Episode One: The Last Train

The platform was empty when she arrived. Not unusual for 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, but Clara couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move with purpose.

Her phone showed no service. Again, not unusual for this station, buried three levels underground. But the silence—that was new. Even at midnight, you could usually hear the distant rumble of trains, the hum of ventilation systems, the city breathing through its concrete lungs.

Nothing.

She checked the display board. LAST TRAIN: 11:52 PM. Five minutes.

A man appeared at the far end of the platform. She hadn't heard him arrive, hadn't seen the turnstile move. He was simply there, wearing a dark coat despite the summer heat, his face obscured by shadow even under the harsh lights.

He began walking toward her.

Clara's instincts screamed. She'd lived in the city long enough to trust that inner voice. She moved toward the stairs, but stopped cold.

The entrance was gone.

Where the stairwell should have been, there was only wall—smooth, seamless, as if it had never existed. Clara spun around. The man was closer now, still walking at that same measured pace. She could see his hands, pale and long-fingered, hanging unnaturally still at his sides.

Think. There had to be another exit. Every station had multiple exits. Fire codes, safety regulations—

The lights went out.

In the darkness, she heard it: the distant screech of metal on metal, growing louder. The last train was coming. But from where she stood in the absolute black, she also heard something else. Footsteps. Close now. So close she could feel displaced air against her skin.

A voice, barely a whisper: "You're on the wrong platform, Clara."

The lights blazed back to life.

She was alone. The entrance was exactly where it should be. The display board now read: NO SERVICE. And there, on the yellow safety line where she'd been standing moments before, was a single object that made her blood run cold.

Her own house keys.

She'd been holding them in her hand just seconds ago. She reached into her pocket and felt them there, solid and real. She looked back at the keys on the platform edge.

Identical.

The screech of the approaching train grew deafening.

#fiction #shortstory #mystery #serialfiction