The Last Train to Redwood Hollow

I’ve always regretted agreeing to ghost hunts on weeknights. The thrill of the chase never quite compensates for the groggy, zombie-like state I stumble through the next day at my desk job. But when my colleague, Vera, insisted I join her at the abandoned Redwood Hollow Station, I couldn’t say no. Vera’s enthusiasm for the paranormal was infectious, and she’d been dying to investigate the place for months. So, after a tedious day of spreadsheets and emails, I found myself climbing into her vintage cherry-red Mustang, which she lovingly called ‘The Crimson Ghost.’

Vera drove with a reckless abandon that made my knuckles white. She weaved through traffic, her laughter ringing out as she recounted our past adventures. I gripped the door handle, my heart racing, wondering if I’d survive the drive to Redwood Hollow. As we passed a field of withered sunflowers, I muttered a silent prayer. Vera glanced at me with a mischievous grin, ‘Relax, we’re almost there. The ghost train won’t leave without us.’ I didn’t find her joke funny.

Redwood Hollow was a forgotten town, its streets lined with decaying buildings and boarded-up windows. The station itself was a relic of a bygone era, its iron rafters rusted and its platforms overgrown with weeds. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. We parked near the entrance, and Vera produced a pair of high-powered flashlights. ‘Legend has it that on the anniversary of the 1923 crash, the ghost train appears, carrying the souls of those who died,’ she whispered, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

We entered the station, our footsteps echoing on the cracked concrete. The ticket booth was still intact, its glass shattered, and old schedules peeling from the walls. Vera pulled out her EMF detector, waving it around. I, on the other hand, clutched a digital voice recorder, ready to capture any disembodied voices. We made our way to the platform, where the tracks stretched into the darkness, swallowed by the encroaching forest.

At 11:47 PM, the air grew cold. Vera’s breath fogged in front of her. ‘It’s close,’ she said, her voice low. I heard it first—a faint rumbling, like distant thunder. Then, a light appeared down the tracks, growing brighter. A train materialized, not the modern kind, but an old steam locomotive, its headlight casting eerie shadows. It came to a stop in front of us, the doors hissing open. Ghostly figures, translucent and shimmering, began to disembark. They moved silently, their faces blank, wandering the platform as if waiting for loved ones.

Vera was ecstatic, snapping photos with her phone. I, however, was frozen, a chilling dread creeping up my spine. Among the ghosts, I noticed a little girl holding a tattered doll. She turned her head and looked directly at me. Her eyes were hollow, yet they seemed to pierce through my soul. She pointed to the train, then to me. ‘She wants us to board,’ Vera said, her voice trembling with excitement. I shook my head, backing away, but Vera grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the open door.

I resisted, my instincts screaming to flee, but it was as if the train had a magnetic pull. We stepped inside. The interior was eerily preserved, with plush velvet seats and brass fixtures, all covered in a thin layer of grime. The ghostly passengers took their seats, silent and still. The conductor, a gaunt figure in an old uniform, approached us, his ticket punch in hand. ‘Two souls for the crossing,’ he rasped, his voice like dry leaves. He punched our tickets, which appeared from nowhere, and then vanished into the next car.

The train lurched forward, gathering speed. The scenery outside blurred into a vortex of gray. ‘This is incredible!’ Vera exclaimed, but I felt a growing unease. The ghostly passengers began to fade, one by one, until only the little girl remained. She sat across from us, staring intently. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she whispered, her voice like a soft wind. ‘The train doesn’t let go.’ Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the temperature plummeted. I looked at Vera, and for a moment, I saw not her face, but a hollow void.

I screamed, clawing at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The train was now hurtling through pitch blackness, with no signs of stopping. I realized the horrible truth: we had become part of the train’s eternal journey, doomed to repeat this night forever. The little girl smiled, revealing black teeth, and said, ‘You’re with us now.’

When I woke up, I was lying on the cold platform, my head throbbing. Vera was beside me, unconscious. The train was gone, and the sun was rising over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson. I checked my watch: 5:00 AM. I had to be at work by 9. I nudged Vera, who stirred and groaned. ‘What happened?’ she asked, rubbing her temples. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just helped her up, and we walked to her car in silence.

We drove back to the city, and I didn’t say a word about the incident. Vera seemed to have forgotten, laughing about our ‘adventure.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of the little girl’s reflection, sitting in the back seat, her tattered doll in hand. And when I arrived at work that morning, I found a lump of coal on my desk, the kind they used in old steam engines. On it, scratched in tiny letters, was a message: ‘Next time, we won’t let you go.’