Riding The Ghost Train
written by:
Naughty Miranda

I awoke with a start. Was that laughter I heard? It took me a moment to remember where I was, to connect the hard metallic ridges beneath me with the barely carpeted floor in the back of Ryan's van, and the absolute stygian darkness with the fact that we were parked in a clearing in the middle of the park. Lying on his side beside me, Ryan's slow, rhythmic breathing let me know that whatever I'd heard had not awakened him, although the thick weight that pressed against my thigh told me that not all of his faculties were sleeping.

I shifted myself slightly, to mould my buttocks around the bulge - we were both fully clothed, but the night had grown chilly enough that we'd happily draped the comforter over us as we sat talking, listening, waiting. Then, though neither of us had any intention of actually doing so, we must have fallen asleep.

Sleep was out of the question now, though. Yes, that was laughter. And faint behind it, voices, cheery and excited. Snatches of music, too, and underpinning them, the low hum of machinery. I wondered what I'd see if I sat up and wiped the condensation off the back windows. The pitch black of Whiskeyport Springs Park, one summer night in 2005? Or a scene from one of the sepia photographs that hung in frames around Ryan's office wall, preserving this place as it was a century ago?

I closed my eyes and nestled closer to Ryan; he stirred slightly and an arm looped around me, the side of his wrist just grazing my breast. I wriggled to try and make firmer contact - we weren't dating, we weren't lovers, we hadn't even kissed. But if I'd ever needed to feel another human being close alongside me, now was that moment.

I'd met Ryan a week ago... a little under a week ago. The mercury had been in the high 90s and my house was stifling, even with the A/C cranked up full. Outside, though, there was enough of a breeze to make the heatwave seem bearable, so I grabbed a paperback and some breadcrumbs for the swans, and took myself off to the park for the day.

Things had changed since I was there last... isn't it strange how, when you live on top of some place, you hardly ever go there? The park was five minutes walk from my house, but it must be five years since I'd last been down there. They'd landscaped the river banks, planted new trees and, up over the rise where the picnic benches sit, the local archaeological society had hung a sign welcoming visitors to the Whiskeyport Funland excavation. A handful of volunteers stood around, so I wandered over towards them. "I didn't know this place was even here."

"Most people don't." He was tall, dirty-blonde fading to bald, early 40s probably. Good looking. Wore his clothes well. A nametag pinned to his shirt insisted I call him Ryan. "Can I just wander about in there?" I asked.

Ryan looked around. "If you like. We haven't got all the signs up yet, though, so if you don't mind waiting a moment, in case anyone else wants a tour, I'd be happy to give you the full treatment."

"Okay."

Ten minutes later, the pair of us were standing beside a grassy mound on which a large rectangle was marked out with tiny orange flags and wire. Gorse bushes pocked the perimeter, a medium-sized horse-chestnut tree sent its roots cascading through the middle. "This is where the Hall of Mirrors used to stand. It burned down in 1927, and when the park closed at the end of that season, that was it, they never reopened."

"You can't really blame them," I murmured. "They did have a lot of bad luck." According to Ryan's practiced narration, the Hall of Mirrors was only the last of half a dozen rides to have burned, collapsed or simply stopped working in five years.

"It was the nature of the beast. A lot of the old amusement parks were in serious financial trouble by the late 1920s - their golden age was before the First World War; after that, they were treading water at best. So they cut back on staff, cut down on repair work, and safety went out of the window. It's as likely that someone torched the place for the insurance money, as it was an accident." He paused and led the way through a dense thicket, to where a few stubs of metal still protruded from the soil. "This was the last ride they opened, a ferris wheel, in 1923."

I nodded, surprised to find myself so fascinated by all this, and murmured once again, "it's amazing. I had no idea that this place even existed."

"We've been excavating here for a couple of years," Ryan explained. "Nothing serious - we're not talking about the Valley of the Kings, after all. But it's amazing how many little things you find if you go an inch or so below the topsoil. Tokens for the rides, pieces of the rides. Most of the wood and materials were taken away by the locals after the park closed; you find them in local antique stores every so often, old metal signs, mainly, but better things as well. Come this way." He reached out and took my arm; a little surprised, I let him.

"This was the center of the park, a huge carousel. You can still see the central hub. We actually found one of the horses just over there. It was broken, of course, but it's being restored. We're planning to open a small museum here."

"It's kind of a sad place, isn't it," I mused. "It must have been so grand once, and now it's just a wilderness."

Ryan smiled. "I like to come here at night, just sit in the dark and imagine what it must have been like back then. Sometimes..." his voice trailed away.

"Sometimes?" I asked.

"Nothing. I was going to say, sometimes you can hear things. I've spent the night here a few times, settle down in the back of my van, and just let my imagination go."

I smiled. "What sort of things?"

He looked at me curiously. "People, music, machinery... like I said, I like to let my imagination go. But you're right, it is sad."

We walked on. Every few minutes, he'd pause to point out another lost landmark; every so often, too, I got the distinct impression that he wanted to say something else, only to change his mind at the last moment. I looked at him and wondered what he did when he wasn't grubbing around in the remains of an old amusement park. Instead, I asked him about the proposed museum.

"If you really want to see what we've found..." he rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. "I'm there most weekdays. We have a few small displays set up, and more stuff in the back room."

I took the card. "Thanks. I'll come down maybe one afternoon this week. I'm Chrissie, by the way."

He nodded enthusiastically. "Great. I'll look forward to it."

True to my word, I dropped by the following Friday afternoon. Ryan's face visibly brightened as I walked in, and I couldn't help but notice how cute, boyish, it made him look. I really hadn't paid that sort of attention before; to my own still-lingering surprise, I really was more interested in the old park. I'd often considered becoming "involved" in local community activities, but had never come across any that appealed. This - the Friends of Funland Restoration Project - was different.

Delving into my purse, I pulled out a book, Whiskeyport Funland in Old Postcards. "I picked this up on Monday. The place was beautiful." Ryan smiled. "If I'd known you were that keen, I could have given you a copy, we've got hundreds in the basement. It wasn't not exactly a best seller."

"Never mind." It didn't seem appropriate to tell him I'd found it in the remainders store, for $1.98.

We spent the afternoon talking and touring the museum, such as it was, and when he asked if we could meet up again later, I just laughed and suggested we make it much later. His stories of the things he'd heard... thought he'd heard... on the nights he spent in Funland intrigued me. "Why don't we go there together? Tonight?"

He looked at me curiously. "Really?"

"Really. I haven't spent a night in a haunted house since I was a schoolgirl... maybe I'll tell you about it tonight. And I'll bring the marshmallows."

Home again, I dressed for a night in the back of a van: a T-shirt with a sweater thrown over my shoulder, jeans, sneakers, and was pleased to find Ryan looking just as casual - it meant he wasn't thinking of this as any kind of date. In fact, he was so practical that, if I had had any romantic thoughts in mind, a look inside his backpack would have chased them right off: a couple of meaty paperbacks, a reading light, a bag of tacos, some bottled water. "Now, remember I never promised we'd see or hear anything," he said as we settled down for the night. "But if you lay back quietly, and let your mind wander...."

Something was certainly wandering now. The hand that I'd been gently trying to maneuver had slipped to cup my entire left breast; I could feel my nipple pressing into the palm of his hand, and a gentle, answering pressure coming back at me. His breathing had changed imperceptibly as well. I think it was safe to say he was awake.

I lay still. The voices had faded outside, although I could still hear the music, too faint for me to actually make out a melody, but definitely there all the same. I wondered what time it was - some nights, if the wind was in the right direction, I could hear the Pontiac Grill letting out around 1.30, 2, despite the fact that it was a good couple of miles from my house. From here, it was barely a mile away. Give it a strong breeze to ride on, and no wonder it seemed so loud.

Ryan's fingers tightened softly around my breast, and the bulge pressing into my ass flexed too, straining against the layers of denim that lay between us. I wondered how I should react; whether I should maintain the pretence of sleeping. It sounds daft, but sometimes it's nice just to lie there being cuddled, and I knew - or thought I knew - that Ryan was too much of a gentleman to try forcing the issue.

At the same time, though... there was another gentle thrust against my buttock and, as his arm drew me closer to him, I felt his breath warm against the back of my neck for the first time. Okay, that feels good. I drew my own arm up tighter against my body, trapping his one hand against my breast, while I let my free arm rest on my side, the tip of my pinkie just grazing the weave of his jeans. He kissed the nape of my neck softly, and I shifted my hand a little, to rest on his hip.

This was fun. He'd make a move; I'd make one back at him. He squeezed my breast; I pushed my hand between our bodies - not so far that I would break the contact, nor even so far that I could touch his cock through the cloth. But close enough that he knew I might, and close enough that I knew I wanted to. We still hadn't spoken.

His hand was on my belly now, his fingers gently kneading my skin through my T-shirt, at the same time as he slowly... very slowly... dragged the fabric up. I suddenly realized that I was holding my breath, anticipating the first thrill of his fingertips on my bare skin. For the first time since we met, I wondered what sort of lover he would turn out to be. He'd certainly been gentle and patient up until now - even if he was asleep when that erection first came on, still it had done nothing more than tantalize me so far, and my hand slipped a little further down, my own fingertips aching to sketch its shape in my mind.

He understood my movement and, as his hand slipped onto my waistband, he shifted his hips slightly, away from my body. I didn't move. The moment was so perfect, the two of us poised on the edge of discovery, well aware of the ease with which we could take that one final step, but holding ourselves back, savoring those spine-tingling seconds that too few lovers ever take the time to enjoy.

He kissed me again, on the side of my neck, and I thought of turning my head to meet his lips. Then the night exploded into noise, the clatter of machinery grinding into motion, reverberating through the interior of the van and shattering whatever last pretence of sleeping that either of us was entertaining.

It could not have lasted more than a second or two; before I'd even sat up and caught my breath, all was silent again. Beside me, Ryan was breathing heavily, and the hand that now lay on mine was shaking slightly. Or was that me? "What was that?" I whispered.

"I don't know. I've never heard anything like that before."

The noise boomed again, but this time it did not fade away completely; instead, it just receded into the distance somewhat, then started coming around again. Like a small locomotive on a short loop of track. "Where did you say we were parked?" I asked, although I clearly remembered what he'd said as we parked. We were in the middle of the old Ghost Train.

Ryan was on his knees, looking out of the back window. "There's nothing out there," he muttered, but I still jumped when the van creaked, as he crawled back alongside me. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," I answered slowly. "I mean, we came out here to listen to the ghosts. It'd be stupid to turn and run now, wouldn't it?" I told him what I'd heard before he woke up; how I convinced myself they were simply coming in on the wind. I glanced down at my watch - it was later than I thought, gone 3 already. Obviously, I'd convinced myself wrongly.

My heart was beating at a manageable rate again, and I lay back down. Our hands were still twined together. "Sure you're okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. It just gave me a start. I wonder what it was?"

He was silent - I knew what he was thinking, but he didn't say it. Instead: "It certainly broke the moment, didn't it?"

I lay my hand on his shoulder. "It did, rather. I hate to think what would have happened if it had started a few minutes later."

He laughed. "With luck, we wouldn't even have noticed." Raising himself, he kissed me on the lips, then broke away again. "Listen. Are those the voices you heard?"

All around the van, the hum of happy chatter had resumed. Occasionally, one voice - a child's here, a man's there - broke through the buzz, but not so far that you could make out the words. I clasped Ryan to me. "Do you think... if we can hear them, do you think they can see us?"

"I don't know. If they can, they probably think we're part of one of the machines. And don't forget where we're parked. If we are inside the Ghost Train, we're probably in darkness, anyway."

A memory came back to me, the first time I'd went to a funfair with a boy. I was still a kid... still at school, anyway... and had never done anything more than kiss and hold hands. And that's all we did this time, until we got onto the Ghost Train and, without a word of warning, he pressed my hand into his lap. My shriek was even louder than the banshees howling around us, and when the ride ended, he ran like the wind. Well, what goes around comes around and, all these years later, here I am back on the same old ride. The only difference is, I'm not afraid of boys' laps anymore. But am I afraid of ghosts?

I could still hear the voices. Before, when they came, it was in bursts, a few minutes of noise that then faded away. Not this time. There was a new constancy to them, as though whatever barrier they'd been pushing through earlier had finally given way. The awful roaring noise had not returned, but the music was back, and a distant popping sound - a rifle range, maybe? I could smell popcorn.

Ryan was silent, his arms locked around me, his breathing shallow. I pressed my body against his; the bulge in his pants had subsided, and I felt a peculiar disappointment. Does fear make people horny? I don't know - I'm not even sure if I was horny. But, though it sounds corny, feeling his hardness pushing against me conveyed a sense of reality that balanced out the sheer unreality of what I was hearing outside. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I pressed my hips harder against his loins, and started to gently gyrate.

He moaned slightly and I increased the pace a little, triumphant as I felt the first stirrings answer my movements. We didn't speak, we didn't kiss. This wasn't lust talking, or passion. If you want to be horribly analytical about it, it was two people surrounded by something they didn't understand, seeking comfort in the one thing they knew they could rely on. Or, at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I pushed and rolled him onto his back, then plunged my face into his neck, biting and sucking at the flesh, the night's growth of beard stabbing tiny exciting needles into my lips and cheek. My hands tugged at his T-shirt, pulling it out of his pants (why do so many men insist on tucking in their Ts?) and hoisting it over his chest. I located a nipple and swirled my tongue around it. For all his blondeness, he was surprisingly hairy; I let my fingers run through the curls while I sought out his other nipple and, opening my mouth as wide as I could, sucked his flesh into my mouth.

I felt his hands tugging at my jeans, fumbling with the button. I moved away slightly. "Not yet," I whispered. In truth, I didn't want to be naked there and then - was it my imagination, or had the voices outside increased in volume? I wondered what time sunrise was... it couldn't be long now. But would it even make a difference?

His hands fell away; I hoped he wasn't disappointed. I thought of saying something reassuring, but didn't. Actions speak louder than words - I bit into his stomach. He groaned loudly, so I did it again. That's it, make a noise. That's what I want to hear. When he cried out, I couldn't hear the sounds outside. I bit down again, but now I was unbuckling his belt, and popping open the clip of his jeans. I pulled at the waistband; he raised his hips and jeans and boxers slipped down, as the musky scent of his cock rose to meet me, free at last.

I felt my pussy flood; I'd forgotten how long it had been since I last... I held him in one hand, measuring him in my mind. Longer than I'd guessed, and thinner, too, but thin in a good way; thin enough that I could really work my lips and tongue on him, rather than straining wide to simply envelope him. Men forget, or perhaps they never knew, mouths don't stretch like pussies, a girl needs a little leeway, something to get a firm grip on.

I buried my face into his balls, feeling his shaft hard against my cheek. I licked coarsely at the hairy skin, sucking slightly, then breaking away to bite into his inner thigh. He gasped - in pain? In surprise? I didn't care. Now I took one whole ball into my mouth, swirling it against my teeth and cheeks, then released it as I licked up his shaft.

His cock was my whole world now; the sounds from outside a less than irrelevant backdrop to his breathing and moans. I moistened the head of his prick with my tongue, then dragged it over my cheeks and lips. He spoke. "Please, suck me." I responded with a little nip, taking the very tip of his dick between my teeth and biting down. Not hard this time, just enough for him to feel the pressure, and for me to feel that wonderful silky firmness. His breath drew in sharply; I took him deeper, feeling my lips slip over his helmet, and then closing my mouth around his shaft and holding him there, drawing out his flavor with slow, luxurious sucks.

My hands were on his thighs, my nails pulling at the flesh - the only sensations I wanted him to feel on his prick were those I gave with my mouth, and when his hips began slowly to move, I pressed my hands down, trapping him.

Now he could have me. His hands were in my hair. I twisted my body so that I could undo my jeans with one hand and, in the darkness, he understood, pulling them sharply down. I wriggled one leg free, and positioned myself over his face. His tongue grazed my panties, but they might as well not have been there, I was so wet, and the cloth was so sheer. His fingers yanked the gusset aside regardless, and I felt his mouth against me, sucking my lips in while his tongue flickered against the captive pink. It felt glorious and I began to buck, feeling my clitoris jarring against his chin - for a moment, I even forgot what else I was doing, and rose up on my knees, my eyes closed, my hands on his stomach, conscious of nothing but the sensations sweeping through me. Have I ever come this fast, this way?

My hands found his prick again, began jerking him furiously, and as the first of my own shockwaves rippled through me, I leaned forward, impaling my face on his stiffness. There was no room for finesse, no thought for technique - he fucked my face as hard as I rode his, and as my orgasm finally began to subside, I felt his beginning. His face was still buried deep within the sodden folds of my cunt; I heard his muffled moan just a split-second before his cock jerked hard in the depths of my mouth, and his cum spurted tart and fiery into my throat... and kept on spurting, wave upon wave of hot, heavy sauce.

I didn't even try to swallow; I parted my lips a little instead, and let my mind's eye picture the thick, creamy juice merging with my saliva, and spilling out of my mouth, trickling down his shaft for me to suck back in, lapping it up then sucking him dry, feeling him soften in my mouth, while spit and spunk drip down my chin. In my dreams... fantasies... my lover films me as I do that to him, and then we watch it back on a big screen TV. I've only ever seen it done like that in porn movies, and usually, only old-time ones - modern film-makers are so obsessed with the cumshot into the mouth that they've forgotten that the best ones are the ones that come out of it. Forget hitting rewind on the remote control, though. I watch it frame by frame.

I just wished it wasn't so dark that Ryan missed seeing it as well - then realized that it wasn't. As I opened my eyes, it was to find the morning light streaming into the van, and Ryan gazing at me with an expression that hovered somewhere between total ecstasy and absolute astonishment. He gasped a breathless "wow," and that was enough. I wondered if he had a video camera?

Outside, all was birdsong, and the first stirrings of the morning traffic on the freeway outside the park. My watch said 5.40. I pulled my jeans back on and waited while Ryan did the same. "Shall we take a look around outside?"

He nodded, and I opened the back door of the van.

"Anything?" He joined me at the opening.

I shrugged. "Maybe a bit more garbage than I remember seeing last night, but that's about it." The dew-soaked grass looked lush and springy, there were no trampled pathways beyond the ones that we created ourselves, as we stepped out of the van and walked around the clearing. The little flags that marked out the dimensions of the old Ghost Train hung forlornly awaiting the morning's first breeze. Whatever we'd heard - or thought we'd heard - the previous night, it hadn't let a mark on the landscape. In fact, as he drove me home and we laughed about it, it was very easy to put the whole thing down to a healthy dose of imagination, mixed in with wishful thinking and a dash of sexual chemistry. That's what Ryan reckoned, anyway, and it made perfect sense to agree with him.

Except my grandmother pulled that comfort away when I went to visit her the following afternoon, and she bent down to pick up a piece of street litter that was tracked in, stuck to one of my sneakers. "Adams Black Jack chewing gum," she read off the pale blue wrapper that she held in one hand. "Oh my, I haven't seen that since I was a little girl. My brother used to chew it, before he was killed in the world war."

The First World War. The one that ended in 1918. "They must have started making it again, gran," I smiled. "You know what people are like for nostalgia. Here, let me take it. I'll drop it in the kitchen garbage on my way to the bathroom."

Instead, I slipped it into my purse, to show to Ryan the next time I saw him. So, sexual chemistry chews vintage gum does it?