The Last Train

From the moment I stepped out of my office, it began pouring cats and dogs.

Good thing I listened to my mother and carried my umbrella with me today.

Believe it or not, I feel like mothers are some kind of superhumans, able to predict the weather through sheer intuition.

But unfortunately, my umbrella wasn’t enough to keep me dry—I was already half-drenched in the rain.

It wouldn’t have been this bad if it were just a downpour, but of course, it had to come with stormy winds.

And because of all this, my train was delayed.

Delays weren’t rare, but today it had been more than an hour.

As I waited at the station, I noticed a few people growing restless, muttering every bad word they knew.

Their irritation was understandable, but it was only 10 p.m.

One might think that it’s late to be returning home from work, but as someone used to overtime, I often return home at 11 or even later.

I pulled out a few packets of biscuits from my bag.

I always kept them in my office for nights like this—nights when I had to return home at midnight after endless overtime.

With a small, knowing smile, I stepped closer to their group, offering the biscuits, one after another.

Soon enough, I found myself listening to their stories and nodding along to their complaints.

To my surprise, they weren’t truly upset about the delayed train—after all, with this relentless rain, it was to be expected.

What troubled them instead was the darkness.

And by that, I mean them (my mother always warned me never to utter their names at night)—the wandering, lost souls, if I were to speak of them in a more learned and sophisticated way.

These people were from far-off rural villages, places where legends of unseen spirits linger in the air like whispers.

With the storm deepening and the night growing heavy, their fear of such “negative souls,” as they called them, only intensified.

They had already decided to remain at the station for the night and take the earliest train home tomorrow.

It would be Sunday—a day off for most of them—and even those who didn’t have the luxury of rest would rather call in absent than risk those shadowed, lonely roads tonight.

As for me, this was hardly an issue.

I come from a well-lit, well-kept village where street lamps and night shops line the roads.

I’ve returned home at midnight before, without a single worry about ghostly stories.

I’m not one to believe in such things.

Yes, my grandparents told me their share of tales when I was young, but they were nothing more than bedtime fables meant to entertain or frighten children.

I believe only in what I see.

And I’ve yet to see anything that convinces me these creatures are anything more than the imaginings of old minds, repeating the same baseless rumors.

---

Finally, the train arrived!

As I boarded, I saw that group of villagers waving me goodbye from the lighted station.

The train followed its usual route, yet something about the journey felt different tonight.

Perhaps it was the cold gusts of wind slipping through the cracks, or the flickering lights overhead, or the way the ebony-dark landscape outside was momentarily revealed by sudden flashes of thunder.

The train rolled past trees and villages, stopping at stations that stood dim and desolate under the storm’s shadow.

And then, at last, we reached my station.

It was darker than I expected.

A power cut, I assumed—nothing unusual.

The electricity here rarely stayed out for long.

The rain had stopped by then, but the stormy winds and occasional flashes of lightning still painted the night in uneasy colors.

I hurried off the train, expecting to see the usual handful of passengers disembarking alongside me, but to my surprise, there was no one.

On ordinary nights, there are always a few people who get off here.

Perhaps they had stayed back at the city station or chosen to wait until morning.

Without dwelling on it, I made my way down the stairs to the muddy road.

Luck favored me for a brief moment—the electricity returned, though the street lamps continued to flicker like dying candles.

Walking against the harsh wind felt like a battle of endurance.

I turned onto my lane.

Not a soul in sight—no movement, no sound, not even the presence of an ant—only the cold breath of the night after the rain.

For a moment, the street plunged into pitch darkness again.

I fumbled through my pockets for my flashlight, as my phone had long since died.

The weak, trembling beam of my torch barely pierced the darkness ahead.

That was when I heard footsteps.

They weren’t coming from behind me—no, they were ahead, faint but steady, as though someone else was walking the same path.

I raised my torchlight slightly to illuminate the road ahead.

Yes—there was a figure walking in front of me.

He paused, perhaps noticing the light from behind.

But the very moment he turned his head, my torch flickered once and died.

The world around me was swallowed by blackness, and silence pressed down like a heavy curtain.

I couldn’t bear the suffocating silence and spoke as I walked forward,

"Curses! Of all times, the torch had to die now! What a wretched day… Mister, are you there?"

There was no reply—only the hollow howl of the cold wind.

Then, as if mocking me, the street lamps flickered back to life.

But the road ahead was empty.

The man I had seen moments ago was gone.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine but shook off the thought. I was tired—too tired to care.

I began walking again, my footsteps echoing faintly against the wet road.

That was when I heard it once more—footsteps.

This time, they came from behind me.

A thief?

The thought sent a jolt through me.

I quickened my pace, but so did the sound behind me.

The tension snapped—I broke into a run.

Of course, as fate would have it, my foot slipped on the muddy path, and I went sprawling to the ground.

Pain shot up my back—I might have even cracked a bone or two.

Before I could gather myself, I felt it—a hand.

Cold. Too cold. Resting firmly on my shoulder.

The street lamps flickered weakly above, casting strange shadows.

Through the dim light, I saw a silhouette.

A man.

Not a thief—at least, I hoped not.

He reached out and helped me up.

"Ugh… um… th-thanks," I stammered, still shaken.

But he said nothing. Not a single word.

I squinted, trying to get a better look at his face, but he had already stepped back, retreating into the dimness.

---

Then I heard footsteps again—this time carrying with them a light of hope.

Well, not the footsteps themselves, but the strong beam of light that accompanied them.

A torch.

Someone was coming from the other end of the street.

I waved at him, relief flooding through me—it was the night watchman, my savior!

I turned back, intending to call out to the silent man who had just helped me.

And that’s when I saw his face—or at least, I think I did.

The watchman’s torchlight caught it for a brief second.

It looked like Mr. Lal Mohan—the grumpy old man from our neighborhood.

“Lal Babu! Come here, the watchman is here!” I called out.

But just as before, there was no response.

He didn’t even look back—just kept walking away, his figure dissolving into the shadows.

“Oh, Lord Samsundar Babu! What a sight you are!” the watchman exclaimed as he reached me.

“The train must have been terribly late for you to return at this hour.”

“Say no more. I was already drenched by the rain, and then I went and slipped in the mud! What rotten luck,” I laughed nervously, “but thank goodness Lal Mohan Babu was here to help me up, or you would have found me lying flat on the road.”

To my surprise, the watchman’s face stiffened.

“Lal Mohan Babu? I… see no one here.”

“He was just here…” I turned, confused.

The road behind us was empty.

“Well, I suppose he left while we were talking. You know how grumpy that old man is!”

The watchman shook his head slowly but said nothing more.

“Let’s not waste any more time. Put your hand on my shoulder and walk with me—it’s only a few blocks to your house.”

I did as he said. Thanks to him, I reached home in one piece that night.

Once inside, I freshened up and went straight to bed, too exhausted to think.

---

In the morning, I sat on the balcony with my tea, savoring the warmth of the cup in my hands.

Life… this is life, I thought.

To drink this heavenly chai, made by my godly mother, as the first rays of sunlight kissed the world awake.

The air was fresh, carrying the sweet, damp scent of rain-soaked grass.

Ah, life is beautiful.

“Here’s your morning newspaper, Babu!” my mother called, tossing it toward me with practice ease.

“Arre, Maa, slowly! Where are you rushing off on such a lovely morning?” I laughed.

“At least give me another biscuit before you run off.”

“Get it yourself!” she shot back.

“And maybe this morning is lovely for you, but not for Mrs. Mohan and her family. I’m going to see her.”

She began draping her saree in a more formal way.

I frowned. “Why? What happened to them?”

“Lal Mohan Babu… you know him, don’t you?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t know that grumpy old man?”

Her voice softened. “He passed away last night. In a train accident. Thank God you returned safely… You have no idea how terrified I was.”

I froze.

“He… died? What are you talking about? Last night, he—”

“Read the newspaper!” she interrupted, handing me the folded sheets.

“It’s all over the news. Now don’t delay me any further. You take care of the house—I’m going.”

I watched her run down the stairs and leave, her footsteps fading.

Hands trembling slightly, I opened the paper.

The headline screamed at me:

“Late Night Train Accident: 3 Dead, 49 Injured.”

Among the dead was Lal Mohan Babu.

---

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