The Hollow Station

The weekend trip was supposed to be a break from the city’s clamor. My parents and I, along with my cousin Nisha and her folks, had boarded the narrow-gauge train that wound up through the hills to the hill station of Nilgiri’s Edge. The journey was long, the train chugging slowly past tea gardens and misty valleys. By the time we arrived, the sun was already dipping behind the mountains, casting long, eerie shadows over the tiny station.

We had booked no hotel in advance, expecting to find one easily, but the station was nearly deserted. A lone porter told us that most lodges were far off, and the ones nearby were likely full. So we trudged along the winding road, our luggage wheels rattling on the cracked asphalt. The air was cold, and the forest pressed close on both sides, the trees ancient and tangled. After an hour of walking, we found a small guesthouse, its sign barely legible under a layer of moss: ‘The Hollow Rest’.

We rang the bell, and a gaunt man with hollow cheeks opened the door. He smiled thinly, his teeth yellowed, and led us inside. The lobby was dimly lit, with old furniture and a musty smell. He gave us two rooms on the second floor, at the end of a long, creaking corridor. The rooms were sparse, with sagging beds and windows that didn’t fully close, letting in the chill. We settled in, but the place had an uneasy feeling. The walls were thin, and we could hear footsteps above us, though the owner claimed the top floor was empty.

That night, we decided to have dinner in the small dining hall. The owner served us bland soup and stale bread. As we ate, Nisha mentioned she had read online about this place. ‘It says the old guesthouse was built in the 1800s, and there was a fire that killed a family. They say their spirits still linger.’ I laughed it off, but my younger brother Parth’s eyes widened. Our parents exchanged uneasy looks, and my uncle said, ‘Don’t believe everything you read.’

Later, we retired to our rooms. I had trouble sleeping, the wind howling through the gaps in the windows. Around midnight, I heard a child’s laughter echoing down the corridor. I checked on Parth, who was fast asleep. The laughter continued, faint yet distinct. I opened the door, and the hallway was empty, the lights flickering. Then, from the end of the hall, I saw a small figure in a white dress disappear into the wall. I froze, then ran back into the room, my heart pounding.

The next morning, we all gathered for breakfast. Nisha looked pale; she confessed she had seen the same figure in her room’s mirror, standing behind her, but when she turned, nothing was there. Our parents decided we should leave, but the owner said the last train had left and the next one wasn’t until evening. We were stuck until then.

Determined to make the best of it, we went for a walk to a nearby viewpoint. The path led through a dense forest, the trees gnarled and dripping with moss. We passed by an abandoned church, its roof caved in, and an overgrown cemetery. Nisha and I lagged behind, and we saw a man in old-fashioned clothes standing by a grave, but when we blinked, he was gone. We hurried back to the group, not mentioning it.

Back at the guesthouse, the owner approached me alone, his voice low. ‘You have seen them, haven’t you? The family who died here. They are restless. They will keep you here if they can.’ I asked him what he meant. He just smiled, his eyes glinting. ‘They like company. They don’t want to be alone.’

That afternoon, a strange lethargy fell over us. Parth started speaking to an imaginary friend named ‘Lily’, claiming she was in the room. Nisha heard her own name being called from the attic. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, but no one was there. We all gathered in one room, sitting in a circle, trying to keep each other calm. The clock on the wall stopped at 3:33, and the temperature plummeted.

Then, we heard the unmistakable sound of a train whistle. But there was no station nearby. The sound grew louder, and the floor began to vibrate. We ran to the window, and outside, a spectral train was passing by, its carriages glowing with pale light. Through the windows, we could see the silhouettes of a family, and in one car, a little girl in a white dress waved at us. Our breath misted, and the train whooshed past, then vanished.

After that, the eerie occurrences stopped. The owner told us the train was a phantom that came whenever the spirits wanted a new passenger. He chuckled, ‘You are lucky. They were just warning you. They rarely let anyone leave.’ We packed hastily and walked to the station, the two miles feeling endless. As the real train pulled in, we all sighed in relief. But as we boarded, I noticed the little girl in white standing on the platform, smiling at us, her eyes black and empty.

We returned home, but the memories never faded. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a train whistle in the distance, even though we live nowhere near tracks. And once, I caught a glimpse of a white dress in my peripheral vision. The Hollow Rest still lingers, waiting for the next lost travelers. And I know, someday, we might answer its call.