The Last Train to Morrow

I never believed in ghosts—not really. Not until the summer I turned nineteen, when I took a job as a night janitor at the old Union Station. The city had been trying to renovate it for years, but the funds always fell through. So it sat there, a monument to a bygone era, its marble floors cracked and its brass fixtures tarnished. My job was to clean the public areas and make sure no one was sleeping in the waiting rooms. It was supposed to be easy money.

My first night, the air inside was thick with the smell of dust and old perfume. The only light came from the dim emergency bulbs, casting long shadows that danced as I moved. I remember thinking how quiet it was, save for the occasional scurry of rats. But around 2 AM, I heard a sound that didn’t belong—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers drumming on a wooden surface. I followed it to the main hall, where the old ticket booths stood, their windows frosted with grime. The tapping came from the last booth on the right. I approached, and as I drew near, the tapping stopped. I peered through the glass, but saw nothing. Then, on the dusty floor, I noticed faint footprints leading from the booth to the platform doors. They were wet, as if someone had just walked in from the rain. But it hadn’t rained in weeks.

I shook it off, blaming my imagination. But the next night, the same tapping. This time, I found a tiny, rusted key on the floor by the booth. It was old-fashioned, the kind that fit a lock on a door. I pocketed it, thinking I’d turn it in later. That’s when I noticed the nameplate on the booth: ‘J. P. Merrick.’ I asked the station manager about him. He said Merrick was the last ticket master before the station closed in the 1970s. He’d died in the booth, of a heart attack, just as the last train of the evening was called. ‘They say he never left,’ the manager said with a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.

I tried to ignore it, but the occurrences grew. On the third night, I found the waiting room chairs rearranged in a circle, as if for a meeting. On the fourth, I heard a whistle—the old steam engine kind—echo through the station, though no trains had run there for decades. I started to see a figure out of the corner of my eye: an old man in a conductor’s uniform, standing by the tracks, his face obscured. When I turned, he was gone.

The fifth night, I decided to follow the wet footprints which had reappeared, leading to a locked door at the far end of the platform. I remembered the key in my pocket. My fingers trembled as I inserted it, and the lock turned with a click. The door opened onto a staircase descending into darkness. A faint light glowed below. I walked down, my heart pounding. At the bottom was a small room, like a stationmaster’s office, cluttered with old timetables and a brass telegraph. On the desk lay an open ledger, and in spidery handwriting, the entry read: ‘MIDNIGHT SPECIAL—ALL ABOARD. 2507.’ The date was the one from Merrick’s death.

I felt a cold breeze, and the light flickered. I heard the whistle again, louder this time, and the muffled clatter of wheels. The floor began to tremble. I spun around to see a ghostly train, black and sleek, pulling into the platform above, its headlight a blinding white. The silhouette of a conductor stood beside it, his hand extended, as if inviting me to board. I ran. I bolted up the stairs, through the door, and didn’t stop until I was out on the street, gasping in the cool night air.

I quit that job the next morning. But the key remained in my pocket. I tried to throw it away, but it kept reappearing on my dresser. And at night, when I close my eyes, I hear the whistle, and the rhythmic tapping, and I wonder if Merrick is still waiting for a passenger to fill the seat he saved for himself. I never found out what happened to the other passengers on that last train, but I have my theories. Some tickets are one-way, and the station never forgets who promised to return. Now, whenever I hear a train whistle in the distance, I check the clock. It’s always just past midnight, and the rails seem to hum with a name: Morrow. As in, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ But for me, there is no tomorrow—only the endless echo of that whistle, waiting to call me home.