Train in the Trees to Insomniac Central

The train passed high above in the sky with no visible sign of support and plunged through a stand of trees before disappearing into the murky distance.

People should have been used to the sight by now, but still marvelled at the optical illusion created on those leaden, misty days that concealed the viaduct and everything bar movement. Some would sit at their front bedroom windows, fascinated by the sight. Others with jobs to go to just cursed the visibility and, instead of taking the car, got on the very trains causing such fascination. They always seemed to arrive more or less on time.

Ever since Bob had been an infant, they had been known as the ghost trains. Now he was much older, working long hours to pay the rent and suffering from insomnia. At least these trains were reliable, running their all stops service through the night, silently gliding high above on the viaduct in the early hours to pick up and drop late stragglers at each small station along the line. It was one of the few Beeching had dared not cut. Many thought it was because of the rumours that it was haunted, though more than likely because the trains served constituencies that the government risked losing had they tried to.

There was an old church next to one of the more isolated stations. It was rumoured that it had been taken over by a cult whose members depended on the late trains to attend the services, rituals, or whatever they got up to in the dead of night. The only ones in the vicinity who might have seen them come and go were badgers, but they were too busy fossicking to notice.

The church would have become derelict if that mysterious buyer had not bought it before the roof collapsed. Once deconsecrated, it could have been turned into a nightclub or wrestling venue for all the locals cared. There were no access roads and its old congregation had long since surrendered the nearest villages to second home buyers who had little interest in walking two miles to pray in its crumbling, damp interior.

Some insomniacs claimed that a phantom steam locomotive came and went in the early hours. It seemed to materialise from the shadow of the trees as though it had alighted on the viaduct from another dimension. This was probably a ghost train children believed in, while adults were disciplined enough to ignore the apparent evidence of their own eyes.

Then one night, as he lay wide awake gazing at the stars through half drawn curtains, Bob sat bolt upright, suddenly seized with the urge to follow the ghost train to the church. Despite being a ridiculous idea, he was unable to resist the impulse. He pulled on jeans over his pyjamas, threw on his padded jacket and went out to unlock his bicycle.

Unbeknown to Bob, other insomniacs across the region also inexplicably felt the urge to follow the steam billowing from the ghost train.

From the surrounding area more cyclists, also with overcoats over pyjamas, and one or two cars, found themselves converging on the remote church in the early hours. No one knew what had summoned them on that particular night. It might have been the luminous full moon or incongruous chuff chuff of a steam engine travelling on electrified rails that insisted that they leave the sweltering discomfort of their beds.

The interior of the church was well lit so, after some hesitation, Bob and the other visitors approached its open doors.

The phantom train was waiting at the nearby platform of the derelict branch station. Ghostly visitors disembarked from it and chatted to the mortal arrivals as though it was the most natural thing to do before entering the, almost, hallowed church.

The original pews had not been removed, so the congregation, mortal and ghostly, took their seats to listen to the imposing woman leaning over the pulpit above them.

She raised her hands in greeting. ‘Welcome to Insomniac Central. All problems, pains and pettiness will not bother you in this place. Here the turbulent thoughts that keep you awake will dissolve away and filter back into the dimension they emanated from. Just take a pledge in these sanctified walls to be rid of them for good.’

Without hesitation the congregation, real and nebulous, raised their palms and fervently willed the ills that kept them awake not to return.

No local recalled peddling or driving back home, nor dreamer catching the ghost train. They just woke the next morning, refreshed for the first time they could remember as the stresses that had bedevilled their lives began to disappear.

The pay rise Bob thought he would never see, and desperately needed to pay his rising rent, was confirmed the next morning.

The troublesome teenagers that parents were unable to deal with unaccountably decided to move out or stop demanding money. The online trolls, vindictive business reviews by competitors and nuisance calls filtered away. More than one abusive boss had a stroke or heart attack, and the penalties on bank overdrafts were suddenly reduced.

Bob and a few others gratefully returned to the mysterious church.

It was dark and the doors bolted.

During that memorable night no one had noticed the effigy over the porch, a tall, imposing woman holding a full moon.

She had no name, just a title, "The Patron Saint of Insomniacs".