THE LAST TRAIN
by PK
Theme: Horror
Setting: Surrey Central Station, Midnight
Main Characters: Divan, a nameless stranger
Midnight. Surrey Central.
The digital clock above the platform blinked 11:57 PM in a dull red glow, barely cutting through the cold mist that clung to the steel beams of Surrey Central Station. Most of the city had already gone to sleep, but Divan was wide awake—restless, irritated, and haunted by something he couldn’t name.
The platform was nearly deserted. The buzz of the fluorescent lights was the only sound, crackling like static in his ears. The darkness beyond the rails felt too thick, too alive. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and paced near the edge, glancing over the tracks like something might crawl out.
That’s when he saw him.
A lone man sat hunched on the far bench. His posture was rigid, his shoulders trembling. His suit, grey and creased, looked soaked despite the dry night. His head was bowed, face hidden in shadow.
Something about him felt… wrong.
Divan hesitated. Then, against better judgment, he walked over.
“Hey,” he called softly. “You alright, man?”
The figure didn’t respond.
Divan moved closer. “Need help or someth—?”
Suddenly, the man stood up and lunged forward—arms out—gripping Divan in a desperate, suffocating hug. His chest shook with silent sobs. His body was ice cold. Divan’s eyes widened. He tried to pull back, but the man held tighter, his fingers clawing into the back of Divan’s jacket.
“It’s okay,” Divan whispered, heart pounding. “You’re okay…”
He glanced around, hoping someone else was on the platform. But it was just them. No footsteps. No other voices. Just that flickering light overhead and the distant howl of wind between the buildings.
“I’ll get you some water,” he murmured, gently prying himself free. “Just wait here.”
He jogged to the vending machine, his heartbeat slamming in his chest. He inserted coins, grabbed a bottle.
When he turned around…
The man was gone.
Not walking away. Not boarding the train. Gone.
Divan froze. “What the hell…”
The sound of an approaching train echoed through the tunnel. The screech of wheels on metal. Doors opened. He stepped in, unsettled, gripping the untouched water bottle like it was an anchor to reality.
The Next Night – 11:57 PM
Something pulled him back.
He told himself it was curiosity. Closure. But deep down, it was fear—an addictive kind. He needed to know.
The station was just as empty. Just as dead.
And there he was again. Same bench. Same suit. Same look in his eyes.
Divan’s blood turned to ice.
He walked toward him, slow this time.
“You… again?” he whispered.
The man looked up, lips quivering. A tear slid down his cheek. And once again, he hugged him. Same sobbing. Same trembling. Like a tape on repeat.
Divan’s throat went dry. “This happened yesterday… I—I was getting you water…”
No answer.
He reached into his backpack. “I still have it. The bottle’s here. I never gave it to y—” He turned to grab it.
When he turned back…
Nothing. Empty air.
The silence pressed against his ears like a scream without sound.
He stumbled backward. Looked up. The lights overhead buzzed louder now. One of them burst in a shower of sparks.
He sat down, trembling.
That’s when he saw it.
On the far wall, behind a cracked panel, a worn, peeling Missing Person poster. Torn at the edges. Faded by time.
He got up and stepped closer.
There was no photo anymore. Just a vague outline where one had been. The ink had bled and faded into an eerie shadow.
But the text remained:
MISSING
Last seen: October 12, 2021
Location: Surrey Central SkyTrain Station
Clothing: Grey suit. Blue tie.
“If seen, please contact family. He never came home.”
Divan’s hands began to shake.
He looked back at the bench.
The air shimmered.
And for a fraction of a second—the man was standing there again.
But this time, he wasn’t crying.
He was staring.
Eyes empty. Lips curled into a slow, unnatural smile.
His neck was bruised.
Rope burns.
Now.
Divan doesn’t take the SkyTrain anymore. He avoids Surrey Central like it’s cursed. He tells himself it was a dream, a hallucination, maybe grief from something he doesn’t remember.
But sometimes, late at night, when he walks near the tracks or hears the whistle of a train passing by his apartment window…
He feels cold arms wrap around him.
He hears sobbing from behind his closet door.
And some mornings…
The water bottle is gone.
A short horror by PK
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