Artur trudged toward Central Station; he was tired, hungry, and as always, alone. After a gruelling 14-hour shift at the distribution centre, he was returning to his cold bed-sitting room and the solitary tin of spam that would be his supper.
The station was always crowded, but Artur’s poor English set him apart from others and mostly he walked with eyes downcast, avoiding people.
But even he noticed something strange. The usual chatter of commuters, the clatter of rolling suitcases, and the calls of ticket inspectors were missing.
The pale glow of flickering lights masked an empty concourse. His footsteps echoed on cold tiles, each step amplifying the loneliness that gnawed at him.
A shiver ran through him when he noticed a lingering mist hovering near an abandoned bench. Suddenly, out the corner of his eye, a faint figure appeared – a man dressed in a faded dark-blue uniform from a distant era.
The spectre moved slowly, its eyes reflecting his mournful sorrow and he pierced the silence, ‘Come join me,’ he gestured with a mangled arm.
Frozen in awe and dread, Artur watched the phantom glide silently towards the escalator. With trembling hands, Artur pulled his worn coat tighter and sleepwalked. As he descended underground, the station’s usual sounds mysteriously resumed. He hurried to the end of the platform trying to escape the apparition.
The platform shuddered and lights signalled a train emerging from the tunnel. Artur didn’t hear the driver’s frantic whistle as he stepped forward onto the tracks.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 