The Last Train to Verana

It was the summer of 2023, and I had just moved to the small town of Verana for a fresh start. The town was nestled between fog-choked mountains and a lake that never seemed to warm, even in July. I took a job as the night clerk at the old Verana Grand Hotel, a relic of the 1920s that had seen better decades. The hotel had a reputation for being haunted, but I didn’t believe in ghosts. I was more afraid of the boredom.

My first week was uneventful, save for the occasional creak of the ancient floorboards and the low hum of the elevator. But one night, at precisely 3 AM, I noticed a small, tarnished key sitting on the front desk where I could have sworn there was nothing just moments before. It had a paper tag attached, with the words ‘Room 418’ scrawled in faded ink. I knew for a fact that the fourth floor was sealed off, condemned years ago due to a fire. Curiosity, and a nagging sense of duty, compelled me to investigate.

The elevator creaked as it ascended, and the doors slid open with a sigh that sounded almost human. The hallway was dark, the air thick with the smell of burnt wood and something else, something sweet and sickly, like rotting flowers. I found Room 418 at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar. I pushed it open, revealing a room that hadn’t been touched by the fire but was covered in dust. A single bed, a wardrobe, and a window that looked out onto the lake. On the bedside table lay an old leather-bound journal. I shouldn’t have opened it, but I did.

The journal belonged to a woman named Elara Marsh, who had been a guest at the hotel in 1929. Her entries were filled with mundane details about her days, but the last entry, dated May 14, 1929, was different. In it, she described hearing a train whistle every night at 3 AM, even though the nearest tracks were miles away. She wrote that the sound grew louder each night, and that she felt an overwhelming urge to walk toward it. The final line read: ‘I know now that the train is not for travel, but for departure. It will take me where I need to go.’ I closed the journal, and when I looked up, the room had changed. The dust was gone, the bed was made, and the sun was streaming through the window. I was standing in the same room, but it was alive with the past.

I heard the train whistle then, distant but unmistakable, rising above the hum of the hotel. I walked to the window and saw a narrow-gauge railway track that I knew did not exist, running through the woods toward the lake. A steam locomotive was approaching, its headlight cutting through the fog, its wheels churning along the silver rails. The train was long, with passenger cars that looked like they belonged in a museum, and it was slowing down, as if to pick me up. I felt a pull, a deep and primal longing to step out of the hotel and board that train, to leave behind this world and all its troubles. The whistle blew again, and I saw Elara Marsh standing on the platform of one of the cars, her face pale but kind, gesturing for me to join her.

I shook my head, forcing myself to tear my gaze away. The train whistle faded, and when I looked back, the track was gone, and the room was just a dusty relic again. I hurried out of the room, slammed the door, and ran down the stairs, not stopping until I burst into the lobby. My heart was pounding, but I told myself it was just lack of sleep, a vivid dream. I checked the time on the grandfather clock: 3:17 AM. The key to Room 418 was gone from the desk.

The next morning, I asked the day manager about the fourth floor. He said it was sealed because of a sinkhole, not a fire, and that no guest had stayed there since 1930. I showed him the journal, which I had stupidly brought with me, and he turned as white as the bedsheets. He asked where I found it, and when I told him, he whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have gone in there. That was Elara’s room. She vanished in 1929. They found her bed empty, the window open, but no signs of a struggle. Some say she walked into the lake, but I know better. She waited for the train.’

I left Verana the very next day, but the memory of that train never left me. I moved to a city, surrounded by people and noise, hoping to drown out the memory of that ghostly whistle. But sometimes, in the dead of night, when the world is quiet, I hear it again: a distant, mournful wail, growing closer. And I feel that pull, that longing to step onto the platform and let the train take me wherever it goes. I know now that the train is always waiting, and that one night, I will have no choice but to board it. The last train to Verana will come for me, and I will go, not knowing if it carries me to hell or to peace, but certain that it will be my final departure.