The Train That Never Stopped

The rain had been falling for hours. My shoes were soaked through, and my jacket clung to me like wet paper. I’d been waiting at the deserted station for what felt like an eternity. The last scheduled train had passed an hour ago, but my only chance of getting home was to wait for an unscheduled freight or passenger train that might, just might, stop.

It was past midnight when I heard it — the low, rumbling sound of steel wheels grinding against the wet tracks. I squinted into the darkness and saw two faint lights in the distance. As the train drew closer, something felt… wrong. It was silent, almost eerily so, except for the occasional metallic groan. No horn, no clatter, just a slow, steady approach.

The station lights flickered as the train pulled in. It looked ancient, the kind of carriage you’d expect to see in a black-and-white film from the 1940s. The paint was peeling, the windows fogged over, and yet it gleamed faintly in the rain, as if it were preserved in some other time.

A single conductor stepped down. His uniform was immaculate, but strangely outdated — a polished cap, brass buttons, and gloves as white as snow. He tipped his hat, smiled politely, and said, “Evening, sir. Going somewhere far?”

I hesitated. “Uh… yes. Home.”

“Then this is your train,” he replied with unsettling certainty.

Inside, the air was warm and heavy with the smell of old leather and faint perfume. The seats were plush, deep red, and worn in places. A handful of passengers sat scattered about, each perfectly still. None of them looked up as I passed. One man stared out of the window despite the darkness. A woman in a faded dress clutched a bouquet of wilted roses. A boy in a school uniform tapped his fingers against the seat — but the rhythm never changed, like a stuck record.

I took a seat near the middle. The train began to move again, slowly gliding into the night. No station announcements. No indication of where we were headed.

After about twenty minutes, I realized something strange: the rain outside had stopped, but the windows were still streaked with water. And then… I noticed the reflection. My reflection. It wasn’t moving the way I was. When I raised my hand, it didn’t follow. It just stared back, with an expression of deep sadness.

I looked around. The boy was still tapping. The woman still clutched her roses. The man still stared into nothing. The conductor appeared again, standing at the end of the carriage, watching me.

“Where exactly is this going?” I asked, my voice barely steady.

“Where you need to be,” he replied, walking past me. His shoes made no sound.

Time seemed to lose meaning. I don’t know if hours passed or minutes. At one point, I dozed off — and woke to find the carriage nearly empty. Only the boy remained, still tapping the same rhythm.

The train slowed. We pulled into a station I’d never seen before. The sign was weathered, letters barely legible: LAST STOP. The platform was covered in fog so thick it looked like a wall. The boy stood, finally breaking his rhythm, and walked toward the door. He turned back, smiled at me, and whispered, “Don’t miss your stop.”

Before I could ask what he meant, the doors hissed open. Cold air rushed in. I stepped out onto the platform — and the train behind me was gone. Completely gone. No sound, no light, just the endless fog.

I walked forward until the fog began to thin, revealing a familiar street — my street. But it looked… different. The houses were older, paint chipped, windows boarded. There were no cars, no lights, no sound of life at all.

When I reached my house, I saw movement in the window. Someone was inside. I peered through… and froze. Sitting at my desk, typing away, was me. But older. Thinner. Pale. I watched as the other me looked up, directly at the window, and whispered something I could barely hear:

“You shouldn’t have boarded that train.”