•July 4, 2018•

By Jerry L. Ginther
NP Guest Columnist

The night breeze circulating through the freight house caused the screen door that led into the agent’s office to open slightly and close again and again. The movement of the hinges made an eerie squeak each time the door moved, and a slight thump could be heard when the door closed. Usually, the summer breeze during the quiet night shift was welcome, but on this particular night it was a bit unsettling.
This was a summer’s night in 1965. I was working the midnight shift in the railroad depot of the Illinois Central Railroad at Tolono, Ill. It was my first job on the extra board as a telegraph operator after completing my break-in time at that station. I was 19 years old. Another significant detail here is the fact that this was the first time I had worked alone, and it just happened to be at night. It gets better, or worse, depending on your perspective.
One of my first duties that night, after relieving the operator on the previous shift, was to unload the express car and certain contents from the baggage car of a passenger train arriving shortly after the start of my shift. During my training I had done this on several occasions, so I was familiar with the routine. I pulled two baggage carts with their big iron wheels from the freight house onto the cement platform, one for express and one for the baggage. I was ready for the approaching train.
When the train stopped, I moved one of the carts up to the express car door, hopped up on it and stacked the offloaded parcels neatly. Then I jumped down and pulled the cart away from the express car and moved the other empty cart up to the baggage car door. Before I climbed up on the cart, my eyes focused on what I saw sitting in the doorway of the car, and it gave me a shudder and a sense of dread. I had never seen a pine box like this before, but I knew exactly what was in it. It contained human remains.     Login or Subscribe to read the rest of this story.