Sodor: Echo

Fog on the Coast

Date: July 26, 1979

The fires in the quarry still haunt me. Every night, I lie awake, thinking about the runes, the cracks in the rock, and the suffocating heat. It feels like the island is trying to tell us something, but we can't quite understand it. And now, the fog along the coast has started to thicken, as though the air is hiding something from us.

It's only been a couple of days since the incident at the Blue Mountain Quarry, but the tension hasn't lessened. If anything, it's spreading. The whispers I heard in the mountains seemed to have followed us into every corner of the island. Duncan's temper is worse than ever, and even the usually cheerful Skarloey and Rheneas have been quieter. Sir Topham Hatt doesn't speak of it directly, but I've seen the worry in his eyes.

Today, I was assigned to the coastal line with Arthur and Salty. The job was simple enough—hauling cargo up and down the coast from Brendam Docks to Arlesburgh. But with the fog rolling in so thick and heavy, nothing about today felt simple.

Arthur, a well-mannered tank engine, had been his usual polite self when I arrived. His calm demeanour was a welcome change from the tension of the quarry, but even he seemed a bit off today. I noticed his hesitation as we set out toward the docks.

"You alright, Arthur?" I asked, stepping onto his footplate.

Arthur released a low puff of steam, the fog swirling around him. "I'm fine, Bob. Just... this fog. It's thicker than I've ever seen it before. Can barely see two feet ahead of me."

He was right. The mist hung over the coastline like a heavy curtain, clinging to the air and making everything seem distant and blurred. The lighthouse at the far end of the harbour flickered in and out of view, its light barely piercing through the haze.

Salty, the old dockyard diesel, was waiting for us at Brendam Docks, already preparing a line of cargo for transport. As usual, he was full of stories, most of them about the sea and old sailors' tales.

"Ahoy, there, mateys!" Salty greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, though even he sounded a little subdued. "Fog's thick today, ain't it? Reminds me of the stories the old sailors used to tell. Cursed waters, ghost ships... that kind of thing."

Arthur rolled his eyes slightly, but I could see the concern behind his usual polite smile. "I'm sure it's just a bit of bad weather, Salty," he said, trying to brush off the unease.

Salty chuckled, his engine rumbling as he began coupling the cargo. "Aye, maybe. But this fog? I've only seen it like this once before, long ago. The kind of fog that plays tricks on your mind. You'll see ships where there are none, and hear voices calling from the sea. Mark my words, lad. Sodor's got some secrets hidden in its waters."

I didn't think much of it at the time. Salty was known for his stories, and while they were usually good for a laugh, they rarely had any truth behind them. But as the day wore on, and the fog refused to lift, I started to wonder if maybe he wasn't just spinning another tall tale.

As we made our way along the coastal route, the fog only grew thicker. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore was muted, as though the mist was swallowing up everything around us. Arthur's driver and I kept a close eye on the tracks ahead, but it was nearly impossible to see anything more than a few feet in front of us.

The lighthouse's beam flickered in and out, sometimes vanishing entirely for minutes at a time. It was disorienting, to say the least. We should have been able to hear the usual sounds of the harbour—seagulls, the distant hum of ships—but there was nothing. Just the eerie silence of the fog.

At one point, Arthur slowed down, his wheels clanking hesitantly against the rails. "Bob," he said, his voice unusually quiet, "doesn't something feel... off to you?"