The Ghost Train

Chapter 5: The Passengers

As the train lurched forward with a gentle motion that belied its impossible nature, Sarah steadied herself against a polished brass handrail. Her journalist's instincts finally reasserting themselves. She needed to document everything.

The first car was empty save for the eerie images adorning the walls—a half-empty teacup still warm to the touch, and an open book with pages gently turning, though there was no breeze. Moving cautiously through the connecting door, she entered what appeared to be a dining car.

That's where she found them.

An elderly man sat alone at a small table, his gnarled fingers wrapped around a pocket watch. His suit—immaculately preserved though clearly outdated—hung loosely on his thin frame. When he looked up, his eyes held the milky haze of cataracts, yet Sarah felt he could see right through her.

"Another one," he said, his voice crackling like old radio static. "I can't remember when we had a new face." says the old man. " O' course I can't 'member much these days."

Sarah approached cautiously. "How long have you been on this train?"

The old man's laugh dissolved into a wheezing cough. "To long" replies the old man. "Seventy years and a day, young lady. Boarded in 1953 thinking I was headed to Chicago." He snapped his pocket watch shut. "Never quite made it there."

Before Sarah could process this, a young woman appeared from an adjacent car. Her bobbed hair and drop-waist dress placed her fashion firmly in the late 1920's, though everything about her outfit appeared pristine, as if newly purchased.

"Did we stop at Hillsborough yet?" the young woman asked, her voice tinged with anxiety. "My mother will be terribly worried if I'm late, today's my father's birthday."

Sarah glanced at the elderly man, who merely shook his head with a sad smile. "She asks that same question everytime we get a new face on board" he sneers.

"I'm afraid Hillsborough was quite some time ago," Sarah said carefully. "What year do you think it is?"

The young woman laughed nervously. "What a peculiar question. It's 1928, of course."

A chill ran through Sarah that had nothing to do with the train's temperature. Before she could respond, a smooth voice cut through the silence.

"She doesn't know. None of them ever do, at first."

The man who approached exuded authority—his tailored suit neither definitively modern nor classically vintage, but something timeless. His silver cufflinks caught the light as he extended his hand.

"Calloway," he said simply. "And you must be Sarah Mathews. The analyst."

Sarah felt her throat tighten. "How do you know my name?"

Calloway's smile revealed nothing. "The train knows who boards it. And so do I." He gestured toward an empty seat. "Please, join me. I suspect you have questions."

Against her better judgment, Sarah sat opposite him. Her recorder felt heavy in her pocket—useless without power. On impulse, she checked her phone, expecting the same dead screen.

To her surprise, it powered on. The camera function worked, though there was no signal. She quickly began recording.

"An interesting choice," Calloway remarked. "Though documentation rarely helps in circumstances like these."

"What exactly are these circumstances?" Sarah demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.

"You've boarded the Infinity Line," Calloway explained, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. "A train that exists between moments in time, between possibilities, between worlds." His eyes narrowed slightly. "It follows its own rules, Ms. Mathews."

The young woman from the 1920s wandered past again, still searching for a station that had ceased to exist nearly a century ago.

"What happens to them?" Sarah whispered.

"They remain until they find their stop," Calloway said simply. "The train only allows disembarkation at stations that call to you—that resonate with your particular... frequency." His expression darkened. "Those who try to leave at the wrong stop, or worse, try to exit between stations, often find themselves permanent passengers."

The old man at the next table nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on his eternally ticking pocket watch.

Sarah continued recording, her forensic training taking over. Time. Location. Observations. Evidence. The methodical process grounded her in the face of impossibility.

A sudden flash of light drew her attention to the window. Outside, what should have been the dark countryside of Rockhaven had transformed into a vast desert landscape. Massive pyramids rose in the distance, their golden peaks catching the light of a sun that had set hours ago in Sarah's reality.

"Egypt?" she gasped.

Calloway smiled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps something else entirely."

As the train continued its journey, the windows revealed a kaleidoscope of impossible scenes—a gleaming city of towering crystal spires; an endless ocean dotted with floating islands; a forest of trees with trunks wider than buildings, stretching up beyond sight.

"The Infinity Line travels through more than just distance," Calloway explained, watching her reactions with interest. "Time, possibility, imagination—all are merely tracks to be traversed."

Sarah continued recording, her hand steady despite her racing mind. What had started as an investigation into local folklore had become something far more profound.

And somewhere deep in her thoughts, a single question burned: if these passengers could only disembark at stations that "called to them," what station was calling to Sarah Mathews?