The Stolen unsolved Mystery

The Stolen unsolved mystery

By Lisa Sardina

Tom sat alone in the dim train car, the city lights behind him swallowed by the creeping dark. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks was hypnotic, almost funereal. He took a slow sip from his drink, then slipped a hand into his coat’s inner pocket, fingers brushing the brittle spine of the book he’d stolen from a dusty indie bookshop.

The book was infamous. Rumor had it the shop’s owner had written the mystery aboard this very train—but had blacked out in terror before finishing it. No one ever solved it. No one ever could. But the legend whispered of treasure hidden somewhere on board. Solve the mystery, and the treasure would be yours.

A sudden crackle shattered the silence. Tom’s head snapped up as a voice buzzed through the overhead speaker, warped by static.

“Good evening, passengers. This is your conductor. We’ll be checking tickets shortly. Please watch your step as you move through the cars—we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. Our next stop is in one hour. That is all. Enjoy your ride.”

The speaker cut out with a hiss.

“What he really means is he doesn’t want anyone to die on the train,” slurred a woman nearby, raising her wine glass with a hiccup and a smirk.

“Die?” someone echoed, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, it’s more than that,” came a new voice—clear, deliberate, and unsettling.

All eyes turned to a short man with thick glasses and neatly combed brown hair. He stood slowly, sensing the room’s attention.

“It’s just a rumor,” he began, “but they say this train runs over sacred ground. Every year, the caretaker rises to collect his toll—for every time the train disturbs his rest.”

He paused, letting the silence thicken.

“Some say he’s like the troll under the bridge. He asks a riddle. If you answer wrong… you die. If you pay, maybe he lets you pass.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But no one ever sees him and lives to tell the tale.”

“No way,” someone scoffed from the back. “There’s treasure on this train.”

The young man smiled, his voice low and deliberate. “From what I’ve heard, the man who built this train had to pay the toll himself. The legend says a writer once boarded this very train to uncover the truth. He never made it back—but he left behind clues in his book. Follow them, and they’ll lead you to the treasure. But beware…” He leaned in, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “If you meet the caretaker, he won’t let you leave.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the car. No one wanted ghost stories on a train they were currently riding—especially not ones involving death, curses, and treasure guarded by a phantom.

Tom said nothing. But his mind was racing.

What kind of riches were hidden in this train? His greed, always lurking just beneath the surface, stirred to life. He’d gotten away with worse before. All it took was patience, precision… and a little misdirection.

Once the conductor checked his ticket, Tom rose from his seat and slipped into the next car. He pulled the stolen book from his coat pocket, flipping through the pages. Clues had been underlined, margins scribbled with notes—he wasn’t the first to follow this trail.

He moved from car to car, nodding politely to the occasional passenger. The train’s craftsmanship was exquisite—ornate woodwork, velvet seats, brass fixtures—but Tom barely noticed. He was hunting. The clues led him deeper: a fireplace with a strange carving, a door etched with a symbol, a loose floorboard beneath a rug.

Each step took him further from the present and deeper into the past.

The doors between cars grew heavier. “Damn,” he muttered, straining to push one open. They were thick—double-insulated, maybe to contain fires. The windows, too, were reinforced. It felt less like a train and more like a vault.

And the farther he went, the older everything became. The wallpaper peeled in places. The lights flickered. Dust clung to the corners like cobwebs. “Looks like they kept parts of the original train,” Tom whispered. “But why?”

He reached another door. Like the others, it resisted him—but he forced it open. The second door beyond it was ajar.

Someone had been here.

Tom stepped inside.

Candles flickered on every table, casting long shadows across the room. The firelight danced across piles of gold coins, their surfaces gleaming like molten sunlight. Velvet sacks overflowed with treasure—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls—glittering like stars scattered across the floor.

In the center of the room sat a single bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, untouched, its seal still intact.

“Oh, sweet baby,” Tom breathed.

Tom took in the treasure glittering before him—gold coins stacked like miniature towers, gemstones scattered like spilled stardust, velvet pouches bulging with wealth. The door had been opened. Someone had been here before him. Someone had helped themselves.

Why not him?

This was what he did best. He just had to be smart. Take only what he could carry. Don’t get greedy. Don’t get caught.

He eyed the bundles of cash—old, brittle bills with faded ink and unfamiliar faces. Too risky. Too traceable. Gold and gems, it was.

He reached for a gleaming coin.

The moment his fingers brushed the metal, the door behind him slammed shut with a deafening bang.

“No—” Tom spun around, heart hammering. He lunged for the door, yanking at the handle. Locked. Solid. He cursed under his breath. He should’ve wedged something in it. Rookie mistake.

He pressed his face to the window, peering into the darkness of the next car. Maybe someone was coming. Maybe someone had heard.

Then he saw it.

A pale face. Hollow eyes. Skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame—hovering just behind his shoulder in the reflection.

Tom whipped around.

Nothing.

The room was empty. Silent. The candle flames danced innocently.

He turned back to the window, breath fogging the glass. His hands fumbled for his phone. One bar. Just one. He had to move fast—soon they’d be in the mountains, and he’d lose all signal.

Screw it.

He dialed the emergency number printed on his ticket.

The line clicked.

“Hello?” a voice answered, shaky and uncertain.

“Hi—my name is Tom. I’m a passenger. I was… I was checking out the train, and I got locked in the last car. Can you come get me?” He tried to keep the panic from his voice, but it trembled at the edges.

“Of course, sir. But how in the world did you end up all the way—”

“Look,” Tom cut him off, “I don’t have time. We’re about to lose reception. It’s dark back here. Just—please. Come get me.”

“Of course, sir. I’m on my—”

The line went dead.

Tom stared at the screen. No bars.

Silence pressed in.

Then—something moved.

A low, guttural sound echoed from behind him. He turned slowly, every muscle tense.

Nothing.

But in the corner of his eye, something flickered.

He focused on the far end of the car. Shadows pooled in the corners where the candlelight had dimmed. A few flames had gone out.

Just shadows, he told himself. Just shadows.

He turned back to the door, trying to think. Could he break the glass? Could he—

Another sound. A low rumble, like a growl, dragged across stone.

He turned again.

Two more candles had gone out.

Tom pressed his back to the door, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Then he saw it.

From the shadows, a hand emerged—long, skeletal fingers, skin like parchment stretched over bone. It reached slowly, deliberately, for the gold on the table.

Tom didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

The caretaker had come.

Tom whipped around and hurled himself at the door, pounding with both fists. “Hello?! Anyone! I’m in here!” His voice cracked, rising to a shriek as the last of the candles sputtered and died. Darkness swallowed the car.

Then— A scream. High-pitched. Inhuman. It tore through the air like a blade. Tom clamped his hands over his ears.

From the blackness, a face emerged—ghastly white, stretched tight over bone, with jagged, rotting teeth and eyes like bottomless pits. It snarled, then vanished into the shadows.

Tom staggered back, breath ragged. Whatever it was, it didn’t just guard the treasure. It claimed it. And it was angry.

He spun toward the door, scanning for anything—anything—that could help. His eyes landed on the fire poker near the hearth. He snatched it up and jammed it into the seam of the door, gritting his teeth as he pushed with all his strength.

Behind him, two more candles extinguished with a hiss.

Tom’s heart pounded. The thing stayed in the dark. That was the key. As long as he stayed in the light, he was safe.

But the light was dying.

A scraping sound echoed from the table behind him—metal on wood. Then came the laugh. Low. Guttural. Ancient. Tom didn’t turn. He couldn’t. He had to focus. If he could wedge the poker just right, he could force the door open and run. Let the thing take someone else.

The candles were nearly gone. Just flickers now.

He peeled the last of the sealant from the doorframe, hands trembling. The laughter grew louder, closer. He heard the clatter of coins, the shifting of velvet bags. The thing was moving. Watching.

“Come on… come on…” Tom whispered, sweat dripping down his face.

Then— A pop. A whoosh of air.

“Yes!” he gasped. “I’m out of here!”

He shoved the door. It gave—just an inch—then slammed shut again with bone-jarring force.

“No… no, no, no!” He rammed the poker back into the seam, but it was no use.

His blood turned to ice.

He screamed. Loud. Desperate. “Help! Someone help me! Please!”

The shadows crept closer, thick and alive. The laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls like a chant.

“Time is up,” a voice whispered.

The last candle died.

Tom collapsed to the floor, pounding on the door, praying—begging—for someone to open it. To pull him out of this nightmare.

Then he felt it.

A presence behind him.

He turned slowly, dread crawling up his spine.

Standing in the dark was a man—if you could call him that. He wore tattered overalls, his frame skeletal, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. His teeth were yellow, jagged, and few. His eyes were hollow, endless.

Tom stared into the face of death.

His mouth opened in a scream—And the train whistle blew, long and mournful, as they entered the mountain.

#

The train hissed to a stop at the next station, brakes screeching like a warning. The conductor moved briskly along the platform, ushering passengers off with polite urgency.

An older couple, who had been seated near Tom, paused at the exit.

“Darling,” the woman said, glancing around, “have you seen Tom? He was sitting right next to us. I hope nothing happened to him… not after all those dreadful stories.”

Her husband gave a soft chuckle. “Just stories, my dear. I’m sure he’s fine. Probably wandered off to stretch his legs.”

They disappeared into the crowd.

At the far end of the platform, the conductor stood silently in front of the last railway car, holding something in his hands. A young man approached.

“I believe this is yours,” the conductor said, offering the worn book. “Found it just outside the car.”

The young man took it, but before he could speak, a high-pitched scream pierced the air from within the car. A pale, skeletal hand slammed against the window—fingers splayed, skin stretched tight over bone—then vanished into the shadows.

The young man didn’t flinch. He simply nodded and walked away, the book tucked under his arm.

The conductor stared at the car, his face grim.

No matter what people said—no matter how beautiful that room looked, with its golden glow and velvet charm—he knew the truth.

That car wasn’t part of the train.

It was a doorway.

To hell.