The Last Train to Morrow

I never believed in ghosts. My name is Alex, and I’m a rational man. I’ve always thought that every mystery has a logical explanation, until that summer night in the small town of Morrow, where my cousin Daisy lived. I was visiting her during my college break, and we had just come from a late-night movie. The theater was a relic from the ’70s, with creaky seats and a screen that flickered, but it was the only thing to do in that town. The movie ended at 1 a.m., and the walk home was about three miles. The road was quiet, lined with old oak trees that seemed to lean in as if they were listening.

As we approached the railroad tracks that cut through the edge of town, a boundary between the habitation and the dark, overgrown woods beyond, I noticed something odd. A figure lying motionless across the rails. My heart lurched. ‘Hey! Is someone there?’ I called out, but there was no response. Daisy grabbed my arm, her face pale under the moon. ‘Alex, that’s Ricky,’ she whispered. ‘What’s he doing?’

We rushed over. Ricky was a kid I vaguely recognized from town, maybe nineteen, with a scraggly beard and hollow eyes. He was passed out, reeking of cheap whiskey, a half-empty bottle still clutched in his hand. I shook him awake, and he stirred with a groan. ‘Come on, man, you can’t sleep here,’ I said, pulling him to his feet. He swayed, looking dazed. Daisy helped steady him. ‘Ricky, what the hell are you doing?’ she demanded.

I fumbled in my backpack and found a bottle of Pepsi I’d saved from the movie. I handed it to him. He drank greedily, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why were you lying there? Were you trying to kill yourself?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle. He stared at the rails, his eyes vacant. ‘There’s no respect in my home,’ he said, his voice slurred. ‘My family won’t accept me. They’ve banned me from town. My life is nothing.’

I looked at Daisy. ‘What’s his story?’ She sighed. ‘Ricky is a troublemaker. He’s been in and out of juvie for petty theft, and last year he was involved in a stabbing, though they never proved it. The town got a restraining order against him. He’s not allowed past the train station.’ Ricky snorted, but there was pain in his eyes.

We decided to walk him to the edge of the woods, where there was a small shack he sometimes crashed in, just beyond the town limits. As we walked, Ricky kept muttering about the train. ‘It’s coming,’ he said. ‘It’s always coming.’ I thought he was just drunk. But when we reached the crossing, I heard a faint hum, a vibration in the rails. ‘I don’t hear anything,’ Daisy said, but I felt a subtle tremor under my feet.

Ricky stopped, frozen. ‘It’s here,’ he whispered. He pointed down the track. In the distance, a light appeared, but it wasn’t the white of a train’s headlamp. It was a sickly, orange glow, pulsing like a heart. Then I heard a sound I can’t describe—not a whistle, but a wailing, like a thousand voices crying out. Daisy started shaking. ‘Alex, there’s no train scheduled at this hour,’ she said, her voice trembling.

The light grew closer, and I saw the train take shape—an old steam locomotive, black with rust, its wheels grinding against the rails with a sound like bones crushing. The windows were lit with the same orange glow, and inside I could see silhouettes pressed against the glass, like they were trying to get out. My rational mind screamed that this was impossible, but my instincts screamed something else.

Ricky went rigid. ‘He’s coming,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘The one I stabbed. He’s coming for me.’ I grabbed his arm, willing my legs to move. ‘We have to get out of here!’ But Ricky broke free and stumbled onto the tracks, directly in the path of the oncoming train. ‘Ricky, no!’ I shouted.

The train seemed to speed up, its whistle—if that’s what you could call it—piercing the night. But suddenly, the train vanished, like it had never been there. The light was gone, the sound was gone. Ricky stood in the middle of the tracks, panting. He turned to us, his face pale as bone. ‘It’s been every night since,’ he said, ‘Ever since I killed him. The train comes only when I’m drunk, and he’s always at the window, pointing at me.’

Daisy and I managed to pull him away, and we walked him to the shack, trying to convince ourselves it was just a hallucination. But as we returned home, I couldn’t shake the image of that train. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a reflection of something. But a week later, I heard that Ricky had been found dead on the tracks, his body horribly mangled, as if he’d been hit by a train. There were no trains that night, no derailments, nothing. The police ruled it suicide, but they couldn’t explain the wild look in his eyes.

I’ve tried to ignore it, but ever since that night, I see the train sometimes. On rainy nights, I’ll catch a glimpse of that orange glow at the edge of town, or hear that wailing in the distance. And I’ve started to believe in something beyond the rational. Because the last train to Morrow doesn’t just carry passengers; it carries the weight of every sin you’ve ever committed, and it’s always waiting for you to board.