905: Story 905: The Ghoul Train 905: Story 905: The Ghoul Train The whistle of a distant train cut through the still night air.
Mira and Draven stood frozen on the rusted tracks, the fog swirling at their feet.
The moon hung full and swollen above them, casting an eerie glow over the landscape.
Draven exhaled, gripping his shotgun tighter.
“Tell I’m hallucinating.”
Mira shook her head.
“I wish you were.”
The train wasn’t supposed to exist anymore—not in this world of ruin and undeath.
Yet, there it was, its iron behemoth form erging from the mist, its headlights flickering like dying embers.
The wheels groaned against the tracks as it slowed, coming to a haunting halt before them.
The doors slid open with a tallic hiss.
A cold wind rushed out, carrying the scent of decay.
Then ca the voice—low, hollow, filled with sothing ancient.
“All aboard.”
Mira swallowed hard.
“We shouldn’t get on.”
Draven glanced at her.
“And staying here is better?”
She didn’t have an answer.
Behind them, the trees shifted unnaturally.
Shadows moved where there were no figures.
They had been followed.
A slow, deliberate movent caught Mira’s eye.
A figure stood in the doorway of the train—a tall, skeletal man dressed in a tattered conductor’s uniform.
His skin was gray, stretched tightly over bone, his hollow sockets gleaming with spectral light.
The Ghoul Trainmaster.
He tipped his hat.
“Tickets?”
Draven and Mira exchanged glances.
Then, as if possessed by sothing unseen, they stepped forward.
The train’s interior was frozen in ti—velvet seats, tarnished chandeliers, and passengers.
Dozens of them.
Or what remained.
Rotting corpses sat in perfect posture, their empty eyes locked forward.
So clutched old tickets in decayed hands.
Others still wore expressions of terror, their mouths twisted in silent screams.
Mira shuddered.
“This isn’t a train.
It’s a graveyard on wheels.”
Draven took a cautious step forward.
“Why bring us here?”
The Ghoul Trainmaster appeared beside them without a sound.
“Because you have unfinished business.”
Mira’s breath caught.
A shape stirred at the end of the car.
A woman in a bloodstained lab coat.
Her skin was deathly pale, her face familiar.
Draven tensed.
“Mira… who is that?”
Mira’s heart pounded.
“That’s… that’s Dr.
Evelyn Roarke.”
A scientist from her past.
A woman who had died long ago.
Dr.
Roarke lifted her head, dead eyes locking onto Mira’s.
Then, she spoke—her voice distant, broken.
“You left us behind.”
The train lurched forward, picking up speed.
The doors slamd shut.
They were trapped.
And the past was coming for them.
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