The Last Passenger

The Last Passenger

The train groaned as it trudged along the ancient tracks, cutting through the dense fog that clung to the countryside like a suffocating shroud. Inside the dimly lit compartment, Clara tightened her grip on the worn leather bag resting on her lap. Her pulse quickened—a steady, rhythmic drumbeat of unease echoing in her chest. She was alone. Or so she thought.

Across from her, an elderly man sat slumped in the corner, his head tilted at an awkward angle. Soft snores escaped his lips, the only sign of life in the otherwise silent carriage.

She glanced at her watch: 2:17 AM.

The late-night train from Ashwick to Havenmoor was never crowded, but tonight, something felt... off. The conductor hadn’t come to check her ticket. There were no murmurs from other compartments. Even the familiar, rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the rails sounded oddly muffled, as though the train were gliding rather than grinding along the tracks.

Clara shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flicking toward the window. The world outside was nothing but an impenetrable wall of fog, swallowing everything beyond the dim glow of the carriage lights. She stared at her reflection in the glass—pale, wide-eyed, tense.

Then, something moved.

A flicker. A shadow.

Her breath hitched.

In the reflection, she saw it—a dark silhouette standing motionless in the aisle behind her.

Her heart lurched. She spun around, eyes scanning the empty space.

Nothing.

The aisle was deserted. The elderly man still slept soundly, undisturbed.

Clara exhaled sharply, her fingers digging into the leather of her bag. Just exhaustion. Just your mind playing tricks on you. But the unease in her gut twisted tighter. She turned back to the window, forcing herself to focus on the fog.

Then, she heard it.

A whisper. Faint. Almost imperceptible. Sliding through the hum of the train like a cold breath against the nape of her neck.

"You shouldn’t be here."

A chill crawled up her spine.

Slowly, she turned again, her gaze locking onto the old man. He hadn’t moved. But something was different now. His posture—too stiff, too unnatural. The air around him—heavy, suffocating.

Swallowing hard, Clara rose to her feet. “Sir?”

No response.

She hesitated, then reached out, fingertips brushing his shoulder.

The moment she made contact, he crumpled forward like a puppet with its strings cut. Clara stumbled back, a gasp strangling in her throat. His skin was icy, his body limp.

Then she saw it.

The deep, deliberate gash across his throat. Dark blood stained his collar—but there was no scent of iron, no warmth. As if the wound had been there for hours.

Panic surged through her. She hadn’t heard anything—no struggle, no footsteps, no cry for help. Just silence.

Heart hammering, Clara turned and bolted down the carriage, her voice cracking as she screamed, “Help! Someone, please!”

The train swallowed her cries, the oppressive stillness suffocating.

She reached the door to the next compartment and yanked it open—desperate for escape.

But there was no compartment.

No train.

Nothing but an endless, yawning black void stretching into infinity.

A strangled gasp tore from her throat. She staggered backward, her mind reeling. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

"You shouldn’t be here."

Clara whirled around.

The figure stood at the far end of the carriage.

Motionless. Watching.

Its face was shrouded in darkness, but she could feel its gaze—cold, unrelenting.

Her body refused to move. The void loomed behind her, the figure in front of her, closing in with slow, deliberate steps.

She had nowhere to go. No way out.

The darkness pressed in.

Clara closed her eyes.

And then—

She blinked.

The train was gone.

The fog. The figure. The void.

All of it vanished.

She stood on the platform at Ashwick Station, the cold night air biting at her skin. The tracks stretched before her, empty. The station was abandoned. Silence hung heavy in the air.

She looked at her watch: 2:17 AM.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. The last train to Havenmoor had derailed two years ago.

There were no survivors.

Clara’s breath hitched.

She shouldn’t be here.

She couldn’t be here.

But she was.