The Train That Never Arrives

The station had no name.

It didn’t appear on maps, and no road signs pointed to it. If you asked locals about it, they’d shrug or change the subject, as though it were something best forgotten. Still, every so often, a rumor would surface online—about the station where trains never arrive, where passengers step aboard and are never seen again.

Jonah Hale didn’t believe in urban legends. He was a journalist, one who’d made a career out of chasing absurd claims and tearing them apart with logic. But this one stuck with him. Something in the way people described it—the station at the end of the line, the one that never let you leave—gnawed at his curiosity.

And so, one gray October morning, Jonah went looking for it.

The first thing he noticed was the silence.

When he stepped off the bus, the world seemed muted, as if someone had draped a heavy blanket over the air. The driver left without a word, and Jonah found himself standing on an empty road, weeds curling through cracked pavement. At the end of it, half-swallowed by fog, was the station.

It was small, almost modest—red brick walls, a sagging roof, and a platform that stretched into the mist. An old timetable hung crookedly by the door. The letters and numbers shifted whenever Jonah tried to focus on them, as though the ink were still wet.

The place should’ve felt abandoned. But it didn’t.

Jonah had the unsettling sense of being watched, though no one else was there. The lamps lining the platform buzzed faintly, casting sickly yellow light onto the concrete. Beyond them, the tracks vanished into an ocean of fog, endless and unknowable.

He told himself it was just nerves. That was when the whistle blew.

It was unlike any whistle he’d ever heard. Not the sharp, metallic cry of a subway or the long wail of a freight train, but something deeper—an echo that vibrated in his bones.

Jonah turned, and through the mist, the train appeared.

It was massive, black as coal, and sleek in a way that felt wrong, as though it belonged to no particular era. Its windows glowed faintly, yet no one sat behind them. The doors slid open with a hiss. Inside, rows of seats stretched into darkness.

And then Jonah saw him.

The conductor stood by the entrance, his uniform faded and torn at the edges. His cap was tilted low, shadowing most of his face, but his mouth was visible—a thin, unnatural smile that never wavered.

“Ticket, sir?” the man asked.

Jonah shook his head. “I—I don’t have one.”

“That’s quite all right.” The conductor stepped aside, extending an arm. “Passengers are always welcome.”

The phrasing made Jonah hesitate. Always welcome. Like an invitation to something final.

He stayed rooted to the platform. “Where does it go?” he asked.

The conductor’s grin widened. “It doesn’t go. It arrives.”

A chill swept through Jonah’s body. He didn’t know what that meant, but instinct screamed at him to run. He turned sharply, bolting down the platform and into the fog.

He ran until his legs burned. The mist closed around him, cold and damp, blinding him to everything but the rails that seemed to stretch endlessly forward. He told himself he’d find the road, the bus stop, something—anything that would prove the world still existed beyond this place.

But when the fog thinned, he was standing back at the station.

The train still waited.

Jonah’s chest heaved. His rational mind fought for explanations: maybe he’d circled back without realizing, maybe he’d gotten disoriented. But deep down, he knew the truth. There was no leaving. The station wasn’t just a place—it was a trap.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

Figures dotted the platform. Men, women, even children. Some looked freshly arrived, clutching bags or staring around in confusion. Others looked… wrong. Their clothes were decades out of date. Their eyes empty, movements sluggish. They boarded the train in silence, one by one, vanishing through the open doors.

Jonah gripped his notebook, writing furiously. He had to document this—every detail, every sensation. If he could bring proof back, maybe the story would save him. Maybe words could anchor him to reality.

But when he looked down, the page wasn’t his own.

Neat, unfamiliar handwriting sprawled across it: Next departure: Jonah Hale. Seat 12.

His breath caught. His name shouldn’t have been there. It couldn’t have. Yet there it was, written as though it had always been.

The notebook slipped from his hand.

The conductor appeared beside him again, silent as the mist. He held a ticket between two gloved fingers, Jonah’s name printed in perfect black ink.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he said softly, almost kindly.

Jonah stumbled back. His mind screamed to resist, but his body felt heavy, as though invisible hands were guiding him forward. The train pulsed with a strange rhythm, humming in his chest like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

The doors yawned open. Passengers stared from inside, faces pale, eyes hollow. A child clutched a broken doll. An old man mouthed words that never came. A woman smiled faintly, as if relieved to see Jonah join them.

He took one step toward the door—then another. His heart hammered, his thoughts blurred. Maybe he’d always been meant for this. Maybe everyone was.

The whistle blew again, long and mournful.

The mist swallowed the platform. The world dimmed.

And Jonah understood the truth.

No train ever arrived here. Only people did. The station wasn’t about departures—it was the last stop. A place where journeys ended, where time folded in on itself, where arrivals never truly came.

The doors closed. The train shuddered forward, disappearing into the endless fog.

When the mist cleared, the platform was empty.

Waiting.

Always waiting.