The Last Train Home [Fiction]

Harris Porman Station was deserted and cold, unsurprisingly. It didn't used to be so many years ago when I was a kid. I loved to escort my father here on his work trips out of town, sit and watch people come and go.

Now, it looked like a shadow of itself. Empty, cold and dark.

So dark.

I’d been driving for hours, my knuckles bone-white on the wheel, my heartbeat drumming louder than the car engine as I approached the station. Something drew me here and I was powerless against it. I needed to see for myself.

I heard whispers on the street. They say it’s where the dead linger, waiting for some train that never comes. Hilarious. That was impossible.

I paused, watching the old platform from a distance, abandoned and broken. Memories of waiting on the lounge with Mama for my father flashed through my head.

I heard a scratching sound that echoed loudly in the emptiness. Something moved in my peripheral—a girl sitting on an old wooden bench, hands folded in her lap. I walked towards her. Young, possibly eighteen or nineteen, with long dark hair and her skin as pale as porcelain. She stared into the distance, oblivious to my presence.

I huffed (surely I couldn't be invisible) and cleared my throat. “Hi. Uh, are….you waiting for someone?” I asked.

She turned and looked at me. “I'm waiting,” she replied with a sympathetic smile. I sucked in a breath at the sight of her hollow, dark eyes. They betrayed pain and longing in a way I didn't understand. I shuddered from the chills that ran through me.

“You still don't know yet, do you?” She asked.

Rubbing the chill from my arms to cover my confusion, I asked. “Uh, I don't understand. Know what? And what are you waiting for?”

She sighed, her eyes drifting toward the empty tracks. “For the train. It’s supposed to take me home.”

“This place is deserted. I don't think any train is coming through here,” I scoffed and froze. My voice sounded unnatural even to my ears. “Uh, why don't I take you back into town. It's late. You can check another station for your trip tomorrow.”

Her dark eyes drove uncomfortably into mine. “Would you leave if this was your only way home?” The question clung to me, thick and uncomfortable. I tried to answer her, opening and closing my mouth but no words came out. She smiled again and patted the seat beside her.

“How long have you been waiting?” I sat down beside her.

“1945.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Like you, I was in denial at first and left. When I returned, the train had come and gone.”

“Whoa….wait. What do you mean ‘like me’?” She looked at me, sympathy in her hollow gaze and gently intertwined her fingers with mine. They were icy cold. I gasped and looked down at my hands, suddenly noticing how pale they were, how weightless I felt.

“You mean…?” My voice sounded hoarse.

“Yes. We are both dead. I died here. You came earlier searching for your father and left.”

I sat in silence, gazing at our intertwined hands. “Don't worry. We won't miss the train this time around,” she whispered with assurance.

I hope you enjoyed reading this short ghost story inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt — the sympathetic ghost and the station of the dead.

Thank you for visiting my blog.

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