One-Way Ticket

One-Way Ticket.

The awesome vista that greeted me as I looked out through the window. That stunning sea of green, cows in the meadows, farmers on their tractors, all complemented by the brilliant sun shining down from a perfect blue sky. It made me ponder why I had never moved to the countryside. Things just looked more real in the countryside somehow, a reality there had never been in London, but it was too late for me now. Having just finished my book, a gripping novel by Nevil Shute, I took a moment to take in the Devon countryside in all its glory.

I was travelling to visit my granddaughter, whom I had not seen in years due to her mother's immigration to Australia over twenty years ago. She had just returned to the UK with a view of making a home here with her new family. I was looking forward to seeing her again; it had been a long time. I know there was Zoom and that other one, but it was not the same. I would also get to meet my new great-granddaughter for the first time.

I’m not sure whether it was happenstance or just good luck I found myself alone in this carriage, but at my age, I liked my own company and the peace it brought. It had been a pleasant journey so far. That was until that moment I looked out the window again to see that formidable scene.

As the train followed the tracks to the right, I could see the railway lines ahead of us for more than a mile and was instantly taken aback by what I saw. A figure on the tracks. A person, and that eerie fog, a fog like something I hadn’t seen since the smog that befell London in the December of 1952. A dense fog that also had a translucent quality about it. I have seen many things in my 87 years on this earth, but this… well, this did not make sense. It looked like the fog was sticking to the man, holding him in place. The train was hurtling forward at full speed, and yet the figure standing there didn’t move and the train didn’t slow.

I could make it out now. It was definitely a man, shrouded in this thick, unnatural fog that seemed to cling to him like a second skin, holding him in place. His face was pale, a gaunt appearance, his eyes, wide and unblinking, suddenly locked onto mine for a moment, then gone just as fast as the tracks straightened, and he vanished, my view obscured by the engine. But still the train did not slow.

The memory of that smog in London during December of 52 still haunted me. I was not more than a child at the time, that eerie fog had also clung to me, but not physically though. It swirled behind you as if it was following you. It got in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, you could feel it, you could even taste it. Not a nice memory, but this fog was different. The fog seemed to have a hold over this man like an invisible tether.

My heart pounded in anticipation. I clung to the table in front of me, expecting the train to make an emergency stop at the last moment, but no… I averted my eyes from the window, assuming he would be sprayed over it, in a red mist, like a bug hitting a car windscreen. Raising my head, there was no blood, there was no man, just the fog blanketing the window, dark and ominous as if waiting for something, but the train kept going, rattling on its way to the next destination, oblivious to the scene, and its rhythmic clicking of the wheels against the rails filling the silence with its repetitive song.

I told myself it was not real, not possible. It was a shadow cast on the fog by the train, or a tree, but I didn’t believe that. But the man, his eyes, his hollow eyes, the image seared into my brain like a bad dream.

I was alone in my carriage, which had to be unusual for this time of day. It was holiday season, and the train would go all the way to Exeter, with connecting routes to the west-country’s holiday destinations across Devon and Cornwall. But today, the surrounding seats were vacant, the overhead lights flickering faintly as if struggling to stay alight. I glanced at my watch: it was just gone four. Somewhere out there, beyond my window, the sun would still be shining, warming the world and making flowers smile. But all I could see, was the fog. Nothing but a world that was cloaked in an eerie grey darkness.

I tried to put it out of my mind by focusing on my reunion with my granddaughter, her husband, and their new baby, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the man on the tracks. Who was he? How had he appeared so suddenly, and why hadn’t the train hit him? The questions picked at my brain, and I found myself glancing out the window every few seconds, half-expecting to see him out there again.

The train slowed as it approached the small station in Honiton. The platform was deserted, the ticket booth closed. A single lamppost cast a warm glow; its light slowly being swallowed by the eerie fog. As the train came to a stop, for a brief moment, there was nothing. Not a sound broke the heavy air, an oppressive silence that made my skin prickle with anticipation. But for what, though?

Then I heard it: a faint tapping on the window. I jumped at the sound, steeling my breath. I turned, dreading what I might see. There, pressed against the glass, was the face of the man from the tracks. His lips were moving, shouting words I couldn’t hear, and his eyes. His eyes, they bore into mine with an intensity that made my blood run cold.

I stood. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, and I backed away until I stumbled into the opposite seats. The man’s expression didn’t change; he just kept staring, kept mouthing those silent words. I wanted to scream, to call for help, but my voice didn’t come.

Suddenly, the carriage door slid open with its distinctive soft hiss. I spun around, expecting to see the conductor or another passenger, but the corridor was empty. The tapping stopped, and when I looked back at the window, the man had gone. The fog outside seemed to thicken, swirling, and the train lurched forward. The rhythm of the clickety clack slowly getting back into its pace once more.

I sank into my seat, trembling, and tried to make sense of the madness that had just happened. Had I imagined it? Was I losing my mind? The rational part of me told me it was impossible, but the memory of that face was so real, so vivid, it refused to be dismissed.

The train picked up speed. The landscape outside, there wasn’t one, the window was just a blur of grey and greyer. But still I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the window, afraid to look away, afraid of what I might not see. Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Who knows? Time seemed to stretch, just like the never-ending fog. Then, without warning, the lights in the carriage went out.

I was plunged into pitch darkness, the only sound the steady clickety clack of the train on the rails. My pulse quickened, and I fumbled for my phone. I needed light. The screen lit up, barely a glow, as if the dark had stolen the light. I almost dropped the phone when I saw the reflection in the window.

The man was inside, sitting in the seat across from me. But how?

I froze. I could hardly breathe. I was frozen in fear. He was just as I’d seen him before: pale, gaunt, his eyes fixed on mine. But now, up close, I could see the details I’d missed. The deep shadows under his eyes, the faint scars that crisscrossed his face, the way his clothes hung loosely on him, as if they belonged to someone much larger.

“Who are you?” I managed to get out in a whisper, my voice barely audible over the noise of the train against the rails.

He said nothing. Just leaned in, like it was a move he'd made a million times before, then, with urgency, set it down in the seat between us. I looked down. It was a tattered notebook, frayed at the edges, stained on the front. I was paralysed; I didn't know how to take it. But when I looked back up to question him—he was gone.

And when the lights returned to normal, the carriage was still empty; the notebook sat next to me, proving that none of it had been in my imagination. My hand reached out and hovered, in and out, before finally, I picked it up. The leather binding was cold.

I read it with caution, unsure of what it contained. The pages were aged. The binding was torn, but smooth, as if it had been handled many times. The writing was erratic and inconsistent—almost as if the writer was nervous. It was transcribed over the course of a few months and by the time I reached the last line; I was truly disturbed in what lay between the pages.

The Train of Terror was a ledger about a train documenting one Thomas Hargrove, a ghost that is no longer a ghost, maybe. I’m not sure. He was a man who used to take this train all the time. He chronicled strange happenings and people disappearing, weird noises coming from behind, and one person... "The Watcher." Some entity that merged in and out of the fog, always fixated on him, no matter where he looked.

The final entry was dated the day Thomas vanished. He wrote of a growing certainty that the Watcher was not human, that it was something ancient and malevolent, drawn to the train, drawn to him. He begged anyone who found the notebook to destroy it, warning that the Watcher would come for them too.

I closed the notebook, my mind in turmoil. Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or had I stumbled onto something far more sinister? I wasn’t sure.

The train shuddered. Time in an instant seemed to freeze. In the dark, a whirlwind of fog seemed to come from nowhere. Almost too afraid to see, but unable to avert my eyes, I saw it, I saw “Him,” His black eyes fixed my gaze, they tore into my soul.

It was then I realised. He was here—for me.