The rhythmic clatter of the night train was always a welcome sound, a lullaby that cradled the wanderlust in my soul. The low hum of conversations, dim reading lights flickering, and the occasional jingle of a service trolley made this journey an annual respite.
I’d always book the night train from New Orleans to Chicago. It was tradition—a relic of the past, to celebrate my birthday, surrounded by strangers and the constant promise of the unknown. This year was no different, or so I thought.
The cabin’s soft velvet embraced me, and the world outside the window blurred into an inky blackness, punctuated by fleeting town lights. My weary head leaned against the glass as memories of the past year washed over me like waves against the shore—some beautiful, some haunting. I glanced across the aisle and noticed a woman deeply engrossed in her book. At the other end was a couple engrossed in a hushed conversation. Routine.
However, my tranquil reverie was interrupted by an unsettling presence. A man I hadn’t noticed earlier. He sat two rows ahead, facing the opposite direction. There was something off about him. His posture too stiff, his head slightly cocked to one side as though he were listening intently. But to what? The train was a constant orchestra of sounds, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Curiosity gnawed at me, so I leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but all I saw was the back of his bald head, glinting under the train’s dim lights. When the train made a slight jolt, his head snapped up, and for a fleeting second, our eyes met in the reflection on the windowpane.
Cold. Empty.
It was a brief exchange, but I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like he had peered right into the essence of my being. Shaking off the unease, I told myself it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Why would a random man on a train be interested in me?
Around midnight, the train made its usual stop at Memphis. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and grab some fresh air. Returning, I noticed the same man standing by a window in the station, staring at a little girl who was saying goodbye to what seemed like her grandparents. They were in tears, but he was emotionless.
Odd.
Back in my seat, the train resumed its journey, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the woman with the book. “Excuse me,” she whispered, “Did you notice the man two rows ahead?”
The question confirmed my fears. “Yes,” I replied, glancing in his direction. “Do you know him?”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “I’ve been on this train since it left New Orleans. I remember everyone who boarded. Everyone but him.”
That sent a shiver down my spine. I looked around the compartment, and it dawned on me that everyone was observing him now, the couple, the old man with a cane, even the young student with headphones. The stranger was oblivious—or perhaps, he simply didn’t care.
The night deepened, and the train’s sounds grew louder. The stranger’s behavior became more erratic. He’d sporadically tap his fingers against the window, the rhythm inconsistent but oddly entrancing.
Every attempt to communicate with him was met with silence. The old man with the cane approached him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but the stranger did not react. Not a word, not a movement.
Hours passed, and the stranger began to hum—a tuneless melody that felt more like a drone. The humming became a backdrop to the train’s own symphony, setting everyone further on edge.
“We need to do something,” the young student said, his voice shaking. “We can’t just let him… be.”
I nodded in agreement. Together, with the couple and the woman with the book, we decided to approach the conductor.
As we made our way to the front, the humming grew louder. It was as if the very walls of the train vibrated with that sinister sound. The corridor seemed longer than usual, and the usually welcoming warm yellow lights now seemed harsh and glaring.
Reaching the conductor’s cabin, we were met with an empty chair and a half-finished cup of coffee, its steam still spiraling into the air. The humming was now deafening.
Suddenly, the train lights flickered. The world outside was an abyss, and we were trapped within this metal beast.
The humming became suffocating, piercing every corner of the train. My heartbeat synchronized with the relentless vibration, creating a morose symphony of anxiety. We exchanged worried glances, trying to derive comfort from each other’s presence.
“We need to find the conductor,” the young student urged, panic evident in his voice.
We navigated the narrow passageways, peering into cabins hoping to find any staff. But all we found were empty seats and eerily discarded possessions: a child’s teddy bear, a forgotten scarf, a novel left open at a climactic chapter.
“How is this possible?” The woman with the book whispered, barely holding back tears. “They can’t just vanish!”
As we neared the dining car, a chilling realization dawned upon me. The train had become silent. The once comforting clatter of wheels on tracks was no more. We were stationary, yet no station was in sight. Just an expanse of foggy nothingness outside.
Inside the dining car, the atmosphere was even more surreal. Tables were set for meals that no one ate. Plates full of untouched food, steam still rising from hot soups, glasses filled to the brim.
Then, at the far end of the dining car, we saw him. The stranger. This time, he wasn’t alone. Opposite him sat the conductor, staring blankly ahead, his face devoid of any emotion. Between them, a single candle flickered, casting long, deceptive shadows.
As we approached cautiously, the stranger slowly lifted his gaze, fixing us with those icy, hollow eyes. “Join us,” he whispered, his voice dripping with an unnatural calm. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet were glued to the spot.
Suddenly, the train jolted violently, knocking us off our feet. The lights flickered again, and by the time they stabilized, the dining car was empty. The stranger and the conductor were both gone.
“This can’t be happening,” the young student murmured, helping the woman with the book to her feet. “It’s like a twisted dream.”
Regaining our composure, we decided to head back to our carriage. Maybe, just maybe, things had returned to normal.
But the train had other plans.
As we retraced our steps, the surroundings began to change. Corridors twisted and turned in impossible ways, cabins merged into one another, and familiar landmarks, like the restroom or the service trolley, vanished.
The train wasn’t just transporting us; it was transforming.
In one distorted carriage, we found ourselves staring at our own reflections, but they weren’t quite right. Our reflections smirked when we were terrified, winked when our eyes were wide open. It was a grotesque mockery.
The couple clung to each other, fear evident in their eyes. “We need to stick together,” the man whispered, as we pressed forward.
Hours seemed like days. Every time we thought we’d found our carriage, the train would morph again, laughing at our feeble attempts to understand its labyrinth.
Then, in a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, I remembered the pendant my grandmother had given me. A small silver locket containing a shard of mirror said to be from a church that survived both time and war. She always said it would protect me.
Clutching it, I focused all my energy and thought of the familiar clatter of the train, the soft velvet seats, the dim reading lights. The comforting routine.
The train responded. The corridors straightened, the mocking reflections faded, and the familiar sounds returned. We found ourselves back in our carriage, the stranger nowhere in sight.
Relief washed over us, but it was short-lived. The realization hit us like a freight train. Apart from our small group, the train was empty. Every passenger, every staff member—gone.
The cold dawn light seeped through the gaps in the curtains, painting our faces with the paleness of early morning. Silence, except for our own staggered breathing, enveloped the carriage. Gone were the innocent conversations, the whispers of lovers, the soft turn of a book page. What remained was the weight of uncertainty.
A shared understanding formed among us – we needed to get off the train, and fast.
“We’re close to Chicago,” the young student whispered, pointing to the gradually thickening sprawl of buildings outside. “Once we stop, we run.”
Minutes felt like hours, but finally, the cityscape took form, the towering skyscrapers piercing the morning mist. We collected our belongings, ready to bolt the moment the doors opened.
The train began to decelerate, the city’s central station coming into view. Our collective breath held as the engine roared, brakes screeching against the rails, and the journey reaching its final note.
The doors slid open, revealing the bustling platform of Chicago’s central station. It was jarring, the dichotomy between the eerie emptiness of the train and the noisy, teeming platform. But no time to ponder – we rushed out, the breath of freedom exhilarating.
As we distanced ourselves from the train, the woman with the book turned back, her face pale. “Look!”
And there he was. The stranger stood at the entrance of the train, his face finally visible. Those same cold, emotionless eyes, staring right at us. But now, he wasn’t alone. Silhouetted figures stood behind him, their faces obscured, all eerily still. Among them, the conductor.
Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished. The train, with its spectral passengers, began its departure, soon swallowed by the vast network of tracks.
A heavy silence settled upon us. No words could capture the events of the night. The once familiar landscape of Chicago now felt alien, the city sounds hollow.
Over the next few days, news of the “Ghost Train” spread. Authorities were baffled. No records existed of our journey, no manifests, no tickets. We were the sole witnesses to an event that, officially, never happened.
The young student, the woman with the book, the couple, and I kept in touch, bound by the shared trauma. We met occasionally, each meeting a mix of therapy and detective work, trying to piece together the mystery.
One evening, I received an old photograph in the mail, sent anonymously. The black and white image showed a train, remarkably similar to ours. Standing by its entrance was the stranger. But the photograph’s timestamp chilled me to the bone: 1923.
The revelations cascaded from there. Old newspaper clippings, historical records, and eyewitness accounts told a haunting tale of a train that disappeared one fateful night in 1923, only to reappear, sporadically, over the decades. No one remembered boarding, no one knew their destinations, and no one ever saw them again.
The stranger? Legend had it he was a remorseful engineer who, in a moment of distraction, caused the train’s fateful derailment in 1923, trapping the souls of its passengers in an endless loop of limbo.
It took time, therapy, and the unwavering support of each other, but slowly, life regained some semblance of normalcy. But with one caveat: I never set foot on a train again.
Years later, as I strolled down Chicago’s busy streets, a soft hum reached my ears—a tuneless melody, eerily familiar. I turned, and there he was, the stranger, standing amidst the crowd, watching me. The city’s noise faded, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of a night train, a haunting lullaby that would forever remain etched in my soul.