"The Shadow on Platform 7":
I used to think train stations were magical. The whistle of a locomotive, the clatter of wheels on tracks, the way people came and went with stories I’d never know—it felt alive. I was 19, a porter at Union Station in 1910, a small town stop in Illinois. The station was old, its high ceilings draped in cobwebs, stained glass windows casting red and gold light at dusk. The wooden floors creaked under my boots, and the air smelled of coal and varnish. But at night, it changed. Shadows grew long, cold spots lingered in corners, and every sound echoed like a warning. After that summer, I never went near a train again. This isn’t about ghosts or spirits. It’s about a man, a killer, and what I saw is true, pieced together from my memories and what the police dug up later.
It was August, the kind of heat that made your shirt stick to your back. I worked the late shift, sweeping platforms, hauling luggage, locking up. Union Station was quiet after 9 p.m., just me, Mr. Smith, the station master, and Mrs. Johnson, who manned the ticket booth. Mr. Smith was a wiry man, maybe 60, with a bushy mustache and a limp from the Civil War. He’d sit in his office, polishing his pocket watch, barking orders. “Danny, clear those benches!” he’d say, but he’d slip me a nickel sometimes, so I didn’t mind. Mrs. Johnson was softer, a widow with gray curls, always offering me a peppermint from a tin on her desk. “You’re a good boy, Danny,” she’d say, smiling.
That night, around 10 p.m., I was on Platform 3, sweeping cigarette butts and dust. The air was thick, the platform lights buzzing faintly. A freight train had just passed, its rumble fading into the distance, leaving the station silent. Then I heard it—a scream, sharp and raw, from the ticket office across the concourse. It cut off fast, like someone choked it out. My broom clattered to the ground, my heart slamming in my chest. I ran, my boots pounding the wooden floor, the empty station swallowing the sound.
The ticket office door was half-open, a single bulb swinging overhead. I pushed it and froze. Mrs. Johnson was on the floor, her eyes wide and empty, a telephone cord wrapped tight around her neck. Her tin of peppermints had spilled, candies scattered like confetti. My legs shook, and I gagged, the smell of blood hitting me. “Mrs. Johnson?” I whispered, knowing she wouldn’t answer. Then I heard footsteps—slow, heavy, deliberate—coming from the back office where Mr. Smith worked.
“Mr. Smith?” I called, my voice barely a croak. No reply, just those footsteps, closer now. I stepped forward, my hands trembling, and peered into the office. Mr. Smith was slumped over his desk, his head a mess of blood and bone. A hammer, the kind we used to fix loose boards, lay beside him, stained red. His pocket watch ticked faintly, dangling from his vest. I backed away, my heel catching a chair, and it crashed to the floor. The footsteps stopped. I didn’t wait—I ran, out to the platform, yelling for help, my voice lost in the wind howling through the station’s eaves.
I found a phone in the baggage room, my fingers fumbling as I dialed the police. They arrived in minutes, their lanterns cutting through the dark, boots echoing like gunshots. “Stay back, kid,” Officer Reynolds said, his face pale as he saw the bodies. His partner, a younger guy named Tate, took my statement. “You see anyone? Hear anything odd before the scream?” I told them about the footsteps, how they sounded calm, not rushed. “Could be a drifter,” Tate muttered, glancing at Reynolds. “We’ve had reports—trouble along the rail line.”
The town was in a panic the next day. Folks crowded the general store, whispering about robbery or revenge. But nothing was taken—not the cash in the ticket drawer, not Mr. Smith’s watch. I stayed home, my ma fussing over me, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing those footsteps, seeing Mrs. Johnson’s eyes. I went back to work a week later, though every creak made me jump. The station felt different, like it was holding its breath. Platforms were empty, passengers scarce. I’d catch myself staring at shadows, expecting them to move.
That’s when Detective Harlan Ford showed up. He was tall, maybe 40, with a sharp jaw and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. He found me scrubbing benches outside, the sun low and red. “You’re Danny, the porter?” he asked, lighting a cigarette. I nodded, wiping sweat from my forehead. “I’m from Chicago. Heard you found the bodies. Walk me through it.” His voice was calm, but it had an edge, like he was hunting something.
I told him everything—the scream, the cord, the hammer, the footsteps. My voice shook, and I kept glancing at the tracks, half-expecting someone to step out. Ford listened, blowing smoke, then leaned close. “This ain’t the first. I’ve been tracking murders like this—station workers, passengers, all along the railroads. Six so far, maybe more. Always near a full moon.”
My stomach dropped. I remembered the almanac on Mr. Smith’s desk, how he’d marked the moon phases. “You think it’s the same guy?” I asked, my throat tight. Ford nodded. “He’s smart. Uses the trains to move, hits a town, then disappears. Next full moon’s in two days. We’re gonna catch him.”
I wanted to say no, to run home and hide, but Ford’s eyes locked on mine, and I felt trapped. He said they’d spread a rumor about a “valuable shipment” arriving by freight, hoping to draw the killer out. I’d be bait, keeping the station open late, while Ford and two officers hid in the freight yard. “You just act normal,” Ford said. “We’ll handle the rest.”
The night of the full moon, I was a wreck. The station was dark, the platform lights flickering, casting jagged shadows. I swept Platform 7, my hands sweaty, a wrench tucked in my coat pocket. The air was cold, despite the summer heat, and the wind carried a low moan, like the station was grieving. I kept checking my watch—11 p.m., then 11:30. Nothing but silence, broken by the occasional hoot of an owl.
Then I saw it—a shadow moving near the tracks, just beyond the light. It wasn’t a passenger; no one came this late. I gripped the wrench, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice thin. The shadow paused, then stepped closer. It was a man, thin, in a long dark coat, his face hidden under a wide hat. He held something, long and glinting. A knife.
“Ford!” I shouted, stumbling back. The man moved fast, his boots silent on the platform. I swung the wrench, but he dodged, grabbing my arm. His grip was like steel, his breath hot and sour. “Quiet, boy,” he hissed, raising the knife. His eyes gleamed under the hat, wild and empty, like an animal’s. I kicked, catching his shin, and he cursed, loosening his hold.
Ford burst from the shadows, tackling him. They hit the platform hard, the knife skittering away. The man pulled another blade from his coat, slashing Ford’s shoulder. Ford grunted, blood soaking his shirt, but he held on, wrestling for control. I didn’t think—I swung the wrench, catching the man’s head with a sickening crack. He collapsed, limp. Officers Tate and Reynolds ran up, cuffing him, their lanterns shaking.
They pulled off his hat, and I nearly dropped the wrench. It was Tommy Wilkins, a kid I’d known from town. He’d worked at the station a year back, quiet, always watching people, his smile too sharp. I never thought he’d be a killer. Ford, clutching his shoulder, spat blood. “Good hit, kid,” he said, voice rough.
The police dragged Tommy away. He confessed later, said he’d killed eight people—station workers, drifters, even a conductor—using the trains to slip between towns. They hanged him that October, the town watching in silence. Ford survived but left Chicago, or so I heard. I quit the station, moved to a factory job in Springfield. I still hear train whistles at night, and I see Tommy’s eyes, that wild gleam. The station’s still there, they say, but I’ll never go back. Some places carry evil, not because of spirits, but because of men who walk among us, waiting for the moon to rise.
"The Axeman of Millfield Station":
I’m Joe, and I’ve been working the night shift at Millfield train station for two years. It’s a small, crumbling building in a sleepy town, just a single platform with a warped wooden bench that creaks when you sit on it. The ticket booth smells like stale coffee and mildew, and the walls are covered in faded posters for trains that don’t run anymore. Outside, the platform stretches into darkness, surrounded by empty fields that seem to swallow sound. At night, the only noises are the occasional hoot of an owl or the low rumble of a freight train passing through. October’s cold bites through my jacket, and the dim yellow lights flicker, casting long shadows that make the place feel alive in a way I don’t like. I used to think it was just lonely. Now, I know it’s something worse.
It was a Thursday, around 11 p.m., and I was sweeping the platform, my boots scraping against the cracked concrete. My breath fogged in the crisp air, and the chill made my fingers ache around the broom handle. The last passenger train had left at 9, and the station was dead quiet. Earlier that day, Sheriff Tomkins had stopped by, his heavy boots thudding on the wood floor of the booth. He’s a big man, always chewing gum, with a face like weathered leather. But that day, his eyes were sharp, and he wasn’t smiling.
“Joe, you hear about those murders?” he asked, leaning on the counter, his badge glinting under the fluorescent light.
I stopped sweeping and leaned the broom against the wall. “What murders?”
He popped his gum, then spit it into the trash can. “Families, out near railroad lines. Three in the last month, all within a day’s ride from here. Someone’s breaking in, using an axe. No robbery, no reason—just kills ‘em. Covers the bodies after, like they’re laying ‘em to rest. Sick bastard.”
My stomach churned, and I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the hairs stand up. “An axe? Like, chopping wood?”
“Worse,” he said, lowering his voice. “Clean cuts, precise. They don’t fight back. He picks houses with no dogs, always near tracks. Found the last family—Harrisons—two weeks ago. Kids and all.”
“You think he’s coming here?” I asked, glancing out the booth’s grimy window toward the dark platform.
Tomkins shrugged, but his jaw tightened. “Could be. Just keep your eyes open, Joe. You see anything weird, call me. Don’t play hero.”
I nodded, but his words clung to me like damp clothes. That night, as I swept, every creak of the bench, every rustle in the fields, felt like a warning. The freight yard beyond the platform was the worst—a maze of rusty boxcars and overgrown weeds, shrouded in shadow. It was where old trains went to die, and I avoided it when I could. But I kept thinking about what Tomkins said: near the tracks.
I was about to head inside when I heard footsteps, slow and heavy, crunching on the gravel by the freight yard. My heart jumped, and I gripped the broom so tight my knuckles hurt. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice thin and shaky in the cold air.
No answer. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, it was just silence. Then came a sound—a low, deliberate scrape, scrape, scrape, like metal dragging across stone. My mouth went dry. I fumbled for the flashlight on my belt, my hands clumsy with fear, and aimed the beam toward the yard. It caught a man, standing by a rusted boxcar, maybe thirty feet away. He was tall, gaunt, with a face so hollow his cheeks looked like they’d been carved out. His dark eyes glinted in the light, and his long coat hung off him, flapping in the breeze. In his hand was an axe, its blade catching the flashlight’s glow as he ran it along a sharpening stone—scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Hey!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t look up, just kept sharpening, the sound slicing through the night. My legs felt like they were glued to the platform, but I couldn’t look away. “I’m calling the sheriff!” I said, reaching for my phone with trembling fingers.
That’s when he stopped. He tilted his head, slow and unnatural, like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. His eyes locked on mine, and they were empty, like staring into a well. Then he turned, quick as a snake, and slipped into the shadows of the freight yard, his coat blending with the darkness.
I stood there, heart hammering, my flashlight shaking in my hand. The air felt heavier, like it was pressing down on me. I wanted to run, to lock myself in the booth, but then I heard another voice, soft and nervous, from behind me.
“Excuse me? Is the 11:30 train on time?”
I spun around, nearly dropping the flashlight. It was a woman, maybe in her 40s, standing on the platform. She had a knitted scarf wrapped tight around her neck, and her eyes kept darting to the shadows. Her hands twisted together, like she was trying to keep them still.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, forcing my voice to steady. “It’s on time. Should be here in ten minutes.”
She nodded, but her smile was tight. “Good. I’m waiting for my husband. He’s on that train.” She hesitated, then added, “I heard about… those murders. Is it safe here?”
I swallowed, my throat dry. I couldn’t tell her about the man, not when she looked so scared already. “Sheriff’s keeping an eye on things,” I said, hoping it sounded convincing. “Just stay near the lights, okay? You’ll be fine.”
She hugged her coat closer. “Okay. Thank you.”
I watched her sit on the bench, her shoulders hunched, and I felt a pang of guilt. I should’ve said something, warned her, but what could I say? There’s a guy with an axe out there, and he might be a killer? Instead, I stayed close, pretending to check the schedule board while keeping one eye on the freight yard.
The 11:30 train came and went, its whistle piercing the night. The woman’s husband got off, a stocky guy with a graying beard and a duffel bag. He hugged her so tight she almost stumbled, and they hurried to their car, their footsteps fading into the dark. I was alone again, the station quieter than a graveyard.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that man—his hollow face, the axe, the way he’d looked at me. Against every instinct screaming to stay put, I grabbed my flashlight and headed to the freight yard. The air there was thick with the smell of rust and rotting wood, and the boxcars loomed like giant, silent beasts. My boots crunched on the gravel, too loud in the stillness. I swept the flashlight over the tracks, my pulse thudding in my ears.
Near the boxcar where he’d stood, I saw something on the ground—a scrap of paper, crumpled and stained with dirt. I knelt, my knees sinking into the cold earth, and picked it up. It was a list, written in shaky pencil: Harrisons, no dog, Maple St. – done. Thompsons, no dog, Oak Rd. – done. Millers, no dog, Elm St. – next. My blood turned to ice. I knew those names. The Harrisons and Thompsons had been on the news, slaughtered in their homes, just like Tomkins said. The Millers lived a mile from here, right by the tracks.
I stumbled back to the booth, my hands shaking so bad I could barely dial. “Tomkins, it’s Joe,” I said when he picked up. “I saw a guy in the freight yard with an axe. He dropped a list—names, addresses. It’s got the Harrisons, Thompsons, and… the Millers are next.”
Tomkins’ voice was sharp, all business. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
He got there in ten minutes, his cruiser’s lights flashing red and blue across the platform. I handed him the list, and his face went pale as he read it. “Jesus, Joe,” he muttered. “This is… this matches the victims. Where’d he go?”
I pointed to the freight yard, my throat tight. “He disappeared out there.”
Tomkins called for backup, and soon two deputies arrived, their radios crackling. We searched the yard together, our flashlights cutting through the dark. The boxcars were cold to the touch, their doors rusted shut. We checked every shadow, every corner, but found nothing—no man, no axe. Just a single footprint in the dirt, too smudged to make out. The air smelled faintly of oil, and I kept hearing that scrape, scrape, scrape in my head, like it was stuck there.
By dawn, the search was over. Tomkins drove me home, the sky gray and heavy with clouds. “We’ll keep looking,” he said, his hands tight on the wheel. “You did good, Joe. Might’ve scared him off. We’ll check on the Millers, make sure they’re safe.”
I nodded, but I felt hollow. “What if he comes back?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Tomkins didn’t answer right away. “Just keep your eyes open,” he said finally. “And lock your doors.”
I still work the night shift, though I dread it now. The station hasn’t changed—same creaky bench, same flickering lights—but it feels different, like it’s waiting for something. Every rustle in the fields, every shadow on the platform, makes my heart race. I keep my flashlight close, and I check the freight yard every night, half-expecting to see those hollow eyes staring back. Sometimes, when the wind’s quiet, I swear I hear that axe sharpening again, out in the dark. They never caught him, and I can’t shake the feeling he’s still out there, watching, waiting. I wonder if I stopped him that night—or if I just made him choose a new name for his list.
"Mist of Murder at Dover Priory":
I woke to a bitter chill on May 1, 1868, the kind that seeps into your bones and lingers. Dover Priory Station was my world, a sprawling maze of iron tracks, hissing steam, and hurried footsteps. At sixteen, I was just an apprentice porter, still clumsy with heavy trunks and shy around passengers. The station was alive most days, with the clatter of train wheels and the shouts of vendors hawking tea and newspapers. But that morning, as I stepped onto the platform, a thick mist hung low, curling around the gas lamps like ghostly hands. The air felt wrong, heavy with a silence that made my stomach twist.
My boots crunched on the frost-dusted stones as I hurried to the porter’s room, a cramped space that smelled of coal dust and old tobacco. Thomas Wells was already there, slumped on a splintered bench by the stove. He was seventeen, a full porter, with sharp features and a quick grin that could charm anyone. I looked up to him like a brother, always eager for his stories about the sailors he’d met or the tricks he’d played on grumpy passengers. But today, his face was gray, his eyes red and sunken, like he’d been staring into the dark all night.
“Morning, Thomas,” I said, blowing on my hands to warm them. The stove was barely glowing, doing little against the damp cold. “You look like death warmed over. Bad night?”
He glanced up, his lips twitching into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Morning, James. Yeah, didn’t sleep much. Too much on my mind.”
I frowned but let it go. Thomas could be cagey when he wanted, and I wasn’t one to pry. I hung my coat on a rusty hook and grabbed my cap, the stiff wool scratching my forehead. We stepped out to start our shift, the platform buzzing with early travelers. A woman in a velvet bonnet clutched her ticket, her eyes darting to the timetable. A man with a waxed mustache barked at me to hurry with his leather trunk. I hauled it to the luggage car, my arms straining, while Thomas worked nearby, his movements slow and jerky, like a puppet with half its strings cut.
He was off all morning. He fumbled a crate of apples, the wood splintering as it hit the platform, red fruit rolling into the mist. “Damn it,” he muttered, kicking a stray apple into the tracks. He kept glancing at the stationmaster’s office, a small brick building with a single window, its glass smudged with soot. Mr. Edward Walsh was inside, his broad silhouette moving behind the curtain. Walsh was the heart of Dover Priory, a man in his forties with a voice like gravel and a stare that could make you feel two inches tall. He was strict but fair, and I admired how he kept the chaos of the station in line. Still, I tiptoed around him, always checking my work twice.
By mid-morning, the mist had thinned, but the air stayed cold, sharp in my lungs. Thomas and I were stacking parcels near the ticket booth, the paper labels crinkling under my fingers. He was muttering to himself, his breath puffing in quick clouds. His hands shook as he checked his pocket watch for the third time in ten minutes, its brass case glinting dully.
“Thomas, what’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice low so the other porters wouldn’t hear. “You’re acting like someone’s out camto get you.”
He froze, his fingers tightening around the watch. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping. “I’m in trouble, James. Bad trouble. Got myself into debt. Gambling. I owe money to some rough types, and they’re not the kind to wait.”
My mouth went dry. “Gambling? Thomas, how’d you get mixed up in that?”
He rubbed his face, his nails scraping against stubble. “It was stupid. Started with a few card games down at the pub. Thought I was clever, you know? Won a bit at first. Then I kept losing, and now I’m in deep. They’re saying they’ll break my knees if I don’t pay by tomorrow.”
I stared at him, my heart thudding. “You’ve got to tell someone. Mr. Walsh might help, give you a loan or something.”
His eyes widened, pure panic flashing across his face. “No! Walsh would sack me faster than you can blink. Or worse, he’d call the police. I just need money, James. Quick.”
He glanced at the stationmaster’s office again, and a sick feeling curled in my gut. That office held the safe, a heavy iron box bolted to the floor, stuffed with ticket earnings and payroll cash. “Thomas,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “you’re not thinking of stealing, are you?”
He laughed, a sharp, brittle sound that echoed off the platform. “Stealing? Me? Come on, James, don’t be daft. I’m not that far gone.”
But his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and his laugh sounded forced, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. I wanted to believe him—Thomas was my friend, the one who’d shown me how to sneak an extra biscuit from the station canteen—but doubt gnawed at me. I turned back to the parcels, my fingers clumsy on the twine, my mind racing with what he’d said.
Around noon, the platform was packed, the air thick with coal smoke and the chatter of passengers. A train screeched into the station, its brakes squealing, steam billowing like a dragon’s breath. Mr. Walsh stepped out of his office, his black coat buttoned tight, his face set in a scowl. “Wells!” he barked, his voice cutting through the noise. “In my office. Now.”
Thomas flinched like he’d been struck. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and followed Walsh, his steps stiff, like a man walking to the gallows. I was nearby, sorting luggage tags, the paper slippery in my hands. Curiosity got the better of me, and I edged closer to the office, pretending to adjust a stack of crates. The door was ajar, just enough for me to hear their voices.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, Wells,” Walsh said, his tone cold and hard. “I checked the books this morning. Fifty pounds missing from the safe. Fifty pounds! And you’re the only one with a key besides me.”
Thomas’s voice was high, trembling. “Sir, I didn’t take it. I swear, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Walsh snapped. I could picture him leaning over his desk, his eyes boring into Thomas. “I know about your gambling. You’re in debt up to your ears. You thought you could steal from the station and I wouldn’t notice?”
“Sir, please,” Thomas begged, his words tumbling out. “You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t touch the money. I’d never betray you.”
“Enough!” Walsh roared. “I’ve had it with your excuses. I’m calling the police unless you confess right now.”
My breath caught, my hands freezing on the crate. I wanted to run, to pretend I hadn’t heard, but my feet were rooted to the spot. Through the crack in the door, I saw Thomas’s shadow shift. His hand moved to his coat pocket, slow and deliberate, and my heart slammed against my ribs. I didn’t know what he was reaching for, but every nerve in my body screamed danger.
Then came the bang—a gunshot, loud as thunder, splitting the world apart. The sound echoed through the station, drowning out the train whistles and passenger chatter. Screams erupted, sharp and panicked. A woman dropped her handbag, apples and coins spilling across the platform. A child wailed, clinging to his mother’s skirts. My ears rang, my legs trembling as I stumbled toward the office, my mind refusing to believe what I’d heard.
I shoved the door open, and the sight hit me like a punch. Mr. Walsh lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, staining his gray waistcoat a deep, ugly red. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mouth frozen in a grimace. Thomas stood over him, a revolver shaking in his hand, smoke curling from the barrel like a snake. His face was ashen, his eyes wild, like he was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
“Thomas,” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. “What… what did you do?”
He looked at me, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. “I didn’t mean to, James,” he stammered. “He was going to ruin me. Send me to prison. I just wanted to scare him, I swear.”
But the blood spreading across the floor said otherwise. Mr. Walsh’s chest didn’t rise, his hands didn’t twitch. He was gone, and Thomas had done it. My friend, the one who’d shared his tobacco and laughed with me under the stars, was a killer.
Thomas dropped the gun, the metal clattering on the wood. He bolted past me, his shoulder slamming into mine as he ran. I heard shouts—other porters, passengers, someone yelling, “Stop him!” Boots pounded the platform, and within minutes, they had him. Two burly ticket inspectors tackled Thomas near the station’s edge, pinning him to the ground as he thrashed and sobbed. The police arrived soon after, their dark uniforms cutting through the crowd, handcuffs glinting as they hauled Thomas away.
The station was chaos. Passengers milled about, whispering, some crying. A constable covered Mr. Walsh’s body with a tarp, but I could still see the blood seeping through, dark and glossy. I was questioned, my voice shaking as I told them what I’d heard, what I’d seen. They wrote it down, their faces grim, and sent me home. The platform was closed off, trains diverted, the station falling into an eerie hush.
That night, I lay awake in my narrow bed, the gunshot echoing in my head. I saw Mr. Walsh’s lifeless eyes, Thomas’s trembling hands. I kept thinking about our talk, how I’d suspected something was wrong. Why hadn’t I said anything? Why hadn’t I warned Mr. Walsh or told another porter? Guilt twisted in my chest, sharp as a knife.
The newspapers devoured the story. “Murder at Dover Priory!” the headlines screamed, with sketches of the station and Thomas’s haunted face. His trial was swift, barely a month later. He claimed it was an accident, that he’d only meant to threaten Walsh, but the evidence was brutal. The revolver was his, found hidden in his locker, wrapped in an old rag. Witnesses testified about his gambling debts, his arguments with Walsh over late shifts and docked pay. The jury took less than an hour to find him guilty.
On August 13, 1868, Thomas Wells was hanged at Maidstone Prison. They said it was the first execution done privately, no jeering crowd, just a few officials in a cold stone room. I didn’t go—couldn’t face it. I kept remembering Thomas’s laugh, how he’d ruffle my hair and call me “kid.” Now he was gone, his life snuffed out because of one desperate moment.
Dover Priory reopened, but it was never the same. The other porters avoided the office, whispering about bad luck. I didn’t believe in curses, but I couldn’t walk past that door without my skin crawling. The bloodstain was scrubbed away, but I swore I could still see it, a faint shadow under the new rug. Late at night, when the station was empty, the wind whistled through the platform, sounding like whispers, and the creak of the rafters felt like footsteps trailing me. I told myself it was nothing, just my mind playing tricks, but the fear clung to me like damp cloth.
The worst part was the guilt. I’d seen Thomas’s desperation, heard his talk of debts. I could’ve spoken up, done something. Maybe Mr. Walsh would still be alive, barking orders, keeping the station in line. Maybe Thomas would still be here, joking by the stove. But I’d stayed silent, and that silence had cost two lives. I carried it with me, heavier than any trunk I’d ever hauled, a weight that never eased.
The trains kept running, passengers came and went, but for me, Dover Priory was a place of shadows. Every whistle, every clang of the signal bell, reminded me of that cold morning when the world turned upside down, when my friend’s fear became a horror I’d never forget.
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