The Train at the Edge of the Lake

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a knack for seeing things that others can’t. I’m not talking about ghosts in the corner of your eye or cold spots in old houses. I mean full-blown, crystal-clear apparitions, as real as the living. It started when I was six, at the county fair. My grandmother had just passed away, and we were all there to cheer up my mother. I was holding my dad’s hand, walking past the carousel, when I saw her. She was standing by the ticket booth, wearing her favorite floral dress and her hair in that neat bun she always wore. She smiled at me, and I yelled, ‘Grandma! Grandma!’ But when everyone turned to look, she was gone. They said I was just seeing things, that my mind was playing tricks on me because I missed her. But I knew what I saw. After that, I had dreams about her, vivid ones where she would come and sit on my bed and talk to me about the other side. She told me I was ‘special’, that I could bridge the gap between the living and the dead. It felt like a blessing, but it would soon become a curse.

My ‘gift’, if you can call it that, manifested in other ways. I would enter a trance-like state and come out with messages for grieving relatives, messages from their lost loved ones. They were always accurate, always comforting, but it exhausted me. I had to be careful who I told, because people started to look at me with a mixture of fear and awe. Some called me a prophet, others a witch. I kept my head down, focusing on my studies, trying to be a normal teenager. But the dead would not leave me alone. They would appear to me in crowds, at bus stops, in my own kitchen, their forms flickering like old film, their mouths moving in soundless words. They always seemed to want something, but I could never quite understand what.

It was during a summer field trip to the old town, the one built around a copper mine that had flooded decades ago, that things truly took a dark turn. The town was a ghost town, but not in the literal sense—there were still people living there, but it had a heavy, oppressive feel. We went to the lake that had formed over the mine, a deep, eerily clear body of water that locals avoided at night. Our guide told us the story of the mine collapse, how dozens of men had been trapped below, their bodies never recovered. My skin prickled as I listened, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, and there was a man, covered in grime and water, his eyes white as pearls. He spoke, and this time I could hear him: ‘Come down here, boy, and you’ll see.’ I shook him off and staggered away, my heart pounding. My teacher asked if I was okay, saying I looked pale. I lied, saying I felt sick, and they let me sit in the bus. But even on the bus, I could see the man in the mirror, the water dripping from his clothes forming a puddle on the floor.

That night, the dreams were relentless. The man was a miner, I learned. He had been one of the first to die, and his spirit was trapped, bound to the lake, along with the others. In the dream, he took my hand and led me to the edge of the lake, which was now a massive, dark body of water, with a dead forest rising from its depths. ‘They are all here,’ he said, gesturing to the skeletal remains of the old town that dotted the shore. ‘And you are the only one who can see us.’ I woke up screaming, and my mother rushed in. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I just said it was a nightmare, and she held me until I fell asleep again. But I knew that this was not just a nightmare. This was a summons.

The next evening, I went back to the lake alone. I told my parents I was staying late for a study group, but really, I needed to understand. As I stood at the edge, the water was calm and glassy, reflecting the setting sun. I saw my reflection, and behind it, the miner, his face now translucent. He pointed to the center of the lake. ‘You must come down,’ he said. ‘It is the only way to free us.’ I hesitated, but a force pushed me forward. I stumbled into the water, and it was not cold, but warm, like blood. I waded in deeper, until I was neck-deep, and then I dove. The water enveloped me, and I lost all sense of time. I sank, and I saw them, dozens of spirits, all wearing the same faces of the miners, all reaching out for me. In a flash, I understood: they were not trying to free themselves; they were trying to free me, to pull me into their world. I struggled, kicked, and fought my way back to the surface, gasping for air.

When I reached the shore, I was exhausted and shaking. I collapsed on a rock, and the miner’s voice echoed in my ears: ‘You cannot escape your purpose. You were born to serve us.’ I looked at my hands, and they were covered in a fine silt, like the dust of the mine. I knew then that I had been marked. I went home, but I haven’t felt the same since. I see them everywhere now, always following, always watching. And the worst part is, I feel an irresistible pull towards the lake, as if a part of me wants to join them. I am terrified that one day, I won’t be able to resist. I wonder: is it a blessing to see the dead, or a curse to be claimed by them? And if I am claimed, will I become just like them, a restless spirit bound to a watery grave, waiting for another ‘special’ person to come along? The train at the edge of the lake has departed, and I don’t think I’ll ever get off.