The Silent Passenger

It was a stormy night when Clara Davis boarded the last train out of the city. The station was almost unfilled, save for a couple of strays surging home, their countenances concealed underneath umbrellas. Clara pulled her jacket tight around her body and really look at her watch — 11:45 p.m. She had scarcely made it in time.

As she found her seat close to the rear of the train, she was unable to shake the uncomfortable inclination that had been following her throughout the night. Perhaps it was the tempest outside, or maybe it was the dim, deserted roads she had hurried through to arrive. One way or the other, something felt wrong.

The carriage was scantily populated. A young fellow with earphones sat two lines ahead, gesturing his head to music. Across the walkway, a more seasoned lady rested with a paper in her lap. Further up, a man in a suit gazed vacantly through the window.

Clara subsided into her seat and attempted to zero in on her book, yet the letters appeared to obscure on the page. She looked around the carriage once more, her feeling of anxiety developing. The lights above gleamed briefly, then, at that point, steadied. The cadenced banging of the train over the tracks was the main sound, save for a periodic thunder of roar outside.

She took a full breath and attempted to shake off the inclination. It was only her creative mind roaming free. She was worn out from a difficult workday, and the tempest had her tense. That is all it was.

However at that point, she saw him.

A man wearing a dull, weighty coat remained at the most distant finish of the carriage, his face darkened by shadows. Clara hadn't seen him board the train, and she was certain he wasn't there when she plunked down. He stopped, his hands got into his pockets, watching the travelers.

Clara's heartbeat enlivened. The man didn't move, didn't sit down. He just remained there, his eyes fixed on something — or somebody. She attempted to turn away, yet her look continued to get back to him, drawn by an illogical feeling of fear.

Once more, the train's lights gleamed, and when they returned on, the man had moved. He was presently standing nearer — three columns in front of her, his head turned somewhat toward her. Her breath trapped in her throat.

Clara's brain dashed. Is it true or not that he was following her? Did he know her? She thought hard, attempting to recall whether she'd seen him previously. Perhaps at the station, or on the stage? In any case, no, his face was new, and the manner in which he moved, so quiet and purposeful, creeped her out.

She glanced around at different travelers, contemplating whether any other person had seen the man. The young fellow with the earphones was as yet engaged in his music. The more seasoned lady proceeded to rest, and the man in the suit hadn't moved from his spot by the window.

Clara gulped hard and constrained herself to turn away. She attempted to zero in on her book once more, however her hands were shaking. She was unable to shake the inclination that something horrible was going to occur.

Then, the lights went out.

The train dove into haziness, and Clara's heart hustled. She heard the sound of individuals moving in their seats, surprised by the abrupt power outage. A couple of mumbles of disarray undulated through the carriage, however nobody talked boisterously. The train kept on speeding through the tempest, the downpour beating against the windows.

Clara's chest fixed. She felt the air develop heavier, the quiet thick with strain. And afterward, she heard it — strides. Slow, conscious strides, drawing nearer to her. She stressed her eyes in the dimness, attempting to make out the figure, however it was excessively dull.

"Is… is anybody there?" she murmured, her voice shaking.

No response. The strides halted, yet the presence waited. She could feel somebody — or something — standing only a couple of feet away. Clara's heart beat in her ears, her palms smooth with sweat. She pondered standing up, rushing to the guide's vehicle, or if nothing else attempting to caution different travelers, yet she was frozen completely still.

Abruptly, the lights glimmered back on, and the carriage was washed in brutal glaring light. Clara flickered, her eyes changing in accordance with the brilliance. She glanced around wildly, yet the man in obscurity coat was no more.

Her eyes shot to the lines ahead — void. She looked behind her — nothing. Maybe he had never been there. However, Clara understood what she had seen. She wasn't envisioning it.

The train eased back as it moved toward the following station, the shriek of metal on metal penetrating the air. Clara stood up, her legs shaking, and snatched her pack. She was unable to remain on the train any more. When the entryways opened, she darted out onto the stage, her breath coming in short heaves.

She looked back at the train, half-hoping to see the man remaining in the window, watching her leave. Be that as it may, the windows were vacant, the carriage as still and quiet as it had been previously.

Clara rushed through the station, her heart actually dashing. She didn't have the foggiest idea who — for sure — that man was, yet she made certain of a certain something: he wasn't a fabrication of her creative mind. Furthermore, as the train pulled away from the station, vanishing into the evening, Clara couldn't shake the inclination that he was still out there, watching her, pausing.

Also, that she hadn't said a final farewell to him.