It's difficult to pick one favorite story, but I've settled on "That Hell-Bound Train" (instead of, say "Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper" or "Enoch") simply because this "deal with the devil" story is so damned charming and filled to overflowing with humanity.
I only met Mr. Bloch once, and I'll admit that I was totally intimidated at the time. What surprised me was to find that the author of Psycho and so many other stories that impressed and influenced me was such a kind, sweet, gentle person.
It may be risky to say this, but I do think he was underappreciated or maybe undervalued is a better word. While he was alive, he certainly garnered plenty of awards and recognition from countless writers' groups and organization as well the respect and love of personal friends. But when you read and feel the humanity in such stories as "That Hell-Bound Train," maybe you'll agree that Robert Bloch the man and the writer could never have been overvalued.
I miss his voice and his vision.
Rick Hautala
When Martin was a little boy, his Daddy was a Railroad Man. Daddy never rode the high iron, but he walked the tracks for the CB&Q, and he was proud of his job. And every night when he got drunk, he sang this old song about That Hell-Bound Train.
Martin didn't quite remember any of the words, but he couldn't forget the way his Daddy sang them out. And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in the afternoon and got squeezed between a Pennsy tank-car and an AT&SF gondola, Martin sort of wondered why the Brotherhood didn't sing the song at his funeral.
After that, things didn't go so good for Martin, but somehow he always recalled Daddy's song. When Mom up and ran off with a traveling salesman from Keokuk (Daddy must have turned over in his grave, knowing she'd done such a thing, and with a passenger, too!) Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the Orphan Home. And after Martin himself ran away, he used to whistle the song softly at night in the jungles, after the other bindlestiffs were asleep.
Martin was on the road for four-five years before he realized he wasn't getting anyplace. Of course he'd tried his hand at a lot of things picking fruit in Oregon, washing dishes in a Montana hash-house, stealing hubcaps in Denver and tires in Oklahoma City but by the time he'd put in six months on the chain-gang down in Alabama he knew he had no future drifting around this way on his own.
So he tried to get on the railroad like his Daddy had and they told him that times were bad.
But Martin couldn't keep away from the railroads. Wherever he traveled, he rode the rods; he'd rather hop a freight heading north in sub-zero weather than lift his thumb to hitch a ride with a Cadillac headed for Florida. Whenever he managed to get hold of a can of Sterno, he'd sit there under a nice warm culvert, think about the old days, and often as not he'd hum the song about That Hell-Bound Train. That was the train the drunks and the sinners rode the gambling men and the drifters, the big-time spenders, the skirt-chasers, and all the jolly crew. It would be really fine to take a trip in such good company, but Martin didn't like to think of what happened when that train finally pulled into the Depot Way Down Yonder. He didn't figure on spending eternity stoking boilers in Hell, without even a Company Union to protect him. Still, it would be a lovely ride. If there was such a thing as a Hell-Bound Train. Which, of course, there wasn't.
At least Martin didn't think there was, until that evening when he found himself walking the tracks heading south, just outside of Appleton Junction. The night was cold and dark, the way November nights are in the Fox River Valley, and he knew he'd have to work his way down to New Orleans for the winter, or maybe even Texas. Somehow he didn't much feel like going, even though he'd heard tell that a lot of those Texas automobiles had solid gold hubcaps.
No sir, he just wasn't cut out for petty larceny. It was worse than a sin it was unprofitable, too. Bad enough to do the Devil's work, but then to get such miserable pay on top of it! Maybe he'd better let the Salvation Army convert him.
Martin trudged along humming Daddy's song, waiting for a rattler to pull out of the Junction behind him. He'd have to catch it there was nothing else for him to do.
But the first train to come along came from the other direction, roaring toward him along the track from the south.
Martin peered ahead, but his eyes couldn't match his ears, and so far all he could recognize was the sound. It was a train, though; he felt the steel shudder and sing beneath his feet.
And yet, how could it be? The next station south was Neenah-Menasha, and there was nothing due out of there for hours.
The clouds were thick overhead, and the field-mists rolled like a cold fog in a November midnight. Even so, Martin should have been able to see the headlight as the train rushed on. But there was only the whistle, screaming out of the black throat of the night. Martin could recognize the equipment of just about any locomotive ever built, but he'd never heard a whistle that sounded like this one. It wasn't signaling; it was screaming like a lost soul.
He stepped to one side, for the train was almost on top of him now. And suddenly there it was, looming along the tracks and grinding to a stop in less time than he'd believed possible. The wheels hadn't been oiled, because they screamed too, screamed like the damned. But the train slid to a halt and the screams died away into a series of low, groaning sounds, and Martin looked up and saw that this was a passenger train. It was big and black, without a single light shining in the engine cab or any of the long string of cars; Martin couldn't read any lettering on the sides, but he was pretty sure this train didn't belong on the North-western Road.
He was even more sure when he saw the man clamber down out of the forward car. There was something wrong about the way he walked, as though one of his feet dragged, and about the lantern he carried. The lantern was dark, and the man held it up to his mouth and blew, and instantly it glowed redly. You don't have to be a member of the Railway Brotherhood to know that this is a mighty peculiar way of lighting a lantern.
As the figure approached, Martin recognized the conductor's cap perched on his head, and this made him feel a little better for a moment until he noticed that it was worn a bit too high, as though there might be something sticking up on the forehead underneath it.
Still, Martin knew his manners, and when the man smiled at him, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Conductor."
"Good evening, Martin."
"How did you know my name?"
The man shrugged. "How did you know I was the Conductor?"
"You are, aren't you?"
"To you, yes. Although other people, in other walks of life, may recognize me in different roles. For instance, you ought to see what I look like to the folks out in Hollywood." The man grinned. "I travel a great deal," he explained.
"What brings you here?" Martin asked.
"Why, you ought to know the answer to that, Martin. I came because you needed me. Tonight, I suddenly realized you were backsliding. Thinking of joining the Salvation Army, weren't you?"
"Well" Martin hesitated.
"Don't be ashamed. To err is human, as somebody-or-other once said. Reader's Digest, wasn't it? Never mind. The point is, I felt you needed me. So I switched over and came your way."
"What for?"
"Why, to offer you a ride, of course. Isn't it better to travel comfortably by train than to march along the cold streets behind a Salvation Army band? Hard on the feet, they tell me, and even harder on the eardrums."