The artist arrives in Moose Lake with a
commission: to paint the old CPR line that once
cut through the boreal forest, now abandoned and
overgrown. She camps near the ruins of a signal
tower, its rusted bell still hanging from a
skeletal frame. The locals warn her not to stay
past dusk.
By the third night, she hears the bell ring—
though no wind stirs. The tracks are warm
underfoot, as if recently used. She sketches
feverishly, but her drawings shift when she
looks away: figures in period clothes appear,
then vanish. A rule is etched into her mind by
an unseen force: No photographs, no recordings,
no maps.
She discovers a hidden tunnel beneath the tower,
sealed with iron bars. Inside, she finds a
journal dated 1914, written by a woman named
Elsie Dunne, a telegraph operator who vanished
during construction. The entries describe
strange occurrences—machines that moved without
engines, workers who disappeared midshift. The
final entry reads: They took me for a ghost, but
I was only trying to be seen.
The artist begins to experience visions of
Elsie’s life, walking the same tracks at night,
painting what she sees. Locals grow uneasy. A
man from the town museum arrives, claiming the
tunnel was never meant to be found. He tries to
burn her sketches, but the flames die before
touching the paper.
On the seventh night, the bell rings again. This
time, the artist follows it to a section of
track that shouldn’t exist—a spur leading into
the forest. At the end, she finds a locomotive
frozen in time, its engine glowing faintly.
Elsie stands beside it, translucent. The artist
realizes she is not just painting history—she is
reliving it.
The tunnel collapses behind her. She escapes
with the journal, but the paintings she made in
the tower are now gone, replaced by new ones:
herself, standing on the tracks, her face
halfshadowed. The town forgets her ever came.
Only the bell still rings, and only those who
look closely see the tracks shift underfoot.
The railway expansion never ended—it just
changed shape.
