wanted to shut his eyes to block it all out, but it was too beautiful.

It was also terrifying.

“Let it all go. Come with me. You will be whole.”

Diesel still couldn’t speak, but he found himself caring less and less. He still didn’t understand the space he was in, or if it was possible to even call it one. It was nowhere and everywhere. He was being watched from all angles and completely alone.

“I am growing impatient.”

The voice was as saccharine as it always was, so Diesel wasn’t concerned.

As if things couldn’t get any brighter, a circular object floated over towards Diesel. It was ever so slightly whiter than everything else.

It almost looked like an eye.

An eye without a pupil.

Diesel jolted awake, screaming.

“Diesel! Diesel, stop it! It’s only me!”

Diesel recognized Daisy’s voice and instantly calmed, somewhat. He was still on the rails. He was still in his own shed. Daisy stood in front of him, unsurprisingly looking rather perplexed.

“Daisy! Oh, Daisy!” It all tumbled out of Diesel at once. “It was horrible! Horrible! I-It almost got me! The Eye!”

Daisy frowned. “The Eye? Whatever are you talking about?”

“‘Arry and Bert’s story!” Diesel exclaimed, his speech accelerating, “There’s something out there, watching us! It has one eye!”

“You poor thing,” Daisy murmured sympathetically, “You had a nightmare.” Diesel stopped blathering and stared at Daisy.

“What?”

“Obviously. You should know not to take whatever those brutes say as gospel. They don’t even scrap anything!”

Diesel continued to stare.

“...but...I saw it. It felt so real.”

“Yes,” said Daisy patiently, “They often do. I had one once where I became a milk tanker.” She shuddered. “It was horrible.”

Diesel blinked, then looked at his buffers.

“How about next year,” went on Daisy, “we both skip the party? Halloween’s a silly holiday anyway.”

Diesel didn’t respond, but Daisy sensed that he was more than alright with that arrangement.