Sam battled against the swirling wind; he had to catch the last train. The station, usually well-lit, was deserted and in darkness.
Sam checked his watch; he still had five minutes. Uneasily, he edged up the motionless escalator to the platform.
The lights were dimmed. There were no passengers or station staff. Sam had never felt more alone. A fear gripped him but he couldn’t walk five miles home in a storm.
With unsteady hands he opened his phone. All he got was static and distorted voices calling his name. Around him were whispers, indistinct voices coming from all directions. In terror he disconnected the call.
Then on the platform he saw spirits of long-forgotten commuters dressed from a bygone age, moving with an eerie grace: lovers hand-in-hand, a small boy clutching a stuffed animal, a group of soldiers. They paid Sam no attention as a train chugged into the station, steam pumping from its funnel.
Sam fled. In the main concourse he saw a tattered newspaper telling of a tragic train accident 100 years earlier.
With startling clarity, Sam understood. Those who died now haunted the station re-enacting their final moments.
He rushed to the street. The storm was a full-on snow blizzard. Across a road was the welcoming light of a pub he didn’t recognise. With head down and coat pulled tight, he fought against the storm. He didn’t see the bus coming. The coroner’s inquest concluded the driver could do nothing to prevent hitting and killing Sam.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 