“The 12:03 Train”

The 12:03 Train

It began, as most strange things do, on an ordinary night.

Every weekday, the 12:03 train to Hollowbrook left Grand Central Station. The late train — mostly quiet, half-asleep commuters heading home from the city’s fluorescent hum. You could almost hear the sighs of tired shoes and weary hearts between the announcements.

Evelyn had been taking that same train for six years. She liked the rhythm — the way the rails hummed under her seat, the gentle sway that rocked her into thought. She’d sit in the same carriage, third from the back, on the left side by the window. Always the same seat. Routine gave her comfort, and comfort was what she needed after the chaos of the day.

But that night, something broke the rhythm.

It started with the reflection.

At first, it was just a flicker. Evelyn leaned her head against the glass, her reflection staring back: pale, tired, lips pressed into a line. Then, for the briefest second, she noticed someone sitting beside her — in the reflection only. A man. Tall, dark coat, expression unreadable.

She turned.

The seat beside her was empty.

Her stomach dropped, that fleeting heartbeat between logic and fear. “I’m just tired,” she told herself. “It’s the lighting.” But when she looked again, the man was still there — in the glass, faint but solid. He was watching her.

And he smiled.

The smile was wrong — not sinister, exactly, but knowing. Like he recognized her, or perhaps pitied her.

Evelyn pulled her eyes away and stared at the floor. The train clattered through a tunnel, darkness swallowing everything. She exhaled when the lights returned, and the reflection — the man — was gone.

For the rest of the ride, she didn’t look out the window again.

The next night, curiosity overpowered fear. She boarded the same 12:03 train, same seat, same position. She told herself she was imagining things — shadows, motion blur, exhaustion. Still, when the train eased into the first tunnel, she glanced at the glass.

He was there again.

Closer this time.

The man in the reflection sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap. His eyes, sharp and dark, didn’t blink. His mouth formed words she couldn’t hear. She leaned closer to the glass.

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

The reflection’s lips moved again, slower now. Evelyn strained to read them.

“Not much time.”

The announcement bell chimed overhead: Next stop, Crestline. The reflection vanished, replaced by her own pale face once more.

When the doors opened, Evelyn stumbled out onto the platform, heart pounding. She could feel her reflection’s absence like a missing pulse.

By the third night, she wasn’t sure why she boarded the train at all.

Perhaps it was the way his eyes seemed to plead. Or maybe it was the feeling — deep and unexplainable — that the 12:03 was calling her, whispering through the rails.

When she entered the carriage, others were already seated: a sleeping businessman, a young woman scrolling her phone, an old couple holding hands. Normal people. Real people. But as the train pulled away from the station, she noticed something — every passenger had a reflection beside them.

Except the old couple.

In the glass, they weren’t there at all.

Evelyn’s breath caught. She blinked hard. The reflection showed empty seats where they sat. Then, faintly, she saw him again — the man — two rows behind her, visible only in the window’s surface. He raised a hand and pointed down the carriage.

Evelyn turned to look — the old couple had vanished.

Panic surged through her. She stood abruptly, the train swaying under her feet. “Did anyone see that?” she called out, but her voice died in the mechanical hum.

The young woman with the phone looked up, confused. “See what?”

Evelyn glanced at the window again. The reflection man had moved closer — directly behind her now, face grave. Not much time, his lips formed again.

The train entered a tunnel, and the lights flickered violently. When they came back on, every seat in the carriage was empty.

Except hers.

Silence. The kind that presses against your skin.

Evelyn’s throat tightened. Her reflection stared back at her — alone. Then, slowly, another figure appeared beside her in the glass. The man. Only this time, he wasn’t watching her.

He was her.

Her own reflection — lifeless, eyes hollow — shifted its gaze to meet her real eyes.

The realization hit like cold water. The rails beneath her screamed as the brakes engaged. The lights went out completely.

The 12:03 never arrived at Hollowbrook that night.

Investigators found the train empty on the tracks between stations, doors still sealed. No signs of struggle. No passengers logged. Just the faint outline of a handprint on one window seat — Evelyn’s seat.

The newspapers called it The Ghost Train of Grand Central.

Every year since, the 12:03 runs empty, save for the faint hum of its rails and a whisper in the glass that says, “Not much time.”

If you ride it — and if you look too long into the windows —

you might see her.

Not sitting beside you.

Only in the reflection.