The Mysterious Signal

By Cy Warman in 1906

The iron horse, a symbol of progress and connectivity, wove its way across the burgeoning landscape of America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These steel arteries, however, were not immune to the vagaries of fate and the echoes of human tragedy. This is the story of one such confluence, a tale steeped in loss, shrouded in mystery, and whispered among railroad men from coast to coast: the legend of the mysterious signal.

Just as the memory of Waterloo haunted Napoleon, so too did the Ashtabula disaster sear itself into the soul of a man named Bradish. The Ashtabula Bridge disaster of 1876, a horrific train wreck, left him bereft, crawling from the wreckage a widower and childless. The physical wounds healed, but the emotional scars ran deep, leaving him a shadow of his former self. It was only after an extended stay in the hospital that the full weight of his loss settled upon him – his entire family, gone in an instant.

Seeking solace, or perhaps simply escape, Bradish journeyed west, to a land of new beginnings. He possessed a comfortable home, rental properties, and a promising mine, carved into the side of a hill. The townsfolk, aware of the tragedy that had befallen him, anticipated his recounting of the Ashtabula tragedy. Yet, he remained silent, a stoic figure who offered only nods to his neighbors and carried on with his business. He silently instructed the old servant to open his house. He acknowledged the man-servant, her husband, with a nod as well. He took his luncheon alone in the fine new house that had been completed just a year before the catastrophe.

A peculiar pattern soon emerged in Bradish’s life. Roughly once a week, he would board the midnight express, embarking on a journey of several hundred miles before doubling back. His departures and returns were noted, but his motivations remained opaque, a subject of quiet speculation among his housekeeper, agent, and the foreman at the mines. One might have expected the painful memory of Ashtabula to confine him to his home, but he seemed driven by a restless spirit, traveling for the sake of the ride itself, or perhaps for no discernible reason, like a deaf man heedlessly walking on a railroad track.

Gradually, his journeys extended further afield, taking him on the Midland line into Utah. On occasion, he was even spotted at the rear of the California Limited as it descended the western slopes of the Raton Range. And then, the whispers began, the first hints of the strange phenomenon that would become known as the mysterious signal.

One starless night, as the California Limited sped across the desert landscape, its powerful engine devouring the miles, the unexpected occurred. The piercing shriek of the danger signal ripped through the engine cab, and the air brakes slammed on with brutal force. Passengers lurched forward in their seats, or clung to their berths as the train screeched to a halt.

The conductor and head brakeman rushed forward, their voices laced with urgency, demanding to know the cause of the sudden stop. The engineer, leaning from his high vantage point, responded with a mix of anger and bewilderment. "What in thunder’s the matter with you? I got a stop signal from behind!" he exclaimed.

The conductor, disbelieving, retorted, "You’d better lay off and have a good sleep." The engineer, incensed by the insinuation, retorted, "I’ll put you to sleep for a minute if you ever hint that I was not awake coming down Canyon Diablo." The engineer released the brakes, and the long, heavy train continued on its way, five minutes behind schedule.

A month later, a similar incident occurred on the eastern end of the line. This time, the engineer was signaled to stop on a curve, with the very front of the train positioned precariously on a high bridge. The captain and the engineer, less volatile than before, engaged in a more reasoned discussion, questioning the fireman, who, absorbed in his duties, had heard nothing.

The head brakeman, crossing himself, attributed the incident to an "unseen hand" stopping the Limited on the desert, a possible warning. He cautiously ventured onto the bridge, searching for signs of sabotage or supernatural intervention. After reaching the other side and finding nothing amiss, he signaled the all-clear, and the train resumed its journey. The seven-minute delay necessitated a report to the officials, marking the first official acknowledgement of the "unseen hand."

Word of the mysterious signal spread among trainmen at division stations, swapped in hushed tones amidst the clatter and steam. The Columbia Limited, traversing the Short Line, was halted with its lead car hovering over the Snake River near Pendleton. The incoming captain and his engineer engaged in a heated argument over the incident, resulting in a ten-day suspension for both, not for the delay itself, but for their intoxicated state the following morning.

The pattern continued, with the International Limited on the Grand Trunk and the Sunset on the South Coast falling victim to the inexplicable signal. The strange phenomenon became so widespread that railway officials began to lose patience. One road issued a draconian order, decreeing a thirty-day suspension for any engineer who reported signals when no signals were present, with termination for a second offense.

Within a week of this unpopular decree, "Baldy" Hooten, an experienced engineer, heard the dreaded stop signal as he approached a small junction town with an overhead bridge. Reacting instinctively, he plunged through the window up to his hip pockets.

The engine crashed over the bridge. The fireman, astonished, stared at the engineer, who responded by opening the throttle wide. The fireman dove to the deck, stoking the furnace with renewed vigor. Ten minutes later, the Limited screeched to a halt ten miles down the line. The head brakeman whispered hoarsely, "The ol’ man’s aboard," indicating the presence of a high-ranking official.

The blue-and-gold conductor, with his frosted light, confronted the engineer, demanding to know why he had not stopped at Pee-Wee Junction. The engineer, feigning ignorance, claimed he had seen no signal. The conductor, exasperated, revealed that the superintendent was scheduled to meet with the General Manager at Pee-Wee that morning, leaving an engineering team idle for half a day. The conductor implied that the engineer would face severe repercussions.

The superintendent himself joined the group, asking the engineer why he had failed to stop at Pee-Wee. The engineer, staring intently at the superintendent, claimed he had heard no signal. The superintendent was stymied. He retreated to the telegraph office, leaving the engineer gloating in his cab.

The superintendent wired his assistant, ordering the cancellation of General Order No. 13. The night man, alerted to the superintendent’s displeasure, roused the station master, who arranged for a light engine to transport the superintendent back to the Junction.

However, a chain of unfortunate events unfolded. The freight engine left on a siding was struck by another train and derailed, blocking the main line. As the light engine sped toward Pee-Wee, it encountered a flock of sheep, derailing and injuring all four men on board.

The superintendent, uninjured, instructed the conductor to report the incident and limped towards Pee-Wee, connecting the disasters to General Order No. 13.

The mystery of the mysterious signal became a topic of conversation among officials and trainmen alike, even reaching the annual conventions of General Passenger Agents and engineers. The Eastern contingent dismissed the phenomenon as the product of "squirrel-whiskey" and mountain air.

The Inter-Mountain Air Line suffered particularly from the disruption caused by the elusive signal. Regular spotters failed to identify the source, prompting the management to hire a Chicago detective. The detective, traveling by night and sleeping by day, initially encountered little success. However, on one occasion, a train he was not on was stopped, only to discover a massive boulder blocking the tracks.

With a watchman placed on every train, the officials hoped to solve the mystery. The old engineer, McNally, boasted that he would ignore any "ghost sign," but he was caught off guard when the signal appeared in broad daylight.

A fortnight later, McNally, on a night run through Crooked Creek Canyon, found himself amidst a raging thunderstorm. As he approached a high wooden trestle, he leaned out of his cab window and, during a flash of lightning, saw that the track was clear. He released the brakes slightly to allow the train to navigate the curves smoothly.

However, as the engine entered a deep rock cut, the after-effect of the lightning flash plunged the world into darkness. In the rearmost sleeper car, the detective, feigning sleep, observed a man leap from his berth and attempt to grab the bell rope. The detective subdued the man, who offered little resistance.

The conductor, alerted to the commotion, handcuffed the man, who pressed his face against the window. Seeing the posts of a snow-shed, the man sprang up, flung the detective and conductor aside, and pulled the signal rope.

The passengers were alarmed. The conductor ordered the rear brakeman to fetch McNally and inform him that they had caught the "ghost." The detective released the man, who collapsed into a seat.

The company surgeon examined the prisoner, while the porter burst in, shouting that the bridge was gone and that the engine was perched precariously on the edge of a precipice. The doctor silenced the porter to prevent a panic.

The detective removed the handcuffs, and the doctor began to question Bradish. Bradish, relieved to finally unburden himself, began to unravel the mystery. He recounted the Ashtabula accident, the source of his enduring trauma.

He described being awakened by his wife’s voice, crying out his name as she had in the wreckage at Ashtabula. He would leap from his bed, hearing the roar of a train, feeling the need to travel and to stop the train. He had tried to resist these urges, but to no avail. He revealed that on the night of the incident, he had heard his wife’s voice and instantly envisioned the bridge swept away and the gorge that lay before them.

"Thank God it’s all over. I feel now that I am cured, that I can settle down contented," he concluded.

The conductor discovered that a water spout had indeed washed away the high bridge, leaving the engine teetering on the brink.

McNally, having driven his fireman from the cab, stood at his post, gripping the air lever. The trainmen worked to unload the passengers and secure the train. The link between the engine and the mail car snapped, and the engine began to move forward.

McNally leaped from the window, grabbing onto a cedar tree. He watched as his engine plunged into the canyon below. The whistle-rope caught, unleashing a deafening shriek as the engine spiraled downwards, finally disappearing into the raging waters.

This haunting tale, like so many others, draws upon the alleged hauntings that followed the disastrous train wreck in Ashtabula, Ohio, in December 1876. The story serves as a reminder of the powerful impact of trauma and the enduring mysteries that can linger along the iron rails of American history. The unexplained events surrounding the "mysterious signal" are a perfect story of the past.