977: Story 977: Specters on the Rails 977: Story 977: Specters on the Rails The train screeched against the tracks, tal howling like a wounded beast.
A cold wind howled through the night, carrying whispers—distant, mournful cries of the dead.
Mira gripped the cursed book tighter, feeling its heat pulse against her chest.
Draven stood beside her, revolver drawn, his gaze fixed on the looming figure ahead.
The Ghoul Trainmaster.
His form was half-decayed, draped in a conductor’s uniform that had long since rotted.
His eyes burned like dying embers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the Trainmaster rasped, his voice layered with a hundred echoes.
“This train only carries the lost.”
Zara stepped forward.
“We need passage.
The city’s crawling with the Rotting King’s undead.”
The Trainmaster tilted his head.
The lantern swinging from his skeletal fingers flickered blue, revealing shadowed figures lurking in the darkness.
Passengers—souls trapped between worlds.
“You seek escape,” he murmured, stepping closer.
“But every ride has a fare.”
Elias glanced at the others.
“What kind of fare?”
The Trainmaster smiled.
Teeth too sharp.
A maw too deep.
“A mory,” he whispered.
“A piece of who you are.”
The air turned thick.
Shadows coiled like smoke.
The offer wasn’t a request—it was law.
Mira shuddered.
Her mind swam with broken fragnts of the past—the experints, the screams, the thing she had seen in the void.
Could she afford to lose more of herself?
The train rumbled beneath them.
In the distance, the Rotting King’s forces gathered, their war cries rising into the night.
Draven exhaled.
“Fine.” He stepped forward.
“Take it.”
The Trainmaster’s grin widened.
His fingers stretched into tendrils of darkness.
He reached inside Draven’s skull—pulling sothing unseen from his mind.
Draven gasped.
His knees buckled.
His eyes went vacant for a brief second—then he was back.
But sothing was… off.
The Trainmaster turned to the others.
“Your turn.”
One by one, they paid the price.
Elias staggered as sothing was torn from him.
Zara bit her lip, refusing to scream.
Mira hesitated, but the book burned hotter, as if urging her forward.
She closed her eyes and let it happen.
The pain was brief, but the loss lingered.
The Trainmaster stepped aside.
“Board quickly.
The dead are impatient.”
They climbed into the rusted train car.
The mont the last foot stepped inside, the doors slamd shut.
The train lurched forward.
The city disappeared behind them, swallowed by mist.
Mira turned to Draven.
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer at first.
His expression was distant, unreadable.
Then—a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
“…Who the hell is Mira?” he whispered.
The train rattled on, carrying them toward an uncertain fate.
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