In the gritty sprawl of Lin City, the nights always seemed heavier than the days. The smog didn’t just cling to the skyline—it clung to the people, seeping into their lungs, their thoughts, their very sense of safety. The streets were a patchwork of broken neon and boarded windows, where whispers carried farther than shouts and legends walked just behind you in the dark. One such legend was the Fear Train.
It was the kind of story that drifted between bars and street corners in the small hours, told in low voices by those who claimed they’d heard the whistle or seen the glow. Supposedly, the Fear Train was no ordinary ghost tale. It didn’t appear for everyone—only for the guilty. And not the petty kind of guilt, like stealing a wallet or lying on your taxes. This was guilt that lived in your bones, the kind that woke you at 3 AM and sat heavy on your chest until sunrise.
The story went that at exactly 1:11 AM, a black freight train—its cars darker than coal, its windows bleeding red light—would roar through the abandoned rail yard in the south end. You wouldn’t hear it approach until it was already there, wheels screeching against rails that hadn’t been used in decades. And if you saw it, you could run, you could hide, but the doors would open for you all the same. And if you boarded, you’d never be the same again.
Clara Reese had no patience for urban myths. As a private investigator, she made her living by peeling back stories and exposing the truths behind them. People lied. They embellished. They believed what they wanted to believe. But trains didn’t just appear out of fog. Still, she had to admit—this one felt different.
She’d heard the tale from a client, a middle-aged man who’d come to her for help finding his runaway son. The man had been pale, his hands trembling when he slid a photo across her desk. Before leaving, he’d asked her in a low voice if she
“believed in the train.”
When she told him no, his eyes darted to the window, as though the sound of a distant whistle might prove her wrong.Something in his fear stayed with her.
That night, she found herself driving toward the south end, following roads she hadn’t been down in years. She told herself it was curiosity, maybe boredom. But deep down, Clara knew she carried her own shadows—things from her past she’d rather not revisit.
The rail yard was a skeleton of industry, rusted and half-buried in weeds. The air was sharp with the smell of iron and damp earth. The wind threaded through the broken signal towers, making them hum like distant tuning forks. She checked her watch: 1:07 AM.
The cracked asphalt beneath her boots crunched with every step as she made her way toward the tracks. They were warped and split in places, rails eaten through with rust. No train could run here, not anymore. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, breathing slow, eyes on the darkness beyond the fog. She told herself she’d wait until 1:15 and leave. At 1:10, the world seemed to hold its breath. At 1:11, the ground trembled.
It was subtle at first—a faint vibration under her feet, like a heartbeat too far away to hear. Then came the sound. A low wail, metallic and mournful, cutting through the air like a blade. The fog thickened, swirling along the tracks. Out of it emerged the Fear Train. Its engine loomed like a black monolith, its sides swallowing the dim light around it. The windows in each car glowed red, not warm like firelight but cold, like the last light before a wound clots. The train didn’t rush past—it slowed, the grinding of its wheels echoing in her bones. Clara’s breath caught. The doors slid open without a sound.For a moment, she saw nothing but darkness inside. Then a faint shimmer—mirrors. Dozens of them, lining the walls.
Her instinct screamed don’t go in. But her pride, her need to know, drowned it out. She stepped forward, boots clanging on the metal floor. The doors slammed shut behind her. The mirrors did not show her reflection. At first, they were empty. Then, slowly, images formed—flashes of moments she had buried so deep she’d almost convinced herself they weren’t real.
There was the night she lied on the witness stand to protect someone she shouldn’t have. The time she’d turned away from a friend’s call for help because she didn’t want to be involved. A man’s face—someone she’d followed for a job—eyes pleading before she walked away and left him to whatever fate waited for him.
Each image whispered to her.
At first, the voices were faint, like a breeze in the next room. Then they grew louder, overlapping, twisting into a chorus of accusations.
Her hands clenched into fists. “Stop it!”
The mirrors cracked in unison, shards splintering like spiderwebs.
Through the fractures, she saw something else—herself. But wrong. The figure had her face, her build, but the eyes were hollow pits, and the hands… the hands dripped with something dark and wet.
She backed away, heart pounding. “This isn’t real. You’re not real.”
The figure in the mirrors tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion. Then it smiled—too wide. The train shuddered, speeding up. The floor tilted under her feet. Somewhere deep within the metal walls, a laugh began. It was a grinding, metallic screech, like brakes tearing against rails, and it didn’t stop—it grew louder, shaking her teeth.
“Let me off!”
She shouted, slamming her fists against the door. The train ignored her.When it finally lurched to a stop, the doors hissed open. She stumbled onto the gravel of the rail yard, nearly falling to her knees. The air was still. The fog was lighter now. She spun around. The Fear Train was gone. She checked her watch. 1:11 AM. Her breath froze in her chest. No time had passed.
Clara didn’t tell anyone about that night. Not her clients, not her friends—if she still had any. But those who saw her afterward noticed changes. She flinched whenever she passed a mirror. She avoided trains entirely, even the ones that rattled past her office windows in broad daylight.
The rail yard still stands in Lin City. The tracks are still rusted. But locals say that if you’re there at 1:11 AM, the fog will thicken, the ground will tremble, and you might hear a distant whistle. They say the Fear Train still runs, waiting for passengers whose sins outweigh their steps. And if you see its doors open, you’ll have a choice. But it won’t feel like one.
