Don’t Board the Last Train Home
Mark had always felt a slight dread in the pit of his stomach whenever he waited for the last train home. It wasn’t the waiting itself that unnerved him; it was the stories. It started with the local kids teasing one another on the playground, talking about someone who had vanished on the last train years ago. Other kids added to it, spinning tales of a ghostly figure who appeared only at midnight, beckoning unsuspecting passengers to join her in a ride they could never return from.
He had heard it from Sophie, a barista at the café where he sometimes grabbed coffee before an evening shift at the grocery store. She had recounted the legend to him one sleepy afternoon, rolling her eyes, “You see someone get on that last train after midnight, you’re supposed to just keep walking. Every year, someone goes missing. Best to let them be.”
Yet, when the clock ticked past eleven and the last train screeched into the station, he could never find it in himself to resist the pull of those dimly lit carriages.
On this particular night, Mark had stayed late at work, and as he made his way to the platform, the station was eerily quiet save for the distant rumble of trains. He noticed a few teenagers loitering, exchanging nervous glances. Their hushed voices carried tales they had spun: someone had gone missing just last week, another name added to the growing list. Mark felt a surge of disbelief — stories, nothing more, he thought. Besides, he needed to get home; he had an interview in the morning that he couldn’t miss.
As he boarded the train, he settled into a window seat, flicking through his phone, trying to banish the creeping anxiety. The carriage was nearly empty, save for an older man at the far end and a woman hunched over in the corner, staring out at the passing darkness. There was something unsettling about her posture; she was rigid, too still for a living being. Mark shook off the worry, blinking at the screen.
The train whooshed into motion, the world outside blurring into streaks of darkness. Suddenly, the lights flickered, causing Mark to lift his gaze at the older man, who had shifted slightly. “You shouldn’t be here, son,” he said, his voice raspy yet commanding.
“Excuse me?” Mark replied, taken aback.
“The last train… it’s not like the others. You could get lost.”
“Lost?” Mark laughed nervously, but unease curled in his stomach. “What do you mean?”
The man leaned closer, his lined face illuminated in the dim light. “People don’t come back, you see. They choose to stay. The last train has a way of making you forget the world outside.” Then, as if he’d lost his nerve, he turned away, mumbling about his missed connections.
Mark shifted uneasily in his seat, now acutely aware of the woman staring at the darkness, her hair hanging in thin strands over her pale face. He thought he saw her lips move, as if she were murmuring something. A prickle of fear scampered down his spine, but he dismissed it.
When the train jolted suddenly, the lights flickered again, and the carriage plunged into darkness. Panic seized Mark, and with instinct, he reached for the emergency button, but it was cold; nothing happened. The pitch-blackness thickened, stretching like a veil. A few seconds later, the lights burst back on, and the woman was gone.
“Where did she go?” Mark croaked.
The man’s gaze bored into him. “You didn’t see her leave?”
“What do you mean?”
Mark felt a dread he couldn’t explain. There was a weight in the air, thick and suffocating. The train rattled onward, stopping at stations that seemed to blur into one another. Mark nearly leaped from his seat every time the doors opened, wanting to flee only to find he was still on the same route. Each time, the platform was deserted, as if everyone had been ushered away.
After what felt like an eternity, Mark glanced at his phone to check the time; it had been two hours since he boarded. Panic surged through him when he realised he should have been home long ago. “This can’t be right. I have to get off!” He bolted to the carriage door, desperation clawing at him.
“Don’t! You’ll regret it!” the man shouted, but Mark could hardly comprehend his words. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he yanked the door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Open! Open!” he shouted, banging his fists against the glass. His breath caught as he locked eyes with the pale figure now standing on the platform. It was the woman, her featureless face turned towards him, her lips stretching into something grotesque. He gasped, stumbling backward just as the train lurched again.
The lights overhead flickered, and in the frantic chaos, Mark felt something shift. He turned back to the old man, his heart pounding. “What do I do? How do I get off this train?”
“Stop praying, boy. You’re part of it now.”
“What?” Mark felt a strange understanding wash over him, a sickening sense of acceptance that twisted in his gut. He was no longer just a passenger; he was part of this story, intertwined with the latest in a long line of souls who had boarded the last train, with nowhere to go.
Desperation clawed at him as he sank into a seat, knees trembling. “No… I’m not staying here.”
But outside, he noticed the station he’d just passed: a grey sepulchral place where ghostly silhouettes loomed on the platform. They were all passengers: a mother perched protectively over her child, lovers deep in conversation, all of them with the same lifeless gaze.
Time spun out of control as the train continued on, relentless. Every station revealed the same faces in different contexts, the same story repeating, the same invitation to join their eternal journey. Mark pressed his hands against his skull trying to block out the voices, the persistent murmur of their soft suggestions: Stay with us, Mark.
Then the lights flickered a final time, casting shadows that twisted and warped. The last station approached, and Mark braced himself. Yet, before the doors opened, he saw his own face in the reflection of the window — it was smudged, a blur of fear reflected back at him, but it was undeniable. It was as if he had become a part of the station itself, a fixture in this unsettling tableau.
The doors clattered open, and the rest of the figures moved toward him, each one whispering promises of solace. He was not just another lost soul; he was one of them now.
No longer an outsider, he stood in the half-light, realisation washing over him: the legend was very much alive, feeding on dreams of escape as much as despair. The stories and warnings would continue, echoing through the station and beyond, devouring anyone foolish enough to seek the last train home, a dark rallying cry for the next unwitting traveller.
And as the train began to pull away, Mark felt the iron grasp of his decision drawing him deeper into the heart of the myth, the legend set to thrive with yet another name added to its dark lineage.
