The Stranger on the Train: What I Didn’t See Coming

I always thought the late-night train was peaceful.

Something about the quiet hum of the wheels, the rhythmic sway of the carriage, and the scattered silhouettes of other tired souls made me feel strangely safe. Invisible, almost. Like nothing could touch me in that bubble between stops and streetlights.

But that night? That night changed everything.

I boarded the 11:07 PM train just like always—same coat, same earbuds, same seat near the window, two cars from the back. I was half-watching downloaded episodes of a comfort show on my phone, half-people-watching the handful of passengers scattered across the car. Two women were chatting a little too loudly a few seats ahead of me—one blonde, one brunette, both dressed like they came straight from happy hour.

I remember rolling my eyes when I overheard them whispering about “The Train Killer.”

That urban legend had been circulating all over the news for weeks. A supposed serial killer who targeted passengers on quiet trains at night. The media had sensationalized it, of course. All rumors and paranoia. No solid evidence. Just people disappearing. A wallet found on an empty seat. A shoe on the tracks. No bodies.

Still, I didn’t believe in monsters. Not the kind hiding on public transportation.

To avoid their gossip, I shifted my focus to the man across the aisle—a guy maybe a few years older than me, reading a worn paperback. He was handsome in a quiet, bookish way, the kind of guy who never notices people staring at him. He didn’t glance up once. Whatever he was reading had swallowed him whole.

I smiled. Something about him made the night feel normal again.

But that illusion didn’t last.

Somewhere between the next two stops, the train grew quieter. The women’s voices faded. I didn’t notice them leave, but when I looked up again, their seats were empty.

I went back to my show. Then I felt it—a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Too familiar.

I flinched and turned.

It was them. The blonde and brunette, standing close—too close. The brunette held something in her hand. It took me a second to register it: a syringe.

“What the—?!”

The blonde lunged, grabbing my throat with surprising strength, squeezing just hard enough to steal my breath. The brunette reached for my arm.

Panic surged through me. My body froze before I could scream.

Then—crash.

A blur of motion. The man with the book tackled them. Hard. The syringe clattered to the floor. Shouts. Struggling limbs. My vision tunneled as adrenaline blurred my thoughts.

“Call 911!” the man yelled without looking at me.

Somehow, I did.

When the train stopped, police swarmed the car. The women fought like cornered animals, but they were no match. Officers cuffed them, dragged them away, and disappeared into the night.

I stayed frozen in my seat, still gripping my phone. Trembling.

The man came over. His face was calm, but his eyes searched mine with concern.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, barely. “You… you saved my life.”

He looked away, sheepish. “I just saw what was happening and reacted.”

“What if you hadn’t been there?” I whispered.

His name was Marcus. He offered to walk me home. I said yes.

We walked in silence for a while, and I found comfort in his presence. His steps were steady, protective. When I thanked him again, he just smiled.

“People like that… they’re sick. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“Still,” I murmured, “how did it get this far?”

Marcus didn’t respond.

When we reached my street, I offered him a hug. It was the least I could do.

He hesitated, then pulled me into a brief embrace. His warmth felt grounding.

He turned to leave. I waited until he was a few steps ahead of me.

Then I reached into my purse and pulled out my own syringe.

They weren’t supposed to strike tonight.

Those two amateurs ruined everything. I’d been planning my next kill for weeks. Quiet, clean. A perfect story to add to the whispers of The Train Killer.

But they jumped the gun.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining.

Marcus was sweet. Kind. Heroic.

A perfect victim.

As I walked behind him, my fingers gripped the syringe tighter, my pulse syncing to the thrum of hunger in my chest. That warm, electric thrill I always got before a kill buzzed beneath my skin.

I raised the syringe.

And smiled.

Author Note:

Sometimes evil hides in plain sight. Sometimes, it wears a grateful smile.

Thank you for reading.