The Conductor’s Lantern

Every afternoon, I board the 3:47 from Hartwell Junction to the small, almost forgotten village of Fenwick, where my father lives. The carriage is usually empty, save for a few elderly commuters who get off at the first stop. I’ve grown used to its peculiarities: the flickering fluorescent light that pulses like a dying heartbeat, the cold draft that snakes through the sealed windows, the faint smell of damp upholstery and old metal. But there are things that cannot be explained by a faulty HVAC or an old train’s creaking.

It began with the button. The door at the far end of the carriage has a button to open it, but it’s on the inside, and you have to be standing right next to it. One day, as the train rattled through the dark tunnel between Greymoor and Ashwick, I saw the button depress with a soft click, followed by a low hiss as the door slid open, revealing only the narrow passage to the next carriage beyond. No one was near it. I assumed a malfunction, but it happened again the next day, and the next, always at the same point in the tunnel. Once, I saw it move on its own, the plastic button pressing down as if pushed by an invisible finger, and I heard a faint shuffling, like someone stepping through, before the door closed again.

I tried to ignore it, but then the knocking started. A heavy, rhythmic banging on the window next to my usual seat, three thuds in rapid succession, always when the train was passing the old, disused signal box near Fallow Field. The first time, I jumped and turned, expecting to see a tree branch or a bird, but the window was clear, and the tracks were raised high above the surrounding ground. The knocking would repeat, sometimes five times, sometimes seven, and I would press my face to the cold glass, but there was never anyone there.

The shrieks came next. High-pitched, piercing screams that seemed to echo through the carriage, but when I looked around, I was always alone. They were not human, more like a mechanical wail, but they carried a note of anguish that made my skin crawl. I started to feel kicks and jerks from beneath my seat, as if something were trapped in the undercarriage, scrabbling to get out. I told my father about it, and he, being a train inspector for the company, dismissed it as the train’s age and the uneven tracks. But his face grew pale when I mentioned the button, and he quickly changed the subject.

One evening, I missed my usual train and had to take the last one out of the city. It was the same make of train, but the interior was different. The seats were torn, and the lights were dimmer. As we neared Fallow Field, I saw something that froze me. A figure was standing by the signal box, an old man in a tattered railway uniform, holding a lantern that cast a sickly yellow glow. He was not there before. He stood as if waiting, and as the train passed, he raised the lantern and looked directly at me, his face a mask of grief and warning. I heard a voice, clear as day, despite the roar of the wheels, say, ‘Don’t forget. You’re one of us now.’

I tried to find out more. I asked the station master about the signal box, but he said it had been decommissioned for decades. I found a newspaper article from 1987 about a cleaner who was electrocuted on that very route, a man named Thomas Riding. And there was a story about a signalman who died in a fire in that box, but no one could confirm if it was true. My father finally broke his silence. He told me that the company had a dark history, that many workers had died on these tracks, and some were never found. He said that sometimes, the trains carry more than passengers. He looked at me with fear in his eyes and begged me to find another way to travel.

But I couldn’t. The train was the only way to get to school and back. So I continued to ride it, but I started to notice more. The same figure would appear at different points along the route, sometimes in the fields, sometimes standing on the platform of a forgotten station, always with that lantern. The knocking became more insistent. The shrieks grew louder. And the button would depress on its own, not just in the tunnel, but anywhere, as if trying to get my attention.

One afternoon, I was alone in the carriage, and the door slid open. A conductor walked in, but his uniform was old, and his face was pale, with dark hollows for eyes. He carried a lantern, not an electric torch. He walked down the aisle, peering at each seat, and when he reached me, he stopped. He leaned in close, and I could smell soot and smoke. He whispered, ‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you? The signalman. He’s looking for passengers who don’t get off. He keeps them in the lantern. But you can escape if you know the way.’ I tried to ask him what he meant, but he faded like mist, and the door slid shut.

I told my father, and he finally broke down. He told me that the train line was built over an old graveyard, and many bodies were never moved. The signalman’s death was never properly investigated, and his ghost is said to haunt the line, luring the living into the void between carriages. He said there have been disappearances on the 3:47, but the company covers them up. He gave me a small silver whistle, saying it was his grandfather’s, and that it might protect me.

The next day, I boarded the 3:47, clutching the whistle. As the train entered the tunnel, the button pressed itself, and the door slid open. I saw a light in the darkness of the passage, faint but beckoning. The knocking began, more frantic than ever, and the shrieks overwhelmed me. I stood up, my heart pounding, and walked to the open door. Through the window of the door, I could see the signalman standing at the end of the passage, holding his lantern, and behind him, I saw the faces of the missing, pressed against the lantern’s glass, their mouths open in silent screams. He gestured for me to come.

I raised the whistle to my lips and blew. A sharp, clear note cut through the noise, and the signalman recoiled, his face contorting in fury. The door slammed shut, and the knocking stopped. But I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. Every day, I ride the same train, and every day, he is there, waiting, his lantern held high. The whistle is my only defense, but it grows colder each time I use it, and the voices in the lantern grow more desperate.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. My father says he is trying to find a way to break the curse, but the signalman’s reach is long, and the train line is his domain. I am trapped on a moving tomb, and the only way out might be to become one of them.