Train Past Midnight

My eyes burned as I read through the endless formula list. Finals were less than a week away, and books were scattered around me. The librarian kept glaring. But I wouldn’t be nerdy Ned if I didn’t stay until the last second before closing. A week before exams meant midnight oil — and I was ready to burn it.

As the clock ticked on, I grew increasingly engrossed in the words etched by ink. My thoughts fixated on getting straight A’s again. When the librarian finally came to throw me out, I felt relieved. I still had to revise three chapters and tackle those extra questions, but there was time.

I stepped out, my mind still whirling with theories and concepts. Slipping on my headphones, I started a peaceful meditation playlist to drown out the overthinking as I hurried down the street.

The sky was dark and brooding, the midsummer humidity clinging to my skin. I looked up just as the first drops of rain hit my face. Lightning tore through the clouds, ironic against the serene music in my ears. The drizzle quickly turned into a downpour, and I picked up my pace. Falling sick now — during finals — would be catastrophic.

Rain fogged my glasses, and I glanced at my watch, muttering in annoyance. I had exactly two minutes to catch the last subway home.

I broke into a run toward the station. The black tunnel loomed ahead, its mouth wide open, howling in the torrential rain. My foot slipped on a rock as I thought I’d made it. My bag fell from my shoulder, splitting open. Books and notes were scattered across the wet pavement.

I scrambled to gather them under the glare of lightning that seemed to mock my misfortune. When I entered the station and swiped my card through the gate, I heard the hiss and rumble of departing wheels.

Too late.

Soaked and shivering, I stood at the empty platform, bag at my feet, headphones hanging limply around my neck. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead. I took off my glasses and cried — just for a minute. Exactly a minute. Then I wiped my face, sniffed away my self-pity, and decided to speak to the station master.

That’s when I felt a sudden cold draft sweep through the tunnel.

The hair on my neck stood up as a train pulled in.

I glanced around. The platform was deserted — typical for this late hour. The train map showed my stop. But I didn’t recognize this train.

It was off-schedule.

I had never gotten on this one. And I’m a neat freak — I like my routines. Even a slight deviation can throw me off. But tonight, I had no choice. This might be the last train.

Pushing aside my doubts, I stepped in.

The doors shut behind me with a whoosh. The coach was empty, silent. I sat in the middle, pulled my headphones back on, and resumed my playlist. The train began to move. I leaned my head against the cool glass, the ache in my skull pulsing with each beat.

Just as I was getting comfortable, the music began to glitch. The song broke into static. I groaned, opened my eyes, and jolted upright.

The once-empty coach was now full of passengers.

Right across from me, a potbellied man in office clothes smiled. Too wide. Too still.

I blinked. He was gone. Everyone was gone.

The coach was empty again.

My heart thundered. I pulled down my headphones. The silence was suffocating. I sat back down, trying to steady my breathing.

Maybe it's all in my head.

I am overexerting myself. Tomorrow, I’ll take it easy. Sleep in, maybe walk in the park. This isolation and stress are driving me insane.

I returned my head to the glass and slipped my headphones on again. I began counting the lights flashing in the tunnel outside to calm down.

The window began to fog from my breath. Odd. Fogged windows in midsummer?

I stared at the mist as a small handprint appeared on the glass.

A child’s.

I saw him in the window’s reflection — his teeth first, grinning. Then the static burst through my headphones again.

The boy’s face leered at me through the window.

Then, I saw him — the potbellied man — approaching from the other side.

I turned, heart pounding.

Nothing. Empty coach. No child. No man.

And my music was playing again.

No. No, this can’t be happening.

I ran to the emergency stop and hit the button. Nothing happened—no screeching brakes. No alarm. The train kept moving.

Cold sweat dripped down my temple. I felt eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

They were behind me. I knew they were.

I bolted toward the next cabin. I just had to get away from them.

The door wouldn’t open.

I screamed and pounded my fists on the glass, sobbing. My eardrums rang from the static, and my head pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat.

The lights flickered.

The robotic voice echoed:

“Don’t lean against the doors. Remain seated while the train is moving.”

The same line, over and over.

My vision blurred. The ghostly passengers flickered with the lights — appearing, disappearing, reappearing.

I looked down.

There was my bag. Scattered open, like it was on the rainy street.

But the books weren’t wet.

The notes weren’t smudged.

Because I didn’t pick them up.
Because I didn’t fall outside in the rain.

I had slipped and cracked my head on the stone step.

I was lying at the base of the subway stairs — bleeding, broken. Staring at the yellow caution sign that mocked me: “Slippery Floor.”

I didn’t climb on a ghost train.

The ghost train came for me.

As it always comes for those whose next stop…
Is their last one.