The Last Train to Blackwood

The train to Blackwood was notorious. Locals called it the "Ghost Train," a relic from the past that still ran on the darkest nights. I didn’t believe in ghost stories, but when I missed the last regular train, I had no choice. The station was empty, the platform lit by a single flickering bulb. The air was thick with the smell of rain and rust.

The train arrived exactly at midnight, its ancient wheels screeching against the tracks. The doors opened with a hiss, and I stepped inside. The car was empty, the seats worn and cracked. I sat by the window, my reflection staring back at me, pale and uneasy.

As the train lurched forward, I noticed something strange. The stations we passed were deserted, their platforms overgrown with weeds. The names on the signs were unfamiliar—stations that didn’t exist on any map. I pulled out my phone to check the route, but there was no signal.

Then I saw him. A man in a black coat, sitting at the far end of the car. I hadn’t noticed him before. His face was hidden in shadow, but I could feel his eyes on me. I looked away, my heart pounding. When I glanced back, he was gone.

The train slowed as we approached the next station. The sign read "Blackwood," but it wasn’t the Blackwood I knew. The platform was shrouded in fog, and the station building was crumbling, its windows shattered. I hesitated, but the doors opened, and I stepped out.

The air was colder here, the silence oppressive. I walked toward the station, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Inside, the ticket booth was abandoned, the floor littered with broken glass. A single ticket lay on the counter, my name handwritten on it.

I turned to leave, but the doors slammed shut behind me. The lights flickered, and I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, coming closer. I ran to the back of the station, finding a narrow staircase leading down.

The basement was dark, the air thick with the smell of damp earth. I fumbled for my phone, using its flashlight to see. The walls were covered in strange symbols, etched into the stone. In the center of the room was a table, and on it lay a photograph. It was me, standing on the platform, looking terrified.

The footsteps were louder now, echoing down the stairs. I grabbed the photograph and ran to the far corner, where I found a hidden door. It led to a tunnel, barely wide enough to crawl through. I didn’t think, I just ran.

The tunnel opened into a forest, the trees twisted and gnarled. I could hear the train in the distance, its whistle piercing the night. I ran toward the sound, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

When I reached the tracks, the train was waiting. The doors opened, and I jumped inside. The car was empty again, but the air felt heavier, colder. I sat down, clutching the photograph.

The train began to move, but something was wrong. The stations we passed were different now—brighter, more familiar. When we finally stopped, I stepped out onto the platform of my hometown. The sun was rising, the station bustling with people.

I thought it was over, but when I looked at the photograph in my hand, it had changed. Now it showed me standing in the forest, the twisted trees looming behind me. And in the corner, barely visible, was the man in the black coat, watching me.