"What do you mean it's not there?!" The young man's voice cracked. His skin was soft brown, warm against the station lights. He stood stiffly, one hand gripping the edge of the counter as he eyed down the woman behind the counter.
"Kid, I don't know what to tell you," the woman replied, fingers rattling across the keys as though he weren't even there. "Your train that's meant to depart at 17:23 doesn't seem to exist in our database."
Her words fell into silence as she promptly ignored him. Behind them, the station teemed with life: the echo of rolling luggage, snippets of hurried conversations, and the metallic announcement chime that preceded departures scrolling across LED boards.
Despite this, Silas could not bring himself to marvel at the lively scene around him. Pressing his lips shut, he bit back a sigh as he gave a soft nod and left the counter, the person behind him in the line swiftly taking his place.
He muddled through the crowd around him, eyes darting around the station before locking onto a nearby LED screen.
Westershire Station
Departures:
17:05 to Bridgemont (boarding)—Platform 3
17:15 to Southmere (delayed—3 mins)—Platform 1
17:26 to Cairnford (on time)—Platform 6
17:37 to Stoneden (on time)—Platform 4
…
19:29 to Ashwick (on time)—Platform 9
Silas' gaze flicked away from the screen as he pulled out his phone, looking at his booking.
17:23 to Ashwick. ETA 16:05. Status: On Time.
Speechless, he looked between the online ticket and the large screen before him.
"What on earth is the meaning of this? I booked it on the operator's official app, like I always have." Silas ran a hand through his curly, black hair. "Tsk! Can I even get a refund from something like this?"
Buzz!
A soft vibration from his phone interrupted his thoughts. A message reflected in his dark eyes.
Dad:Have you found your train yet? If not, you can always just call. I can pick you up from your university.
Rubbing his eyes in fatigue, Silas replied.
Silas:Not yet, no need to waste your time. You're on night shift again, just rest for now. If I still can't find it, I'll just rebook and take the next one.
A thumbs-up popped up moments later. Silas gently put his phone back in his pocket.
The next half an hour passed in restless wandering. He combed through the station with growing annoyance, scanning every platform in order, even doubling back to check if he'd simply misread the departure board. He stopped by station maps fixed to the tiled walls, ran his finger along their neat diagrams of walkways and exits, and yet—nothing. His supposed 17:23 service did not exist.
The bustle of Westershire Station only added to his frustration. A group of students with rucksacks pushed past him at Platform 6, laughing and comparing notes; an elderly couple argued gently over which train was theirs; and a young mother hushed her crying child while dragging along a wheeled suitcase. Life went on as though his train were a figment of imagination.
By the time the station clock ticked toward half past five, Silas' shoulders had slumped. His ticket was useless. He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight, and made for the ticket hall, deciding this time to buy a paper ticket. At least if he had it in his hand, there would be no confusion.
He queued at the machine, rehearsing under his breath the complaint he would lodge with the operator later. When at last he stepped forward, his fingers hovered over the touchscreen. But—
Something caught at the edge of his vision.
He turned.
Beyond the concourse, tucked between Platforms 9 and the end of the station, a narrow passage stretched into shadow. Above it, mounted on a soot-stained lintel, glowed a sign in pale amber light:
Platform 10
Silas froze, throat dry.
Westershire was a modest inland city in Breton, its station old, hemmed in by red-brick buildings and barely expanded in the past century. Everyone knew it only had nine platforms.
So why, now, did he see a tenth?
Silas clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig crescent-shaped marks into his palms.
This wasn't some hallucination or daydream… he mused.
Only then did he realise that the lively chatter, the shuffle of shoes, the drone of departure announcements, all had dissolved into an oppressive stillness. His head jerked up, scanning the wide hall. Empty.
No passengers rushing to catch their trains. No groans of delayed commuters. No cold-faced staff waving away questions with rehearsed monotony. Nothing.
A bead of sweat trickled down Silas' temple, trailing his cheek. One second, he'd been trudging through a bustling station. The next, he might as well have been dropped into the script of some cheap horror flick.
He loosened his fists, knuckles cracking, and turned on his heel.
Exit.
He needed an exit.
Silas strode around the now-empty station, his shoes tapping too loudly in the cavernous space, searching for the familiar archways that led back to the streets. Yet each time he rounded a corner, he only found another blank corridor, another shut iron gate, another wall that hadn't been there before.
Grinding his teeth, he pulled out his phone. The signal bars were full. Browsing worked—news sites, forums, even the station's website all loaded as normal. But no calls went through. Texts refused to send. The world was there… but he remained behind glass.
He lowered the phone with trembling hands, staring at the faint reflection in the blackened screen. His own eyes stared back, ringed with red from strain. Bloodshot and weary.
Turning back toward the station floor, his gaze fixed on the shadowed mouth of Platform 10.
What should have been just another line of tracks now seemed more like the gullet of some unseen beast, yawning wide, daring him to step closer.
"Damn it…" Silas muttered between clenched teeth. "Do I really have to just go in there?"
His body resisted, every nerve screaming it was a trap. He pictured it too vividly: the moment his foot crossed the threshold, something with claws and teeth lunging from the dark to tear him apart.
But what else was there? The exits had betrayed him. His phone mocked him.
He sighed, a shudder rippling through his chest, and thumbed his phone's screen one last time. 17:31.
He blinked. Again. The digits didn't move.
All this wandering, all this panic, and yet the numbers stood frozen, locked in place.
"Of course it's like this," he whispered bitterly.
Sliding the phone back into his pocket with clammy fingers, Silas shut his eyes, took one steadying breath, and opened them again. His vision swam red at the edges from stress, but he forced himself forward.
Step by step, he inched toward the platform.
Then, as he neared, he saw it.
A train loomed there, hunched in shadow. Not a sleek electric carriage, not the silver-and-blue of Breton's modern fleet, but something dragged out of a bygone century. An old steam engine, its metal husk choked with rust, pipes corroded like veins of dried blood.
It shouldn't have been able to move. Shouldn't even stand. And yet it waited, humming with a low, almost inaudible thrum.
Silas hesitated at the platform's edge. He leaned forward, peering through the clouded glass of the nearest carriage.
Empty. No uniformed staff weaving through. No passengers. No signs of life.
Only a pale amber light glowed within, spilling out in tired streams, painting the seats in dull gold and shadow. The illumination seemed less like electricity and more like fireflies trapped behind glass.
Chk-Hiss!
Almost as if in response to his presence, the door for the carriage nearest to him slid open.
"This train…" Silas' throat tightened. It was waiting for him.
Meanwhile, in Ashwick.
"Has Silas replied yet?" A gentle woman busied herself in the kitchen, her voice carrying through as she peeked her head around the doorway.
The man sat perched on the sofa, phone in hand. His thumb hovered over the screen, refreshing the chat again, though nothing new appeared. With a weary sigh, he set it down beside him, but his gaze never left the black glass.
"No…" he muttered at last. "It's been almost an hour, and he's not answering our calls."
The faint aroma of simmering broth wafted in from the kitchen, warm and familiar. Yet instead of comforting him, it only pressed against the unease weighing on his chest.
"Perhaps he's already on the train and simply forgot," the woman offered, her words muffled as she clattered softly with dishes. "You know how cell signal is when passing through tunnels and the like."
The man leaned back, rubbing his brow with his thumb and forefinger. Forgot? That wasn't like Silas. His boy always replied, even if it was just a thumbs-up, even if it was curt. Even when he was tired. It wasn't as though the line to Ashwick ran solely through tunnels for an entire hour. A message—any message—should have slipped through by now.
"Alas, I hope that's the case," he said, though the words tasted hollow.
CRASH!
The sharp shatter of porcelain rang out from the kitchen.
He shot upright, heart pounding. "Honey?"
No answer.
With stiff legs, he slowly rose. Edging towards the sound.
When he reached the kitchen doorway, his breath slipped out in a sigh of relief. His wife stood by the counter, shards of a plate scattered across the tiles at her feet.
"Why are you so careless?" He murmured with a small shake of his head. He reached for the broom propped against the wall. "It's just a plate. No matter how strapped we are, we aren't short of one."
But the moment stretched oddly. The air pressed down, heavy. The ordinary clink of cutlery and hum of boiling water were gone. Nothing remained but silence.
He stopped, fingers tightening on the broom's handle. "…What's with the quiet?"
His wife didn't answer. Her lips pressed together tightly. Her eyes were fixed on the window above the sink.
"What is it?" He asked softly. He followed her gaze.
And then he saw it.
Reflected in his wide eyes was a sky torn open.
A massive rift stretched across the heavens like a wound. Its edges wept a deep violet, as if the sky itself was crying. From its gaping maw spewed a dense, curling mist, thick and purple, spilling downward in choking waves.
"What in damnation is that…?" He muttered.
The broom slid from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor.
With a sense of martyrdom, Silas stepped onto the train.
Hsshh!
A soft rush of warm air brushed over him, as though the train itself exhaled at his arrival. The doors sealed shut behind him with a heavy clunk.
At first, there was silence.
Then—
Sshhhk!
Murrrh!
Shhhhaa!
A low susurrus of whispers stirred at the edge of his hearing, like a roomful of people muttering prayers just beneath their breath.
Silas froze mid-step. His lungs locked. His breath caught in his throat. He slowly angled his head, peeking past the narrow doorway into the carriage.
Nevertheless, the sight caused his blood to run cold.
The amber-lit interior that moments ago had been barren now teemed with... life? Pale, translucent figures sat scattered across the rows of seats, silhouettes etched in thin, watery lines. They sat, eyes transfixed in the void beyond them as they mumbled to themselves in a myriad of tongues, unknown to Silas.
Silas' heart thundered against his ribs, deafening in the hush. His palms slickened with sweat as every nerve in his body screamed for him to run—but the doors behind him suddenly sealed in open mockery.
"Attention!"
The sudden announcement split the air.
Silas flinched hard, biting down on the startled yelp that clawed up his throat. His body tensed like a cornered animal. Whilst the words spoken were not in any language Silas had heard of, he subconsciously knew their meaning.
"The train will be leaving shortly," the ceiling speakers intoned in a calm, courteous male voice. "Please remain in your seats. Our next stop will be Limbo."
Silas' heartbeat quickened.
Limbo?
Before he could even begin to process the word, the same voice spoke again. Though, this time, it was different.
It was fractured. Distorted.
"Nnexxxt stooop… Limmmm-boooo."
The tone warped, stretching syllables like iron bent to breaking. The polite cadence collapsed into a guttural snarl, voices overlapping—one high-pitched, one gravel-deep, another trembling with laughter.
"Pllleeeaassseee remmaaiinnn seeaaated."
The sound dissolved into static, then reformed as a chorus of dissonant shrieks:
"ALL THOSE WHO DISOBEY… WILL BE SLAUGHTERED! SLAUGHTERED! SLAUGHTERED!"
The carriage lights flickered, as though it was the train itself speaking. Then, the voice spiralled, splintering into manic fragments:
"Memories. Pain. Memories. Paaaain. Sssufferinngggg. SUFFFERRRIIINGG!"
The once-gentle announcement now resembled a choir of the damned.
Hhhhhh-hhhuuhh-hhhahhh!
Silas' chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, the sound of his own panting filling the silence the announcement left behind.
"What is this…? A ghost train? Or some elaborate prank…?" He muttered, running a trembling hand through his curls.
But even as the words slipped past his lips, he knew the latter was impossible. No prank could conjure the pale figures seated within the carriage. They were there. He could see them.
Desperation seized him. He spun toward the doors and slammed the heel of his palm into the glowing 'Exit' button.
Beep.
Nothing.
The doors stood locked in place, their silent refusal taunting him more than any words could.
"Damn it!" Silas snarled, raising his fist to hammer against the metal—only to falter. His gaze darted back over his shoulder to the carriage full of whispering dead. The thought of drawing their attention froze his arm mid-swing.
His hand dropped limply to his side.
What now?
He couldn't leave. He couldn't run. And he couldn't sit beside those… things.
Was he supposed to just stand here forever, caged in this liminal space between carriages?
"The announcement…" He whispered to himself. "It said Limbo. Pain. Memories. What the hell does that mean?" He bit hard into his lower lip, his thoughts spiralling into chaos.
Shhhhk!
The sudden hiss of sliding doors jolted him upright.
Silas' eyes widened, hope bursting in his chest.
"An exit—?"
But his excitement crumbled almost instantly. The doors that had opened weren't the ones leading out of the train. They were the ones connecting to the next carriage.
His shoulders slumped. His joy drained into weariness.
"There goes tha—" His mumble broke off as his body stiffened.
Wait.
Why had those doors opened?
Slowly, with dread coiling around his chest, Silas turned his head.
There, standing in the threshold, was a silhouette.
It wasn't a ghost.
Yet, it wasn't human.