The Train That Never Arrived

The train station had been closed for almost three decades. Timetables were corroded into the walls, their figures faded into illegible stains. Benches for waiting were tough, dry, graffiti scrawled on the backs of them as if writings to nobody.

And yet every Friday night at midnight, Daniel was certain he heard it.

He had spent his childhood in Ashgrove, a town so tiny it hardly deserved a dot on the map. The others had dispersed at the earliest opportunity. Daniel remained, undertaking miscellaneous jobs and staying with his dad until the old man died. Then the town was emptier than ever.

The station was his refuge. As a child, he had adored trains—the hiss of steam, the chug of the engine, the rush of motion. When the final passenger train closed down, he'd wept as if he'd lost an acquaintance. Thirty-two years old now, he still walked there some evenings, perched on the broken platform with a cup of coffee, watching the empty tracks.

And that was when the sound started.

At first, he believed it was in his head: the distant rumble of wheels on track, borne on the breeze. And then the whistle—long, sorrowful, and so palpable he knocked over coffee in surprise. But as he leaned out from the platform edge, the tracks were clear, moonlight reflecting on them.

It occurred the following week. And the next.

By the third Friday, Daniel was prepared. He worked until late, flashlight on his desk, and remained absolutely still as the air changed around him. At 12:07 on the nose, the shake arrived. The whistle followed—closer now, low enough to rattle his ribs.

He stood up.

Out of the darkness out past the curve, a light materialized—white lights cutting into the night, the unmistakable headlamps of a train.

But the station was not electrified. The wires had been cut for generations.

The train boiled out of sight. It was an old-fashioned model, black iron that glistened like new, smoke boiling in phantoms of steam. Car after car roared by, their blue windows aglow. And in each of the windows, Daniel saw faces—ghostly, watchful, close to the glass.

The train shrieked to a stop. The doors vacuumed open.

"Boarding," someone called out—low, hollow, and in his head somehow.

Daniel's legs tightened. He was unable to move. The air reeked of coal and frost.

In front of him was a conductor in a black uniform, cap low on his forehead. His face was too smooth, too white, like the wax of a candle. He held up a gloved hand and pointed.

"Your ticket," the conductor said.

Daniel stuttered, "I—I don't have one."

The conductor leaned his head. "Everybody's got a ticket.".

From his coat pocket, Daniel felt paper crinkle. With shaking fingers, he pulled it free: a slip of yellowed card, stamped with faded ink. Ashgrove Station → Terminus. One Way.

He dropped it as though it burned him.

“No,” Daniel whispered. “This isn’t real.”

The conductor bent, picked up the ticket, and slid it back into Daniel’s hand. “It is as real as the life you’ve left behind.”

Daniel's heart thudded. "I'm not going."

For an instant, the conductor's deathly face split—just a small crack to show something black fermenting underneath. His voice went low, booming off station walls.

"Then you will hear us forever."

The doors slammed shut. The whistle screeched. The train began rolling, cars blurring into darkness until only echo was left inside.

Daniel lurched back home, holding onto the cursed ticket. He shoved it into a drawer, swearing he'd never come back.

But the following Friday, at 12:07, there was the noise again—louder this time, closer. His windows shook. His chest ached with every whistle.

And when he opened his drawer, the ticket had shifted. It lay on top of his wallet, with new words scrawled in blood-red ink: Second Call.

Ashgrove residents complained about Daniel afterwards. He appeared gaunt, wakeful, tormented. On some nights, his neighbors could hear him screaming at phantoms. On some nights, he'd pace at the station covering his ears as if drowning in sounds nobody else could hear.

A stormy Friday and the resonations were too much. The entire town said they heard the whistle that night—long, shrieking, ripping through the air.

In the morning, Daniel was nowhere to be found.

No footprints, no trace of him whatsoever.

But on the worn-out platform of Ashgrove Station, there was a brand new ticket.

Written in red on the ticket were these words: Final Boarding.