The Phantom Railway

The storm lashed at Blackwood Station, its rusted iron canopy groaning under the wind. Lily gripped her suitcase, eyeing the “Last Departure” poster—1927, over a century ago. The only other soul was a man in a tattered overcoat, staring at the motionless clock above the tracks. Its hands were frozen at 11:59.
“Train’s late,” the man muttered without turning. His voice was hollow, like it echoed from a well. Lily shifted, noticing the station’s peeling paint revealed faint sketches of passengers—men and women in vintage clothing, their eyes scratched out. A single flickered nearby, casting shadows on the damp walls.
When the distant whistle finally blew, the man vanished. Lily’s breath hitched as the train rolled in, its carriages shrouded in mist, windows fogged. The conductor, face hidden in a wide-brimmed hat, opened the door with a creak. “All aboard for the final stop,” he murmured, voice like gravel.
Inside, the carriage was freezing. Lily sank into a worn seat, noticing the other passengers: a woman knitting with thread that looked like hair, a boy clutching a teddy bear with one eye, all staring straight ahead, motionless. As the train lurched forward, the lights flickered out. When they returned, the passengers were gone—except for the boy, now turned to face her, his teddy’s missing eye oozing black liquid.
“Please don’t look at the tracks,” he whispered. But Lily couldn’t help it. Through the window, she saw shadowy figures running alongside the train, hands outstretched, mouths silent. The conductor’s voice echoed again: “No one leaves Blackwood… not once the clock strikes.”
Lily checked her watch—11:59. The train screeched to a halt. The boy smiled, his eyes hollow. “Welcome to the last departure,” he said as the carriage dissolved into darkness. When the storm cleared, Blackwood Station stood empty, save for a new sketch on the wall: a girl with a suitcase, her eyes now scratched out, joining the century-old passengers.