Phillip Psutka

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Phillip Psutka. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go.

So dim the lamps. Settle in. Welcome to Dark River.

She’d been given a choice: stay in Toronto and continue working as a nurse, travelling from house to house when there were patients to tend to (and when they weren’t, sitting in the office between assignments for days, sometimes weeks, while the rent for her tiny room came due and the boredom gnawed at her); or marry him, and move to Dark River.

As she stood looking out the second storey window of her narrow house, her mind drifted back to when she’d arrived here. That was almost two years ago and, at the time, she’d thought the town would be more than what she’d found waiting at the last stop on the railway line. Being one of the newest settlements in the north, somehow she’d thought it would be full of freshness, newness, everything gleaming in the sunlight, if also small and limited. She’d pictured new buildings, rows of quaint houses smelling of sawdust, fresh and gleaming, having just been erected, not yet lived in, never slept in, all hers. When she’d stepped off the train, however, she’d been greeted by a very different sight. 

She was no fool: she knew she’d had a romanticised image of her new small town northern life, that she’d maybe overshot the mark a bit in her mind. She’d fixated on the feeling of a cool breeze blowing in through the back door of her very own house, dancing across her skin. She pictured saying: “You know, with the front window and back door open, you get the most wonderful crossbreeze in the afternoon. Not to mention the view!” Sunlight dappling the front lawn through the leaves of the trees, playing light across the kitchen floor.

With that image still fresh in her mind, lulled half asleep by its pleasantness, she found herself at the final stop on the railway line: the brand new town of Dark River. 

The scene of the station shook her instantly awake, knocking loose her fantasies and shutting up all those beautiful images. It planted the first seeds of foreboding, which would sprout into a big, ugly, sharp and prickly plant by nightfall.

The platform was thick with bodies, every single one of them male, and every one of them reeking of sweat and alcohol. She placed her gloved hand beneath her nose, a reflex. She’d wanted to make an impression with her new husband, so she’d worn her corset, and she felt it bite into her ribs now, stopping her breath. Embarrassment rose as she realized she was close to fainting. “I will not,” she whispered, and dropped her hand from her face, rolling her shoulders back. She took a long, slow breath, allowing the stench of unwashed bodies, tobacco, and yesterday’s liquor to enter her lungs, making her head spin. There was oxygen in there somewhere...her body found it; her vision cleared.

Across the platform, standing against the brick wall of the station, was her husband. She hadn’t seen him since a week after the wedding, almost a month ago. A smile touched her lips -- he’d clearly made an attempt to bathe in anticipation of her arrival. This was her first training in how to find pleasure in the small things in a world where life was hard and labour endless, where those who managed to carve out a place for themselves survived on scraps of joy.

Thinking back to this day, she distinctly remembered resisting the urge to hurry across the platform, the eager desire to be claimed by him. She could still feel the heat in her cheeks as the eyes of many men turned towards her, landing on her neatly cinched waist, the curls that had come loose and dangled wistfully below her hat, the soft curve of her jawline and down to her throat, fixating on the point where it disappeared beneath the modest neckline of her dress. As far as she could tell, she’d been the only woman to disembark, and in an overcrowded town of men with very little prospects, those looks were more of a threat than anything she’d felt in Toronto.

Yet she’d forced herself to walk, and although she hadn’t known it at the time, that moment of stoicism, of quiet dignity in the bustling chaos, was a portent of things to come. Had she been made of any less, had she flinched, so would have begun the crumbling of her character...

A slam of the door downstairs brought her back to herself. She opened the window, took one deep inhale of the damp early spring air, and shivered. It was better to bear the last remnants of cold in exchange for a freshly aired house at this time of year.

There was a rustle downstairs, the movement of a chair, a scrape against the floor. Henry must be home from the mine, she thought. Yet that was odd. The days at the mine were long and gruelling. Henry left before sunrise most days, and didn’t return until well after nightfall, reeking of sweat and dirt and tobacco. The supervisors weren’t likely to send anyone home early, unless there’d been an accident. Yet there’d been no whistle to signal the news of a collapse or an explosion, or fire. In those cases, the whitle would sound the message over the town, triggering a chaotic rush of madness as everyone wondered how many, how bad, who wouldn’t be returning home for the night.

“Henry!” She called out, and waited for a response.

There was none.

Her curiosity sparked. Henry wasn’t a man of many words, but he’d always respond when called. She wasn’t expecting any visitors today, and even if she was, who would just let themselves in and invite themselves to take a seat at the kitchen table?

Luckily she was not a timid woman. All the timid women had long since ridden the train back to where they’d come from. Although she’d maintained the utmost standards of decency over the past two years, there was little room for modesty in this town. Those who couldn’t roll up their sleeves and hike up the hem of their dress had long since departed.

She turned towards the stairs and with that same stoic dignity, descended to meet the intruder.

“Annie!” A friendly voice exclaimed the moment her foot touched the landing.

She lifted her head and the moment the figure came into focus her chest constricted, pushing the air from her lungs, and she was unable to reply. The face that looked up at her from the chair was all at once so familiar it cut straight to her heart.

Gladys Thornbury beamed at her from beneath a wide brimmed hat, the top decorated with so many silk flowers that Annie thought she looked like the garden itself. In all the time she’d spent with Gladys, she’d never seen such an opulent hat on her head. It was expensive to get such materials so far north -- she must have been saving it for a special occasion, or else had hidden it away until she’d had reason to wear it, finding none amidst the dreariness of camp life.

But her dear friend should never have had the chance to wear such a hat; she’d disappeared into a typhoid tent nearly half a year ago, as the weather had begun to turn and the frost was creeping in, just before the houses on Short Street had been completed. They’d been all set to move, anticipating the moment they could wash their bodies and clothes of the grime and walk proudly up the steps of their very own porch. They’d had plans for celebration: wearing their finest dresses, they would cook for days in the blessed heat of their modest kitchens, then serve up the biggest feast that one could dream up. “Not one more winter spent in a frigid tent,” they would toast! But she’d known how many disappeared into those tents and never came out again and she’d prayed for her sick friend. When months went by without word, she’d mourned. There’d been no feast.

Yet here she was, fresh-faced, with chubby, endearing cheeks, into which was etched that unforgettable smile that lit up every room and charmed every man and woman despite all efforts at wallowing. When a sound finally did escape Annie’s throat, it was so full of joy that it was almost foreign to her.

Gladys laughed and rose from the table. Yet instead of embracing her friend, she crossed to the stove and simply looked at her. There was a look in her eyes that reminded Annie of the way she’d seen mothers look at their children from time to time, stealing a moment to take in the wonder of their little ones. It was a look of complete love, with a wistfulness that, for some reason, made Annie a little uneasy.

“My dear, how have you been?” Gladys asked.

“I, well, you know…” she searched for words, her mind a scramble, unable to focus on such mundane details. “Henry is still working at the mine, working like a dog, you know how it goes. It still feels a little strange, with no camp to run, but I’m keeping busy with the Society and, oh! And I’ll be having my first baby later this spring. Henry said it’s not right to continue running the camp while I’m in this condition.”

“My goodness!” responded Gladys. “You’re not showing yet. You look wonderful!”

Annie laughed. “Oh I’ll be plenty large soon enough. My corsets are laced looser already.”

Gladys put her hand to her heart, tilting her head to the side, a sentimental, almost mournful “mmmm” vibrating deep within her chest, barely audible but distinct. There was joy in it, but also sadness, which Annie could not understand. In that little hum lived a year of conversations, of confidence and scheming. And so many memories.

Henry and her had left the train station on foot. Her bags were loaded onto a cart and Henry pulled it behind him. Luckily she hadn’t brought much; it was all she had in the world, but it filled little more than a trunk and two bags. At one point the road became so rough that one of the wheels caught in a hole and the whole cart was upset, her belongings tumbling into the mud. Mud covered everything that was less than two feet off the ground. Her freshly polished shoes (she’d wanted to make an impression) were caked with it and, despite her modest efforts to save her skirts, they kept brushing her ankles and the white hem was now brown. So too was her luggage.

To say that her experience thus far hadn’t been what she’d expected would have been a massive understatement, and when she saw the “home” that Henry had prepared for them, she’d had more than half a mind to turn right around and head back to the station. Some men would have gently prepared their wives for such hardship, offering promises of better days, using words like “temporary” and “meantime.” Henry had clearly thought it best to omit these things from his letters, likely for fear of losing a desperately-needed wife.

They had pulled the cart into a mining camp, past rows and rows of tents. Most of the men must have been off working in the mine for the day, but a few lounged outside their humble dwellings, cooking up a late lunch on their makeshift camp stoves or napping. She dodged clotheslines and buckets, stooping to push the cart through the roughest patches, the ground being all mud here too.

Finally Henry stopped and turned to face her, clearly braced for whatever reaction was coming his way. When she met him with silence, he stepped aside and pulled open the flap of a tent.

Here she was. Her canvas home.

Now he’d used the words “temporary”, and “in the meantime”, explaining that a new row of houses was being built, but that workers were still trickling in from nearby towns and cities and there was no reliable timeline for when they would be completed. He tossed one of her bags onto the dirt floor inside the tent and turned to her, almost beaming with pride. “It’ll be one of the few houses in town with two stories. A proper home.”

She was furious, yet she knew how hard he must have worked to save the money for such a house. The settlement was so new that it was mainly a town of tents and boarding houses, and the few houses they had passed had looked to be single room dwellings with outhouses. She said nothing, not knowing how to feel, the urge to run back to the train station and its promise of transportation to more comfortable accommodations continuing to tug at her. She took a step away from the tent, back in the direction they’d come.

Something hard hit her in the small of the back and then glanced off to the side. She’d thought for a moment that she’d backed into the cart with her trunk on it, but quickly realized she’d stumbled into the path of a very busy person.

“Watch yourself, I’m coming through!” called a female voice. 

Annie turned around to apologize and the woman stopped dead in her tracks. She was carrying a basket full of sopping wet clothes, and Annie watched as she nearly dropped it. She reached out just in time to grab the edge and keep it from upsetting into the mud.

The woman didn’t thank her, just stood and stared, mouth partially agape.

“I’m so sorry, please forgive me,” said Annie.

The woman seemed to give herself a shake, then turned and continued on without a word.

That night, her first night in the tent, as the noises of the camp permeated the fabric walls, and the chill night air attempted to crawl beneath the blankets with her, she found a strange comfort in thinking of the woman with the laundry. She, too, must be huddled under the blankets in a drafty tent, pulling the pillow tight around her ears to block out the noises of men returning from their watering hole, waiting for better days. Or was she used to it by now, fast asleep the moment she hit the bed, exhausted by the day’s labour?

It was the comfort of knowing there was another woman in the camp that finally brought on sleep.

They would meet again later, under similar circumstances (the days would all become alike), but with more time for a proper greeting. And so her friendship with Gladys had developed, beginning with small greetings, polite questions, each curious about what had brought the other to such a place. Annie remembered feeling foolish as she’d admitted her own reason for coming, believing in some fantasyland at the end of the tracks, and instead falling into the pit of mud. She’d come by choice when other options had existed. Gladys, as with many others, had come out of necessity.

With news of the mines opening up around Dark River, it was said that any man willing to swing an axe could find work and a place to lay his head. Maybe even a place to raise a family eventually, if one could find a woman to marry, which was no easy task in a town overrun by men. Gladys’ husband had been down on his luck, and in the small town where they’d lived, there weren’t many opportunities to make a living.

“We heard about the silver up here, so we followed the workers and started this camp. I cook for the men, and George builds cabins for the people who can afford them,” she’d explained.

Yet Gladys had never made her feel foolish for the decision she’d made, nor for having been so horribly misguided. Instead, she’d empowered her to keep her chin up on the hard days, reminding Annie that they were building something together. Within a week Annie was working for the camp and earning a decent wage, more than she’d made as a nurse. It was backbreaking labour that went on from sunrise to sunset, and there were days when she still dreamed of hopping on that train and heading back to where she’d come from. But she grew roots in spite of those thoughts. Something about the work was satisfying to her, and something about Gladys kept her right where she was.

Back in her snug little home, all of these memories passed through her mind like clouds across the sky. She looked at Gladys standing by the stove and started to ask her where she’d been the last few months, why she hadn’t called the moment she’d recovered, where she was living, why she hadn’t seen her around town.

Before she could get all of that out, however, Gladys perked up, straightened her head and squared her shoulders. “I’ve a friend to see about some business,” she said. “I must be on my way.”

Annie blinked in amazement. “So soon! I…” She trailed off as her friend advanced, a grave look settling upon her face. She reached out a hand and placed it on Annie’s arm.

They’d lived in the mining camp for a year and a half. Every day they cooked and washed, washed and cooked, with no end in sight. It was beyond hard. Other women came and went, and other men too, intent on striking it rich or, at the very least, improving their lot in life. But the camp brought all but the toughest to their breaking point, and many would disappear down the rail lines, back to where they’d come from, or on to less gruelling adventures. 

It was a struggle to keep anything clean, and the frustration was endless. On days when Annie herself thought that she’d hit the end of her rope -- , that she was about to flinch, when she’d start taking inventory of her things as she worked, mentally packing them neatly into her trunk, wondering if she could pull the cart back to the station on her own, what she would do if it got caught in the mud, how filthy she’d be when she reached the platform -- , Gladys would catch her eye -- no matter what she was doing, somehow knowing -- and she would grin a wry, humourless grin that was not without pity, and she would tilt her head and shake it slowly. “Fool,” she would say.

And every time, Annie’s frown would break and an almost girlish giggle would rise up from her belly, growing into a hearty laugh that lifted the soreness from her shoulders. Eventually some tears would come, released at last. The bitter tears of hatred for what is, longing for what could be, and being powerless to do anything but keep on going.

Gladys called her fool as a joke, a reminder of who she’d been when she’d arrived here, and how much stronger she was for the struggle.

Now, Gladys said softly: “I’ll see you later, Annie. We’ll meet again soon.”

Annie started to shake slightly. It could have been from the cold, but she knew it wasn’t, although she couldn’t explain it. Gladys’ hand pulled away as she turned towards the front door, yet she could still feel its touch through her dress.

For the rest of the day, Annie was distracted. Try as she might, she could barely get anything done. She was so caught up in the strangeness of the visit that she kept misplacing things, drifting off in thought. Questions tumbled through her mind, and although she felt that she should be excited about this wonderful revelation -- her friend was alive! -- she couldn’t shake the chill that had set in that afternoon.

She slipped into bed that night feeling slightly feverish. The shivers returned.

It was three o-clock in the morning, or thereabouts, when she was startled awake from a deep sleep. She sat up in bed, blinking her eyes against the darkness, working the heaviness from her eyelids. She had a distinct feeling that some sound, or some vibration, had awoken her, yet when she strained to listen, all was silent. She waited for the sound again.

Hearing nothing, she kicked back the covers and crossed to the window. The floorboards were cold beneath her feet, and the chill worked its way up her legs. The wood stove downstairs would have burned down by now, and a thin layer of frost had collected in the corners of the windows, obscuring the moonlit town beyond the pane. She raised her hand to wipe it away, looking to catch a glimpse of the boarding house across the road. It gave her comfort on nights when sleep was elusive, to see other night time wanderers stealing home to their beds, or lamplight flickering in a room. She felt less alone, seeing that.

She caught sight of the anomaly in the frost just in time, just before her fist wiped it away. Odd that she could have looked past it at all, clear as it was. She stepped back to get a better look.

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment, we’ll see what Annie discovered on the window. But first I’d like to let you know that we now have new original spooky stories coming every three weeks, so follow the show on your favourite platform so you never miss an episode. And, if you enjoy your time in this haunting town, please leave a review on Apple Podcasts and tell your friends and family about it. Word-of-mouth is far and away the most powerful way to share the show and I would be sincerely grateful to introduce more people to Dark River. For those who already have, Thank You. In this time of isolation, sharing stories is one of the best ways to bring us together. But now, let’s join Annie at the window again.

She caught sight of the anomaly in the frost just in time, just before her fist wiped it away. Odd that she could have looked past it at all, clear as it was. She stepped back to get a better look.

Etched in the frost from the inside of the window were the letters F-O-O-L.

Annie shook her head, sure now that she must be dreaming. But when she looked back again, the letters were still there.

“Fool,” she whispered, and smiled despite her alarm.

She sat down on her rocking chair and rocked herself into the morning, keeping her hands busy with some mending. When that ran out, she turned to her needlework. 

Just before sunrise, she set the embroidered baby blanket aside. She stared down at it, the letters a little clearer in the growing sunlight, the colours of the flowers growing more vibrant with the dawn. “Gladys” it read. A tribute to the friend who had taught her so much, so that she may never be without her.

She put her hand on her belly, barely round enough to notice, but unmistakably growing. An awful premonition descended upon her, and she wondered how soon Gladys had meant.

This has been a tale from Dark River written by Lindsay Bellaire and hosted by me, Phillip Psutka. I also produce the show, as well as compose the music for it. The podcast artwork was done by Chris Psutka. For more history of small town life in Northern Ontario in the early twentieth century, be sure to follow our Instagram @darkriverpodcast. Though based on actual history, this story is a work of fiction – any resemblance to persons living, dead (or other) is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Thank you for stopping by, and see you soon.