A tired couple stepped up to the ticket window in the Fairbanks Depot. Their appearance was unusually disheveled and fatigued.
“We need two tickets to Anchorage,” the man croaked.
A tired couple stepped up to the ticket window in the Fairbanks Depot. Their appearance was unusually disheveled and fatigued.
“We need two tickets to Anchorage,” the man croaked.
An Alaskan serial killer strikes again.
And again.
As we stepped through the threshold to an abandoned house on Pine Street, the dried blood splatter immediately indicated that Russian Jack had struck again.
An ancient terror longs for the good old days.
I miss the train.
I loved the anonymity of the train.