The Train Of Phantasmagoria

"The crowd is the veil through which the familiar city beckons to the flâneur as phantasmagoria now a landscape, now a room.”—Walter Benjamin

There are seldom tales of such verisimilitude that stir the mind so suddenly, evoking an irrepressible trepidation and incredulity—dual in their nature. Within them lies the mystery of episodes where terror deceptively manifests. Is the heightened suggestion of fright so tangible that it ceases to be a mere illusion, no longer the faint apparition of a surreal vision? What if the actual concept of horror we know defies boundaries and escapes the grasp of the existential realm we call reality?

The pervasive presence of evil does not exclude the logical unfolding of an unannounced event, however improbable it may seem. Horror is forever linked to the apprehension of inexplicable phantasmagorias—witnessed or imagined. What may appear incomprehensible is not beyond reach, especially when a simple train journey can transform in a fleeting instant, into vivid images of unrestrained terror, evolving with a nightmarish immediacy.

In the year 1870, an innovative inventor by the name of Alfred Ely Beach developed New York City’s first genuine subway: a one-stop transit line whose passenger car was propelled by simple pneumatic power. Then, on October 27, 1904, the New York subway officially opened to the general public, as the Interborough Rapid Transit Company unveiled nearly ten miles of underground track, featuring 28 stations that ran northward.

That day, 150,000 people rode the inaugural subway line, which stretched from City Hall to 145th Street and Broadway. The subway was designed to alleviate the influx and density of heavy traffic that had long congested the city’s busy streets, allowing New Yorkers to commute swiftly from one area to another, bypassing the main thoroughfares choked with bustling crowds. Among those first passengers was myself, Ethan Zimmerman, a reporter and native of New York.

On that historic day, the New Yorkers who boarded the train reveled in the exhilarating ride. The distinctive sound of tooting whistles and the clamor of the excited throng gathered on the platform filled the air precisely at 7 o’clock p.m., when the train departed. I could see women and children standing along the platform, waving their goodbyes, while others waited impatiently for the next departure.

The day before, I had read the public announcement heralding the grand opening of the new subway line. Fascinated and eager to witness this remarkable occasion—a marvel of modern engineering never before attempted in New York—I rushed to be part of history. Yet, I could not have fathomed then that this trip would unfold into a ceaseless nightmare, an immutable horror conjured from the depths of my worst imaginings.

At around 7 o’clock that night, I boarded the train and settled readily into my seat within the second compartment. There were countless passengers of every background aboard. As for the precise number of total passengers, I cannot aver with accuracy, but there were many more still waiting outside for the next train. Shortly after, the train began to move, departing from the station as people on the platform watched it glide away into the tunnel.

The night seemed fairly calm and uneventful, and I listened attentively to the steady, natural sound of the engine. The murmur of conversations around me was clear, a chorus of voices reflecting the diverse backgrounds of the passengers, all sharing in the anticipatory excitement of this celebrated event. There was no indication whatsoever that anything unusual—or sinister—would unfold. No one could have predicted what was to happen.

Of this experience I shall now relate, though only you, dear reader, will judge the veracity of the events that gradually unfolded. The express trains, composed of seven cars, and the local trains, with six cars, were expected to carry thousands of New Yorkers home that evening, during the busy hours when the traffic aboveground was at its most hectic and monotonous.

The journey, in its entirety, was intended to span 35 miles, or so it was planned. My seat was adjacent to the rear window, where I could see the pleasant onlookers who had gathered to observe the grand spectacle with fascination. As the express train departed, I began to sense an unfamiliar, creeping unease, a subtle but undeniable disturbance that seemed to grow incrementally, like a shadow lengthening at twilight.

At first, I dismissed the feeling as mere nerves, spellbound as I was by the marvel of the new subway line. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the inexorable madness that ensued thereafter.

At first, the shutters and curtains were wide open, as the natural curiosity to observe the onlookers compelled the passengers to gaze at the growing crowd. Then, one by one, they were drawn shut. The idle and voluble chatter gradually faded, replaced by a quiet, anxious intrigue that seemed to settle over us all like an invisible mist. As we sat together in silence, I noticed something strange: I did not feel the typical dryness and dampness that are usually so characteristic of tunnels, particularly those foreign ones I had read about. According to reports in the daily newspapers, this was precisely what differentiated the New York subway from its European counterparts, such as those in Paris and London.

Seated opposite me was a woman of striking beauty, her fair complexion complemented by piercing, irresistible blue eyes. She wore an elegant dress, and her stylish millinery overshadowed a demure, congenial smile. In her gloved hand, she carried a light umbrella, no doubt in case of unexpected rain. At first, no words passed between us, only a fleeting, courteous grin that hinted at an unspoken rapport.

Eventually, we struck up a conversation—at first tentative, then increasingly animated—as we found ourselves drawn to the same topic, which was the miraculous and rapid growth of the city. The rhythmic clatter of the train seemed to underscore our words, and for a brief span, the unfamiliar setting felt almost comfortable, familiar even. But soon enough, the young lady stood, gathered her belongings, and with a polite nod, exited at the next stop—145th Street—bringing our pleasant exchange to its natural conclusion.

Left alone once more, I felt a creeping soporific state begin to overtake my faculties. The fatigue of the long and busied day bore down upon me, and despite my initial resolve to remain alert and attentive, I found myself succumbing to a profound drowsiness, slipping slowly into a sleep that, even then, I somehow recognized as peculiar—too heavy, too sudden.

Through half-closed eyes, I could faintly discern the shifting guises of the strangers around me, the passengers who, like phantoms themselves, appeared and disappeared with each stop. Some alighted, others boarded, moving to and fro as the train continued its relentless journey. The once-vivid sound of voices was gradually overtaken by the mechanical whirring outside, the engine’s persistent growl filling the compartment like a low, ominous chant. I yielded then to a brief and deceptive period of solace, never suspecting that beneath this lull, an imperceptible hazard loomed ever closer.

My stop, Broadway Street, was the final stop of the trip, and I had no original intention of sleeping during the course of the route. The fatigue I was feeling, along with the coziness of the seat, had eased my usual alertness. I was not accustomed to this humbling experience on a train, and the more time passed, the more a strange eeriness began to consume me with a growing sense of incredulous uncertainty.

For some inexplicable reason, the initial excitement I had felt upon boarding the train had mysteriously dissipated, as though an incredible phenomenon was about to unfold—one that would upend the sequence of events I had anticipated. I had often heard stories and been told about supernatural occurrences that happen when least expected, but I had never truly imagined being at the center of such an evocative episode of unspeakable foreboding, seemingly endless in scope. I began to succumb more deeply to the soothing effects of drowsiness, hastened by the passage of time, and everything around me blurred and slowed.

I was then in that initial stage of uninhibited sleep, where the conscious mind, though still active, becomes most susceptible. It is in this state that the mind’s tendency shifts, disturbed by the subtle interconnection between reality and illusion—a space where cognitive dissonance takes hold without our full awareness. In truth, it is often said that the unconscious mind, when triggered, activates the deeper currents of subconscious thought, bringing forth intangible impressions of surrealism that feel entirely personal and yet wholly mysterious.

The exposed vulnerability of that condition can reveal itself abruptly, as an unbidden circumstance that at times defies simple logic. The sheer implication of such a realization is what ultimately ignites the undeniable phenomenon that terrified me relentlessly. To this day, the vast mystery of that outcome remains unsolvable, as long as we fail to transcend that unidentified boundary. I was drifting deeper into a heavy lethargy, increasingly drawn to the subtle fluctuations of my unease.

Suddenly, I was jolted awake by a screeching noise, pulled from my deep stupor to discover that I was virtually alone in my compartment. Judging by the strange sound and the abrupt halt of the train, I assumed it had stopped at one of the regular stations along the route.

At first, nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, and I stayed in my seat, expecting the train to continue on its designated path. I tried to maintain a sense of calm, holding onto whatever composure I could muster. But there was a shift—a creeping distortion of the tranquility I’d felt earlier—as an unsettling veil of darkness seemed to seep into the train. I sat and waited for several minutes, yet the train did not move, and the conductor never passed by to collect or check the passengers’ tickets.

I opened the shutters to look outside, but there was nothing but pure darkness, with no visible sign of other passengers or a station anywhere nearby. I found this extremely peculiar and couldn’t quite grasp what was happening to me. After a few more minutes, the train finally started up again and resumed its usual course, and my unease momentarily subsided. Still, I sensed that something was amiss, and the strangeness of it all continued to grow in my mind.

There was only one other passenger present, seated in the first row of my compartment. She was an elderly woman of petite stature, and she seemed calm and composed—at least until she suddenly began to weep uncontrollably. She was dressed entirely in black, from head to toe, with a somber veil draped over her face, casting an especially mournful pall.

I started to walk toward her, trying not to seem overly intrusive despite my growing suspicion. When I reached her row, her back was to me, and I couldn’t see her face clearly. I spoke to her gently from the aisle behind her seat, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

I stepped closer and placed my hand lightly on her shoulder, speaking again in a soft voice. At that moment, she abruptly turned around to face me. Her weeping continued, but when I lifted her dark veil to get a better look, I was struck with horror. Her eyes were ghastly—wide with dread and tinted a wicked, inky hue. Her yellowed, crooked teeth gleamed as she let out a piercing, ear-splitting screech that seemed to reverberate through the entire compartment.

I instinctively stepped back, moving slowly and cautiously transfixed with consternation, my heart pounding as her terrifying voice and grotesque appearance overwhelmed my senses. Her gaze stayed locked onto me, unwavering and demonic, as I stood there, frozen in shock. Then she rose to her feet, still staring at me with that menacing, unrelenting look. I will never forget the sheer horror of her eyes.

I immediately made my way to the back door, heading into the next compartment of the train. Suddenly, a violent gust of wind swept through, and the old woman vanished into it, rushing past me like a bolt of lightning. Had I just experienced an oneiric encounter with a nameless ghost, or was she some kind of hallucinatory apparition? If so, from where—and why?

When I reached the exit, I found the door shut tight, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t open it. I knocked and pounded on it, calling out for the conductor. But after a while, it became clear that no one was nearby. Turning around, I looked back to see if the old woman was still there—but she was gone. It seemed I was completely alone in the compartment.

Then I noticed something horrifying: a series of disembodied hands began to emerge from the walls, their long, sharp nails clawing and scratching at the walls relentlessly. I was stunned by the indescribable sight, and a creeping sense of dread unsettled me to the very core of my being. There had to be some logical explanation for this disturbing event—something my mind could grasp. It felt unnatural to even try to make sense of such incongruous, eerie developments.

My immediate concern was the danger I might be in, and I knew I had to keep my wits about me to survive this terrifying situation. Whatever lingering doubts I had were quickly consumed by a deep, undeniable fear. Desperation took hold of me, and I smashed the window of the exit door with my fist. Though I cut my hand in the process, the gash wasn’t serious enough to worry about.

I managed to open the door and stepped into the next compartment. What I saw there was so strange, I couldn’t immediately process it. In the last three rows of seats sat several people, their presence strange and unnerving. I hesitated, unsure what to believe or trust—but my instincts told me I had to investigate, no matter how reluctantly.

I walked toward the strangers, driven by an overwhelming need to satisfy my insatiable curiosity and uncover the truth. I had to know whether what I was experiencing was some strange anomaly or something far more sinister taking shape before my eyes. As I approached them, I noticed they were completely still and eerily silent.

Surely, I thought, these people must be real—not some grotesque illusion. But when I tried to speak to them, I quickly realized their behavior echoed the same unsettling pattern as the morbid old woman’s.

Suddenly, without warning, the individuals rose to their feet and silently filed past me, making their way toward the exit door at the end of the compartment.

I followed them, compelled by a mixture of fear and determination. But when I reached the exit door, they had vanished—just like the old woman—into the void that seemed to envelop the train. I was left dumbfounded, unable to comprehend the incredible and terrifying scene that had just unfolded.

Their sudden disappearance shocked and unsettled me to my core, plunging me into a frantic state of confusion and distress that defied any rational explanation.

It was impossible to make sense of the illogical events that had so unnaturally transpired. The train hadn’t stopped, and outside there was only the darkness of the tunnel—no platform, no station, nowhere they could have logically gone. The only conclusion I could draw was too dreadful to accept: if they had stepped off, it would have been nothing short of a tragic, incomprehensible suicide.

Perhaps there was another sinister explanation I hadn’t considered before: actual encounters with ghosts or the wandering dead. If that were true, then I was being haunted. But why, and by whom? Was I experiencing some inextricable merging of two worlds—worlds whose boundaries were blurred and now converging at a mysterious crossroads? If so, the implications of that were limitless.

What I couldn’t determine was whether this was a rare, isolated occurrence or part of a continuous, methodical episode that had been haunting me all along. The strange, ghostly images I had witnessed were far too vivid to dismiss as mere fiction. The nature of this unexpected phenomenon had to be measured seriously—as if two realms were somehow coexisting and interacting in ways beyond human understanding.

Then my mind turned to the driver who was supposed to be conducting the train. Surely, there had to be someone at the controls...or was the train running entirely on autopilot?

Driven by urgent curiosity, I made my way toward the front of the train, determined to get the answer I desperately needed. When I reached the conductor’s area, I saw that the door was shut but, thankfully, not locked. I shoved it open with a forceful push.

I stepped into the dim passage and, to my horror, discovered there was no one at the controls. The driver’s seat was empty.

A cold wave of dread washed over me. I immediately tried to stop the train, frantically pulling on the lever, but it wouldn’t budge. It was useless. The train’s course seemed to be set—by what force, I couldn’t begin to guess. One thing was now painfully clear: whatever was happening was no ordinary event. This was something far beyond the natural world.

A relentless wave of hysteria surged through me, quickening my pulse and triggering a deep, ingrained fear—an unyielding terror with no apparent end or relief in sight. Was I succumbing to some twisted form of madness, or was this nothing more than a harrowing nightmare that had cast me into the shadowy realm of the dead?

My next thought was desperate and immediate: how on earth was I going to get off this train alive? And was the train ever going to stop? I couldn’t shake the sense that every sequence of events was somehow aligned with my every move, yet I couldn’t fully grasp the meaning behind the baffling occurrences unfolding so mercilessly before my eyes.

It was madness even to consider jumping off the train at the terrifying speed it was barreling along. The likelihood of surviving without serious injury—or worse, certain death—was almost nonexistent.

The unmissable problem was that the narrow, lethal tracks and confined space left me with no viable escape. I struggled to calm my mounting anxiety, desperately searching for any possible way to stop the train. I was certain that ghosts were haunting the compartments, yet I couldn’t be sure whether, within this bizarre ordeal, there was any fragment of reality I could intellectually grasp.

I needed to test my theory—was I merely trapped in a hallucinatory dream, or had I stumbled upon an unforeseen evil that I’d unwillingly provoked? The grim possibility, no matter how unlikely it seemed, felt increasingly connected to my dire situation, which was fast becoming unbearable. I paced the aisle of the compartment, deep in thought, wrestling with my spiraling fears.

The soft lighting from the distinctive globes reflected dimly off the glazed white tiles of the walls, growing fainter by the hour. The once-refreshing ventilation had turned, now thick with the sharp scent of disinfectant, creosote, and unsettling human odors.

Suddenly, those grotesque, claw-like nails reappeared, scratching relentlessly at the walls. This time, however, animate heads—hideous and malformed—began emerging from the solid walls near me. The horror was absolute and consuming, overwhelming my senses and gripping my vulnerable mind with iron force. The thought of escape had mutated into a relentless obsession, one that no amount of reasoning could soothe.

Sweat poured down my face in thick streams, coating my hands, which I tried uselessly to dry in a haze of hopeless despair. For a brief, agonizing moment, the only sound I could hear was the relentless, terrifying roar of the engine as the train barreled forward unstoppably. What should have been a short journey had twisted into an endless nightmare, an unbroken torrent of agitation and suspense.

My only viable option was to devise a drastic, rational solution—but that was nearly impossible, as my unraveling mind was consumed with the immediate terror of death. I closed my eyes, desperate to shut out the sight of the looming beings. When I opened them again, they had vanished—only to be replaced by the nauseating spectacle of rotting cadavers, grotesquely strewn across the narrow aisles of the compartments. I felt utterly helpless, a victim without any means of escape.

The train’s speed continued to surge, and I estimated it was now racing at nearly 80 miles per hour. It became chillingly clear that either a catastrophic collision was inevitable, or this hellish journey was carrying me toward some undisclosed infernal station. The malodorous stench of death was suffocating, nearly overpowering me, as I struggled to keep from succumbing to the tightening grip of panic that coiled around me like a serpent.

The ceaseless barrage of dreadful images made me recoil in disbelief, and in my desperation, I found myself pleading frantically for divine intervention. This was an unearthly ordeal, saturated with terror and danger that I alone was forced to confront. My hands and legs trembled uncontrollably, teetering on the edge of convulsion—but with sheer force of will, I managed to restrain my fear from fully overtaking my body, narrowly thwarting the dreadful seizure.

The relentless noise of the train’s progress thundered on, echoing loudly as it sped along the subway tracks with no hint of stopping. I had lost all sense of time; I could no longer tell whether it was morning, dusk, or deep into the night.

All I knew for certain was that I remained trapped aboard this horrid train, powerless to halt the relentless descent into madness. My head rang with the cacophony of oppressive thoughts, each one battering my fragile grip on sanity.

I sat down for a fleeting moment, struggling to regroup and force myself to believe that this was merely a grotesque and unending nightmare. But the eerie chorus of wailing and deranged laughter soon shattered that fragile hope, making my teeth chatter with a creeping chill.

Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me—it was her again. The old woman, emerging once more from her indeterminate realm to torment me with her ghastly, intimidating presence. She leaned in and shrieked a horrendous sound directly into my ear. Desperately, I clamped my hands over my ears, trying to block out the piercing noise.

I leapt to my feet in a surge of frantic terror and let out an emphatic, primal cry. In an instant, she vanished again, leaving me utterly alone, with no sign of another living soul aboard. There was no longer any doubt—I was now fully aware that I was confronting a persistent, authentic evil, one that seemed utterly unsolvable.

The pressing question now was: how could I overcome something that was not entirely anthropomorphic in composition? My very existence seemed to hinge on my actions and reactions. It was clear to me that the menacing evil fed upon my undeniable fallibility and wavering resolve.

Even with that objective understanding, it was difficult to separate my insecurity from my desperate need for confidence. Once again, the strident voices and wails of unseen children and women began to rise around me. My nerves frayed further, and I fretted and fretted, until I could bear it no longer. Shutting my eyes tightly, I screamed aloud, imploring the nameless creator of this perturbing phantasmagoria to bring the madness to an end.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself in a fortuitous animation of reality. I was seated as before, but now facing an elderly woman across from me. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the haunting hag—except this woman was no apparition, but evidently a human being. I was still visibly shaken, and the elderly woman seemed to perceive my distress.

I looked at her, especially into her eyes, and saw none of the horror I had known before. Instead, her gaze was kind, her manner warm and reassuring.

Suddenly, the train came to a complete halt, and I caught sight of the light filtering down from the glass roofs of the station. Pulling open the window shutters, I saw Broadway Street anew. Relief flooded me—I was alive, freed at last from the horrific sequence of my unsettling trauma.

As I prepared to depart, the old woman looked at me and said softly, “Some of us must die for others to live.” I smiled faintly and stepped toward the exit, but then remembered my bowler hat, which I’d left behind on my seat alongside my lounge suit. When I returned to retrieve it, the old woman was gone. She had vanished like a specter into thin air, and it was impossible that she had disembarked, as I had been standing in the line to exit.

The doors shuddered open with a reluctant groan, and I stepped down onto the cold concrete platform. My shoes echoed hollowly in the cavernous space, and for a fleeting instant, the world seemed normal again—ordinary commuters bustled past, oblivious to my terror, lost in their own hurried lives.

I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the unmistakable scent of oil and dust, of subway tunnels and stale air—mundane, yet oddly reassuring. I had made it. I was free.

But something—some deep, instinctive pull—compelled me to turn around. I don’t know why I did it. Part of me wished to reassure myself that it had all been some fevered nightmare; another part, I suppose, needed to confront whatever it was that had haunted me.

Slowly, I pivoted on my heel, facing the train once more.

And there they were.

The windows of the car I had exited, now dark and still, shimmered faintly, as though a thin veil of mist clung to the glass. At first, I saw nothing but my own pale reflection, distorted and fractured by the grime and light. But then—shapes began to materialize, subtle at first, like stains seeping through old wallpaper.

Faces.

Dozens of them, pressed up against the glass, peering out with hollow, yearning eyes. Their skin was pallid and sunken, their mouths open in silent lament, their fingers splayed against the panes as if reaching toward me, beseeching, accusing. Among them, I saw children clutching at the skirts of spectral mothers, men in ragged coats with despair etched into every line of their translucent features.

I staggered backward, my breath catching in my throat. The spectral passengers began to move—shifting, undulating like a tide of lost souls, their eyes never leaving mine. There was something terribly intimate about their gaze, as if they knew me, had always known me, as though I had become part of their endless journey.

And then I saw her.

The old woman.

She stood at the center of the car, her form clearer than the rest, her veiled face tilted slightly as though in contemplation. Slowly, she raised one skeletal hand and pointed directly at me. Her mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear but somehow understood in my bones:

You will return.

The train shuddered once more, and with a violent screech of metal on metal, it began to pull away from the platform. The spectral faces blurred, smeared across the windows like the afterimage of a terrible dream, but they remained locked on me until the train disappeared into the darkened tunnel, swallowed whole by shadow and distance.

I stood frozen, rooted to the spot, my ears ringing with the echo of their silent cries. The station around me seemed suddenly empty—eerily so. The bustle of commuters was gone, as if they had never existed, leaving only the cavernous silence of the platform and the fading scent of something ancient and decayed.

Slowly, I backed away, my eyes never leaving the black maw of the tunnel. The words of the old woman circled in my mind like a daunting episode: You will return.

I didn’t know when or how, but deep down, I sensed an immutable truth: my journey was far from over. Some doors, once opened, can never truly be closed.

The screech of another approaching train—ordinary, familiar—broke the spell. Even as I emerged into the blinding sun of Broadway Street, the lingering chill in my bones reminded me that I had crossed a threshold no amount of sunlight could erase so easily.

The train station thrummed around me, alive and indifferent, yet I moved through it like a man with a shadow stitched to his soul—an emerging shadow shaped like a subway car, forever circling, forever waiting.

I stumbled up the steps of the station and emerged onto Broadway Street, the city alive with its customary noise— pedestrians weaving through traffic, the rhythmic pulse of normal life resuming all around me. But to me, it all seemed strangely muted, as though I was hearing it from beneath layers of thick glass, each sound dampened by the echo of my harrowing ordeal.

I walked blindly, hardly aware of where my feet were taking me, my mind replaying every terrible moment aboard that train. My fingers brushed against my coat pocket, still feeling the texture of my bowler hat. I shivered, though the evening air was mild, and paused for breath beneath the awning of a small café.

For a fleeting moment, I thought perhaps it was over—that my nightmare had ended the moment the train pulled away. But as I glanced down at the pavement, my breath turned cold. There, glistening faintly on the sidewalk, were wet footprints—bare feet, the imprints too narrow, too bony, to belong to anyone I could see nearby.

I spun around, scanning the street. No one seemed out of place. No one appeared to be following me. And yet, the sense of being watched—of something unseen trailing just out of reach—was palpable, undeniable.

I stepped back, my gaze locked on the ghostly prints as they advanced, slowly, one after the other, as though some invisible presence was pacing toward me. My breath quickened. I stumbled away, heart pounding, and darted into the nearest alley, hoping to lose whatever phantom was now stalking me.

The alley was dim and narrow, choked with the detritus of the city—overflowing trash, broken pallets, the acrid smell of rot. My footsteps echoed off the walls as I pressed deeper, searching for an escape route. I turned a corner and stopped dead in my tracks.

There, at the far end of the alley, stood a figure—a child, it seemed, no more than six or seven years old, dressed in tattered clothes from another era entirely. His face was gaunt, eyes hollow and sunken, staring straight at me with an expression of profound sorrow. He lifted a hand, pointing toward me, his lips moving silently.

I took a step back, my mouth dry. “What...what do you want?” I whispered, though my voice was barely audible over the ringing in my ears.

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, from the shadows behind him, more figures began to emerge—silent, spectral shapes, children and adults alike, their bodies thin, translucent, their faces contorted in grief and longing. They filled the alley, crowding closer together, their eyes never leaving mine.

The boy took a step forward, and with that single motion, the others followed, moving as one, their bare feet making no sound on the grimy pavement. Panic seized me. I turned and ran, my breath ragged, my chest tight with terror. I didn’t look back—not once—until I burst out onto the main street, gasping, blinking against the blur of people passing by.

I sat on a nearby bench, clutching my chest, my pulse thundering in my ears. Around me, life continued as though nothing had happened. A man in a business suit was chatting with another man; a group of tourists were laughing as they consulted a map. No one saw what I had seen. No one felt the icy grip that still lingered around my heart.

I stared at the ground, waiting for my breathing to steady. When I finally dared to lift my eyes, I saw—on the window of the building across the street—the faintest reflection of a crowd gathered behind me. I spun around, but the bench was empty. The sidewalk was bare.

Still, deep in the marrow of my bones, I knew the truth.

The dead had followed me.

And they were waiting—lost somewhere in the ripples of time itself.

Later, I learned something that stayed with me forever: part of that subway line had been built over the bodies of victims from the Great Blizzard of 1866, New York’s deadliest storm at the time. Many had perished in the freezing streets, and their remains were buried beneath the city’s growth, never properly exhumed.

In old reports, I read accounts of strange occurrences—phantom figures seen on late trains, inexplicable cold drafts, and eerie noises in the tunnels. One faded article showed a photo of a woman who died in the storm, her stern face oddly familiar. She looked strikingly like the old woman from my terrifying ride.

To this day, whenever I pass a subway entrance, I feel a shiver of unease. Sometimes, in the quiet of night, I think I still hear faint wailing and the screech of wheels in the dark—reminders that some journeys never truly end.

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