Short Story: The Last Train

January 9, 2025 Colin Lawson Comments 0 Comment

It should have been a routine journey. The 19:46 train from London to Norwich, was packed with weary commuters, students, and late-night travellers, all eager to reach their destinations. The night outside was cold and featureless, the landscape nothing but a blur of darkness beyond the train windows.

No one expected anything unusual—delays were common, an inconvenience to be endured rather than feared. But on this particular night, the train did not simply stop... …passengers began to disappear.

The Last Train

The 19:46 commuter train from London to Norwich was running late. Not unusual. It was a bitterly cold November evening, and the carriage windows were fogged with condensation, reflecting the dim glow of the overhead lights. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks was almost hypnotic as the train rumbled through the darkness, its passengers cocooned in their own little worlds—scrolling through their phones, reading books, or simply staring vacantly into space.

Then, with a lurch, the train shuddered and slowed. The murmur of idle conversation faltered as a mechanical groan reverberated through the carriages. Moments later, the train jerked to a complete stop.

Silence.

The intercom crackled, and the conductor’s voice, thick with static, announced, “Apologies for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve encountered an unexpected issue and will be stationary for a short while.”

Passengers sighed, tutted, exchanged knowing glances. Another delay—what a surprise. They returned to their distractions, assuming it would be no more than a minor inconvenience.

Then the lights flickered.

A few passengers looked up, frowning. A brief power fluctuation, nothing more. But then—just for an instant—the entire train was plunged into darkness.

When the lights returned, a woman screamed.

A seat near the middle of the carriage was empty. The coat, bag, and half-finished coffee cup remained, but the man who had occupied the seat only seconds before was gone.

“Did—did he go to the toilet?” someone asked, voice uncertain.

“Nah,” muttered an older man. “He was just there. No one passed me.”

People glanced around, some standing to peer down the length of the carriage. The doors hadn’t opened. The train hadn’t moved. There was nowhere for him to go.

The intercom crackled again, but this time, there was no voice—only static, an eerie whisper of white noise. A few passengers tried calling for help, but there was no signal. The Wi-Fi had died. Outside, the darkness was thick, absolute. The world beyond the train had disappeared into an inky abyss.

Minutes passed. A nervous tension settled over the carriage. Then, the lights flickered again.

Darkness.

A second scream.

Another passenger gone.

This time, people panicked. They hammered on the doors, pressed emergency buttons that did nothing, shouted for the driver. No response. Some ran up and down the carriages, but every door leading to the next section of the train was locked tight. There was no escape.

A man in a suit, his voice shaking, said, “We—we need to stay together. No one goes anywhere alone.”

But it didn’t matter.

Each time the lights failed, another person disappeared.

Their seats remained warm, their belongings untouched. It was as if the darkness itself had swallowed them whole. The remaining passengers huddled together in the centre of the carriage, clutching at one another, counting down the seconds between each flicker of the lights, each plunge into blackness.

One woman—her face ghostly pale—gripped a young man’s wrist so hard her knuckles turned white. “It’s the dark,” she whispered, her breath ragged. “It takes them when it’s dark.”

A man, sweat beading on his forehead, produced a lighter, its flame flickering as he held it aloft. “We have to keep the light on,” he muttered.

But the train didn’t care. The flickering grew worse, stretching the intervals of darkness longer. One of the remaining passengers sobbed, whispering a prayer under his breath. Another tried forcing open a window, but it wouldn’t budge.

Then the darkness came again.

And took them all.

Until only one remained.

A young woman, pressed into a corner, knees hugged to her chest, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She stared at the empty seats, the abandoned bags and scarves, at the smudged condensation on the windows. The train rocked gently, as if something unseen prowled its length, shifting just beyond her field of vision.

A shadow moved in the reflection of the glass, though nothing was there.

Then the lights flickered again.

Darkness.

This time, there was no scream.

When the train finally lurched forward, it rolled into Norwich station as though nothing had happened. A few staff members waited on the platform, puzzled by the complete lack of passengers.

The train had left London full.

Now, every seat was empty.

A lone conductor stepped aboard, torch in hand, calling out, “Hello? Anyone still on?”

Only silence greeted him. He walked down the eerily quiet carriages, his footsteps echoing too loudly against the floor. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows. He reached the last carriage and stopped.

In the condensation on the window, smeared by trembling fingers, were two words scrawled from the inside:

HELP ME.

Behind him, just for a moment, the lights flickered once more.