Midnight on the Last Train

Ben Parker hated the midnight shift. His editor had forced him to cover the city’s subway renovations, and now here he was, dragging himself onto the last train of the night. The flickering lights of the station cast long shadows on the empty platform. The air smelled like wet concrete and old cigarettes. Ben’s shoes squeaked as he stepped into the train car, his tired eyes scanning the few passengers inside. A woman in a dripping raincoat sat stiffly near the door, her hair plastered to her face. A man in a wrinkled tuxedo tapped his fingers silently against his knee. An elderly couple shared a single newspaper, their faces hidden behind it. A teenage boy in a hoodie stared at the floor, his headphones buzzing with static. None of them looked up as Ben slumped into a seat.

The train jerked forward with a groan. Ben pulled out his notebook, scribbling half-hearted observations about peeling paint and flickering ads. He glanced at the other passengers again. The raincoat woman’s hands trembled in her lap, water pooling around her feet. The tuxedo man hummed a tune that made Ben’s neck prickle—it sounded like a nursery rhyme his mother used to sing, but slower, darker. When the conductor shuffled down the aisle, Ben held out his ticket. The man’s gloved hands were icy as he punched a hole through the date. Strange, Ben thought. The hole landed exactly where his birthday was printed.

The train screeched to a halt at his stop. Ben stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. But the doors didn’t open. Outside, the platform blurred like wet paint. “Hey!” Ben slapped the glass. The passengers sat frozen. The tuxedo man kept humming. The train lurched forward again, plunging into a tunnel darker than any Ben had seen. The lights inside the car dimmed to a sickly green. Ben’s phone screen cracked when he tried to call for help. The map above the seats flickered—the station names had changed. “Crossroads of Regret”, “Bone Hollow”, “Terminus”. The air turned thin and metallic, burning his lungs.

He stumbled down the aisle. “Can’t you see this isn’t right?” he shouted. The raincoat woman tilted her head. Her eyes were milky white. The elderly couple lowered their newspaper—their faces were smooth, featureless, like mannequins. The hooded teen lifted his head. Beneath the hood was only shadow. Ben’s reflection in the window wavered. His skin looked gray, his eyes hollow. He gripped a pole to steady himself. His hand passed right through it.

The train screeched again, stopping at a crumbling station. Thick cobwebs clung to the ceiling. A rusted sign read TERMINUS. The doors creaked open. Ben staggered onto the platform, his legs shaking. Behind him, the passengers rose as one. Their bodies stretched and warped, limbs twisting like smoke. The tuxedo man’s hum became a growl: “You shouldn’t have written about the mayor’s secrets.” The raincoat woman pointed to a rotting newspaper stand. The headline screamed: “Journalist Vanishes—Corruption Probe Stalled!” Ben’s own face stared back from the front page. The date: October 31, 2025. Two years from now.

“No,” Ben whispered. The train let out a final, ear-splitting wail. The passengers melted into the floor. The car dissolved like ash, leaving Ben alone in the dark. A cold wind carried voices: “Too curious…” “Should’ve stayed quiet…” He ran, but the station had no exits—only endless tracks vanishing into blackness.

Back in the city, Ben’s apartment gathered dust. Police found his notes about the mayor’s hidden deals, but the files vanished. Commuters began whispering about a phantom train that appeared at midnight, its windows filled with ghostly faces. A homeless man swore he saw a man in a tuxedo beckoning from the tracks. A college student filmed a blurry figure pounding on the windows of a passing train—a man in a rumpled coat, mouth open in a silent scream.

Ben’s editor published one final article: “The Mystery of the Midnight Line.” It didn’t mention the whispers he’d heard before boarding that night. The threat slipped under his door. The shadow outside his window. The way his reflection had started to fade days before he disappeared.

Some say the train collects those who know too much. Others say it’s a warning. But if you ever ride the last train home, listen carefully. If the passengers won’t meet your gaze, if the conductor’s breath doesn’t fog the air, if your ticket comes back punctured through your name—

Don’t stay seated.

Run.