Story 939: The Phantom Line

The whistle shrieked through the dead city, an unholy sound that sent waves of unease through the survivors. Draven skidded to a halt, staring as a rusted locomotive tore through the fog, its metal frame twisted into something monstrous. The front grille gaped like a jaw, rows of jagged teeth lining the edges, while bony hands clawed at the windows, desperate and trapped.

Mira clutched the Cursed Book, feeling its pages tremble as the train thundered closer. “This isn’t possible. There haven’t been working trains for years.”

Elias exhaled a plume of smoke. “That ain’t a train. That’s a damn coffin on wheels.”

The train lurched to a stop, its doors groaning open. A thick mist spilled out, carrying whispers, voices pleading and taunting all at once. At the entrance stood a tall, spectral figure—his face obscured by a conductor’s cap, his hands nothing but skeletal claws.

The Ghoul Trainmaster.

“You are expected,” he rasped, bowing slightly. “All aboard.”