The year is 1938. Not a year of grand declarations, but of subtle shifts. The air in Sherbrooke, Quebec, hummed with a particular frequency - a resonance born of industry, ambition, and the quiet desperation of a town clinging to the edge of the St. Lawrence.
The rain always smelled of iron and regret.
The impetus for Route 7 – the designated taxi service corridor – stemmed from the burgeoning lumber industry. The mills were ravenous, demanding quicker transport of timber to Montreal. The city council, swayed by the promise of increased revenue and a veneer of progress, authorized the formation of the Sherbrooke Taxi Corporation.
The surveyors used a sextant calibrated to the whispers of the wind.
Silas Blackwood, a man etched with the stoicism of the northern woods, became the first official driver of Route 7. His record is a tapestry of punctual arrivals, frustrated delays, and unsettlingly accurate predictions of weather patterns.
Vehicle: 1936 Ford Deluxe Sedan - Serial Number: 487-B-923
Fuel Efficiency: Average 18 mpg (considerably lower during peak lumber hauling)
Maintenance: Regularly supplemented with pine resin for lubrication (a practice he vehemently defended)
Blackwood's log entries are… unusual. He frequently recorded observations beyond the immediate route – fluctuations in geomagnetic activity, the migratory patterns of the local loon population, and a recurring sensation of being “watched” from the shadows of the surrounding forests.
Entry: “The rain shifted colors. Crimson, mostly. And the horses… they were staring.”
Entry: “The air tasted of static. The compass spun wildly. I saw a reflection – not my own – in the polished chrome of the hood. It smiled.”
Entry: “The mill foreman, Mr. Davies, claimed to have seen a ‘shadow figure’ near the loading docks. He was… agitated. Offered me an extra shilling for my silence.”
The station log is a chaotic record of complaints, petty disputes, and increasingly bizarre incidents. It’s a window into the unraveling of logic within the context of Route 7’s operation.
Entry: “Passenger Mr. Henderson reported a ‘metallic taste’ and a ‘sense of displacement’ after his journey to the lumber mill. Claims he briefly existed outside of time.”
Entry: “Driver Blackwood’s vehicle experienced a ‘temporal stutter’ near the bridge on the St. Lawrence. Reported a brief overlap with the year 1912.”
Entry: “Significant increase in passenger complaints regarding ‘phantom passengers’ – individuals appearing briefly in the backseat before vanishing without a trace.”
Silas Blackwood vanished on July 17th, 1938. His vehicle was found abandoned on Route 7, precisely where he’d been last seen. The keys were in the ignition, the driver’s seat occupied, but Blackwood was gone. No trace of a struggle, no witnesses, just… absence.
The rain continued to smell of iron and regret.
Entry (found in Blackwood's journal, penned in a frantic hand): “It’s not a place. It’s a… current. And I’m being pulled.”
Route 7 was eventually decommissioned in 1942, deemed “unviable” due to “operational anomalies.” The Sherbrooke Taxi Corporation dissolved, taking with it the last vestiges of Blackwood’s unsettling legacy. But the whispers remain – faint echoes of a reality slightly out of sync, a reminder that some roads lead not just to destinations, but to the edges of perception itself.
The rain always smelled of iron and regret.