The night was dark and stormy, the kind of night that made you want to curl up under a warm blanket and never leave. But despite the inclement weather, I found myself standing alone at the entrance of the Bulad Station, waiting for the train to arrive. I checked my watch, the glowing numerals reading 2:33 AM, and my anxiety began to rise. I had to catch the last train home and time was running out.
As the minutes ticked by, I began to feel increasingly uneasy. The station was empty, the only sounds being the rain tapping against the metal roof and my own nervous breathing. The yellow bulbs illuminating the platform seemed to flicker with an unnerving inconsistency, creating eerie shadows and casting the platform in a sickly glow.
At last, the train pulled into the station, its arrival announced by a high-pitched whistle that pierced through the night. I hurriedly boarded the car, my footsteps echoing against the hard concrete. The carriage was empty, the only sound the humming of the engine and the clattering of the wheels against the track.
I took a seat by the window, gazing out into the darkness. The rain continued to pour down in sheets, the droplets sliding down the glass in a hypnotic pattern. As the train picked up speed, my attention was drawn to the reflections that were briefly illuminated by the train’s headlights. I saw flashes of trees whipping by, occasional glimpses of small towns and lonely homes bathed in the ghostly light.
Suddenly, the train shuddered to a stop and the lights flickered out, plunging the carriage into total darkness. I felt a growing sense of panic as I groped around in the darkness, searching for a switch to turn the lights back on. But there was nothing, no control panel or emergency brake, just the hard metal walls and seats of the carriage.
It was then that I heard it. At first, it was a faint whisper, so quiet that it could have been mistaken for the sound of the rain. But as I strained my ears, I could make out the words, like a ghostly chorus echoing from the darkness outside the train. “Don’t take the train,” the voices whispered. “Don’t take the train at the Bulad Station.”
I shuddered involuntarily, my heart pounding in my chest. I tried to convince myself that it was just my imagination, but the voices grew louder and more insistent. They seemed to be coming from all directions, a choir of the damned that surrounded me on all sides.
The train began to move again, slowly at first, then picking up speed. I could feel my stomach lurching as the carriage rattled along the tracks, the sound of the wheels grinding against the metal sending shivers down my spine. The whispering grew louder, and I could hear more voices now, all saying the same thing. “Don’t take the train,” they whispered. “Don’t take the train at the Bulad Station.”
I felt trapped, a prisoner of the train hurtling through the darkness. I searched frantically for a way out, but there was none. I was at the mercy of whatever was out there in the darkness, and my fear was overwhelming.
Suddenly, the train jolted to a stop, throwing me out of my seat. I hit my head on the window, and for a moment, everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the train had stopped at a deserted station, far away from the Bulad Station.
I stepped out onto the platform, my legs shaking with a mixture of fear and relief. The station was old and run down, the paint peeling off the walls. There was no one around, nosigns of life. The only sound was the rain, which had now become a steady drizzle.
As I looked around, I noticed a signpost, its letters faded and barely readable. It read “Ashby Station.” I had never heard of it before, but I knew it was not my destination. I checked my watch, which read 3:21 AM. I had been on the train for almost an hour, but it felt like an eternity.
I tried to call for help, but my phone had no signal. I was completely alone, in the middle of nowhere. The voices still echoed in my mind, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting for me to make a move.
I decided to walk, hoping to find a way back to civilization. I followed a dirt road that led away from the station, my shoes squelching in the mud. The rain continued to fall, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to keep warm.
After what felt like hours of walking, I finally saw a light in the distance. As I got closer, I realized it was a gas station. I stumbled in, drenched and disheveled, and asked to use the phone.
The attendant looked at me suspiciously but handed me the phone. I called my friend, who came to pick me up. As we drove away from the gas station, I told her what had happened, about the voices on the train, and the strange station where I had been stranded.
She listened patiently, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. When we arrived at my house, she left me with a reassuring pat on the back and drove away.
I tried to put the experience behind me, but I couldn’t. The voices haunted me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me. I started seeing things out of the corner of my eye, shadows moving in the darkness. I stopped sleeping, afraid of what I might see in my dreams.
One night, as I was lying in bed, I heard the whispering again. “Don’t take the train,” the voices whispered. “Don’t take the train at the Bulad Station.”
I got up and went to the window, looking out into the darkness. I saw nothing but the rain, falling in sheets. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure, standing in the shadows.
It was tall and gaunt, with long, bony fingers and glowing red eyes. It grinned at me, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth.
I screamed and backed away from the window, but when I looked back, the figure was gone.
From that day on, I never took the train again. I never went back to the Bulad Station or Ashby Station. But I could still hear the voices, whispering in my ear, warning me of the darkness that lay just beyond the tracks.