Chapter 3: Whispers of the Lost

Chapter 3: Whispers of the Lost

The nightmares began a week after the train accident.

Rick would find himself standing in the middle of a dark, derailed train car. The air was thick with smoke, and the faint sound of whispers echoed around him. He couldn't see clearly—everything was blurred, as if he were looking through a fogged-up window. Shadowy figures moved around him, their voices low and urgent, calling his name.

"Rick… Rick…"

He tried to turn, to see who was speaking, but the figures always stayed just out of reach. Their faces were indistinct, like smudges on a canvas. Every time he got close, the train would lurch violently, and he'd wake up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding.

The first time it happened, he brushed it off as stress. But the nightmares kept coming, night after night, each one more vivid than the last. He started dreading sleep, staying up late to avoid the inevitable. But no matter how long he stayed awake, exhaustion would eventually pull him under, and the train would be waiting for him.

One night, after another nightmare, Rick sat on the edge of his bed, his hands trembling. He felt a deep, gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. The whispers from the dream lingered in his mind, as if they had followed him into the waking world.

"What's happening to me?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He felt alone, more alone than he had ever felt before.

The strange occurrences didn't stop at nightmares.

One afternoon, Rick was walking through the empty college corridors after class. The hallway was silent, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. As he passed a classroom, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and turned, peering through the glass panel in the door.

The room was empty.

But for a split second, he could have sworn he saw shadows shifting inside, as if someone—or something—was moving just out of sight. He shook his head, telling himself it was just his imagination. But the feeling of being watched lingered, sending a chill down his spine.

A few days later, he was walking back to his dorm late at night when he heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible cry carried on the wind. It sounded like a woman's voice, distant and mournful. He stopped in his tracks, looking around, but the street was deserted. The cry came again, louder this time, and Rick felt a surge of panic. He started walking faster, almost running, until he reached the safety of his room.

The most unsettling moment came during class. Rick glanced over at Miki, as he often did, only to find her staring directly at him. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between sadness and anger. But before he could react, she quickly looked away, as if nothing had happened.

Rick's heart sank. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her what was wrong, but the wall between them felt insurmountable. He felt a pang of guilt, wondering if he had ruined their friendship forever.

One night, the rain was pouring heavily, the kind of storm that made the world feel small and isolated. Rick was walking back from the library, his hood pulled up against the downpour, when he saw her.

Rose.

She was standing across the street, under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her face, and she was staring directly at him. Rick froze, his breath catching in his throat.

"Rose?" he called out, his voice barely audible over the rain.

She didn't respond. She just stood there, her eyes locked on his, her expression blank.

Rick's heart raced. He started toward her, splashing through puddles as he crossed the street. "Rose, what are you doing out here? It's pouring!"

But as he reached the spot where she had been standing, she was gone.

Rick spun around, searching the empty street. "Rose?!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the rain.

There was no sign of her. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.

Rick stood there for a moment, the rain soaking through his clothes, his mind racing. He felt a mix of fear and confusion, but also a strange sense of longing. He had always admired Rose from afar, but now, seeing her like this—so close yet so unreachable—left him feeling hollow.

The next day, Rick was sitting in the cafeteria, picking at his food, when Miki approached him.

He looked up, surprised. They hadn't spoken in weeks, not since his awkward apology.

"Rick," she said, her voice low and urgent. "We need to talk."

He nodded, his heart pounding. "Okay. What's going on?"

Miki glanced around, as if making sure no one was listening, then leaned in closer. "You need to stop looking into the train accident."

Rick blinked, confused. "What? I'm not—"

"Don't lie," she interrupted, her tone sharp. "I've seen you. You've been searching for answers, haven't you? Reading articles, asking questions. You need to stop."

Rick stared at her, stunned. "Miki, I don't understand. What's going on? Why does it matter if I look into it?"

Her expression softened, but there was a hint of fear in her eyes. "Just… trust me, Rick. Some things are better left alone. If you keep digging, you're going to regret it."

Before he could respond, she turned and walked away, leaving him more confused than ever.

That night, the nightmares returned, but this time they were worse.

Rick was back on the train, surrounded by the blurry figures. But now their whispers were louder, more insistent.

"Rick… you're too close… turn back…"

He tried to speak, to ask what they meant, but his voice wouldn't come out. The train car began to shake violently, and the figures started to close in on him.

He woke up gasping for air, his sheets tangled around him. The room was dark, but he could still hear the whispers, faint and distant, as if they had followed him out of the dream.

Rick sat up, his heart pounding. He felt a deep sense of dread, but also a strange determination. Whatever was happening, he couldn't ignore it anymore. He needed answers.

The next morning, Rick decided to visit the library. He needed to know more about the train accident, no matter what Miki had said. As he searched through old newspapers and articles, he stumbled upon something strange—a passenger list from the train.

His eyes scanned the names, and then he froze.

There, near the bottom of the list, was his own name: **Rick Sharma**.

Rick's heart skipped a beat. He stared at the name, his mind racing. "This… this can't be right," he muttered. "I was never on that train."

But there it was, clear as day. His name, listed among the passengers.

Rick felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't know what it meant, but one thing was certain—something was very, very wrong.

To be continued...