The Last Train to Harrowgate

Evelyn hated late trains, but Harrowgate was the only station close enough to her grandmother’s cottage, and the old woman insisted she visit that night. The platform was nearly deserted when the train screeched to a halt, its iron wheels hissing like a beast in pain.

She stepped aboard, clutching her small suitcase, and noticed immediately how quiet it was. No chatter, no footsteps—just rows of passengers sitting stiffly, faces hidden in the shadows. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke, damp wool, and something metallic she couldn’t quite place.

The ticket collector appeared almost instantly. Tall, pale, and unsmiling, he punched her ticket without a word, his cold fingers brushing hers. Evelyn shivered and slipped into an empty seat near the window.

For a while, the ride was smooth. The countryside outside blurred into darkness, hedgerows flashing by under the pale sweep of the moon. But as the minutes stretched, she noticed something strange: the passengers never moved. Not a single blink, not a cough, not even the sound of breathing. They sat like mannequins dressed in coats and scarves, hands folded neatly in their laps.

Unease gnawed at her stomach. She tried to distract herself, staring at the reflection in the glass. That’s when she noticed—her reflection was alone. None of the passengers appeared in the window, as if she were surrounded by shadows that had no form.

Her pulse quickened. She pressed her palm against the cold pane, willing herself to ignore it.

The train screeched suddenly, throwing her forward. The lights flickered, plunging the carriage into momentary blackness. When they snapped back, every passenger had turned their heads toward her, eyes wide and hollow, like marbles set into waxen faces.

Her breath hitched. She grabbed her suitcase and stumbled down the aisle, desperate for another carriage, another living soul. The door resisted at first, then yawned open with a metallic groan.

The next carriage was empty. No seats. Just endless dark space stretching farther than the train could possibly contain. The air was icy, thick with fog. She stepped back, trembling, and collided with the ticket collector.

“End of the line,” he said flatly, though the train was still moving. His eyes were as blank as the passengers’.

Evelyn bolted past him, racing toward the front. Doors opened onto impossible corridors—rooms filled with mist, staircases spiraling upward into nowhere, a library where books turned to ash in her hands. No matter which way she ran, she always returned to her seat. The same stiff passengers. The same silent stares.

Her suitcase felt heavier with each step, dragging her down. The air grew colder until every breath hurt. She whispered to herself, It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream. But the walls around her seemed to pulse with the rhythm of a living creature.

Finally, the train screeched to a halt. The doors hissed open onto a station shrouded in fog. A cracked sign swayed overhead: Harrowgate.

Relief surged through her. She stumbled off, clutching her suitcase, eager for solid ground. But the platform was silent. The air tasted of rust and rain. The clock above the gate read 12:01—yet its hands ticked backward with steady clicks.

She turned to look at the train. The passengers were still seated, watching her with lifeless eyes. The ticket collector raised his hand in a stiff wave before the doors shut, and the train vanished into the mist.

Evelyn realized then that the platform wasn’t an escape. It was a waiting room. And she had no idea what she was waiting for.

Behind her, another whistle echoed in the fog. Another train was arriving.