The Last Train

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

That’s what the conductor had told Max when he boarded the last train of the night after a grueling 12-hour hospital shift. The old man had clutched his arm, staring intensely until Max muttered a tired, “Yeah, sure,” and found a seat.

Max was too exhausted to care about the strange warning. The car was unusually empty for the late-night shift, and the silence made him uneasy. His thoughts drifted to the door behind him—the one he was warned not to open.

What’s the harm? Didn’t it just lead to the last car?

He tried to shake it off, but curiosity gnawed at him. Max had never liked being told what he couldn’t do. It was that same defiance that pushed him from foster care to medical school.

The lights flickered as the train plunged into a tunnel, and the air felt heavier. Max stood, drawn to the door. He pressed his ear to the cool metal but heard nothing beyond the rhythmic clatter of the tracks.

Just one peek.

He slid the lock and opened the door.

The last car was decayed, coated in dust and cobwebs. It was however, full of passengers—people dressed in outdated clothes, their eyes fixed on him. Max tried to back away, but his feet moved forward, seating him beside a teenage girl in a 1950s dress.

She smiled, her icy fingers curling around his. “We’ve been waiting. Now you’ll ride with us forever.”