The Last Train to Narrows Bend

The pills should have fixed my thyroid, but instead they turned my thoughts into a nest of hornets. For three months, every sound was a needle, every bright light a spike behind my eyes. My friend Theo died in May, hit by a car while cycling, and I couldn’t cry. I felt hollow, as if grief had been scooped out of me and replaced with static. The doctors said it was withdrawal; I said it was a curtain between me and the world. Either way, I needed to get away.

That’s how I ended up in Narrows Bend, a town on the coast that was little more than a single road, a pub, and a police station. My old college buddy, Marcus, had challenged me to a table tennis rematch, and I thought the drive south might shake the cobwebs. We stayed in a self-catering unit behind the pub, a two-room shack with a kitchenette and a narrow hallway that led to a window at the back. The window looked out onto a shingle path, and beyond that, the skeletal remains of a railway bridge that once carried the last coastal line.

The unit itself was cold, even in July. The walls were thin, and the toilet groaned like an old man. Marcus and I spent the first two days playing fierce matches in the pub’s back room, the ball clicking against the wood, echoing in the dim light. He was oblivious to my fog, laughing and drinking until late. On the second night, after he’d passed out in the twin bed, I lay awake, listening to the wind rattle the window. I tried to read, but the words swam. I turned off the lamp and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.

Around midnight, I heard footsteps. Not in the room, but outside, on the shingle path. Slow, dragging steps, as if someone was wearing boots full of gravel. I got up and went to the window, peering through the grimy glass. The path was empty, but the footsteps stopped right outside. I could hear breathing – a ragged, wet sound, like a man with a cold. I pulled back the curtain, but there was no one there. I told myself it was a tree branch scraping the ground, maybe a possum. But the sound felt deliberate, purposeful.

I went back to bed, my heart thumping. An hour later, I heard a knock on the door. Not the front door, but the back door, the one that led from the hallway to the path. Marcus snored, oblivious. I padded to the door, my bare feet cold on the linoleum. I looked through the peephole – nothing but darkness. The knock came again, this time harder. I fumbled with the lock and opened the door a crack. A gust of wind pushed against it, and for a moment I smelled something like ink and rotten leaves. I closed the door, locked it, and stood there, shaking. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, Marcus noticed the shadows under my eyes. He joked that I’d been up listening to the ‘Narrows Bend wailers,’ the locals’ term for the ghost of a drowned train conductor. Apparently, the bridge had been the site of a disaster in the 1950s – a passenger train had derailed during a storm, plunging into the swollen river below. Twelve people died, including the conductor, whose body was never found. The locals say his spirit still paces the old line, waiting for a train that will never come.

I dismissed it as a campfire tale. But on our last night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wanted me to acknowledge it. Marcus suggested we take a walk after dinner, but I begged off, claiming a headache. I wanted to be alone, to try to wrestle my thoughts into some sort of order. I sat in the living room, listening to the pipes gurgle. At ten o’clock, the pub’s lights went out, and the town fell into a profound silence.

I decided to have a shower to relax, the hot water thrumming against my skull. The bathroom was at the end of the hallway, opposite the window. As I undressed, I heard a distinct tap on the window – three taps, slow and deliberate. I froze, my hands on my shirt buttons. I inched toward the window, drawing back the curtain. There, pressed against the glass, was a hand – long-fingered, pale, with black streaks like oil. It left a smear as it slowly slid down, out of sight. I stumbled back, my spine hitting the sink. I shouted for Marcus, but he was too deep in sleep. I ran to the hallway, flicking on every light, but they only cast weak pools of yellow.

I grabbed my phone and called Marcus, but he didn’t answer. I was about to go to the bedroom when I heard something that made my blood run cold – the sound of a train whistle. It was faint, distant, but unmistakable. I rushed to the back window, looking out at the dark outline of the bridge. For a moment, I saw it – a pair of headlights, bobbing as if from a locomotive, moving slowly along the old trestle. I blinked, and they were gone, replaced by the moon’s reflection on the water.

I couldn’t stay in that room. I pulled on my coat, slipped on my shoes, and stepped outside. The air smelled of brine and dampness. I walked to the bridge, my feet crunching on the gravel. The structure groaned under my weight, but I stepped onto the tracks, looking down at the black water churning below. I saw something then – a figure, silhouetted against the opposite bank. It was tall, gaunt, wearing what looked like an old conductor’s uniform. It raised an arm, pointing at me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to jump. I grabbed the railing, my knuckles white, and shouted, ‘Who are you?’

The figure didn’t answer, but the train whistle sounded again, closer. I looked down the track and saw a light coming towards me – a monstrous, yellow eye. The track began to vibrate. I turned to run, but my legs were heavy, as if filled with sand. I stumbled, fell, the gravel biting into my palms. The light grew, and I screamed. Just before it hit me, I woke up.

I was on the floor of the hotel room, my face pressed against the cold carpet. Marcus was kneeling over me, shaking me. ‘Hey, hey, you were moaning in your sleep. Are you alright?’ I looked around – the lights were on, the window was shut, and the bridge was just a dark shape outside. The whistle was gone. But I could still feel the cold handprint on the glass.

I didn’t tell Marcus what I’d seen. I packed my bag in silence and we left the next morning. As we drove out of Narrows Bend, I saw the bridge in the rearview mirror, and for a split second, the figure stood at the end of it, watching. I never went back, but the sound of that whistle still haunts me. And sometimes, when I look at a window, I see the faint outline of a hand, palm pressed flat, waiting for me to acknowledge that it exists.