It was well past midnight when Ananya Mehra, a 26-year-old software engineer, boarded the last local train from Churchgate Station. Her shift had run late again, and she was exhausted — mentally and physically — as the train pulled out with a metallic groan.
Only two other passengers shared the compartment: an old man in a beige overcoat reading a tattered book and a young girl curled up near the window with headphones on.
Ananya leaned her head against the cold metal wall, eyelids heavy.
Outside the window, the city blurred into streaks of orange and gray — concrete, graffiti, flickering lights — until the train slid into darkness.
No lights. No signs.
The announcement system crackled faintly, but instead of the robotic station names, it played a distorted lullaby.
Ananya sat upright.
This wasn’t right.
There was no tunnel this long between Churchgate and Marine Lines. And there were no stations without names.
Yet, through the smudged glass, she saw a platform approaching.
But something was… off.
There was no signage. No passengers. No sound.
Just dim green lights flickering above cracked tiles. A thick mist hung in the air like fog trapped underground.
The train slowed down.
And stopped.
The doors creaked open with a hesitant hiss.
No announcement. No conductor.
Just silence.
And then — a whisper.
Soft. Like breath brushing against her neck.
> “Ananya…”
She turned. No one was near.
The old man’s seat was empty. The girl at the window was gone.
Just her now.
And the whisper again.
> “Come… home…”
Ananya’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. She didn’t move.
She looked at the open doors.
On the other side stood a child.
Or… something shaped like a child.
Its body was turned, but its head faced her, backwards, upside-down.
The eyes were empty.
The smile — carved far too wide — split its cheeks.
It held a toy train in its hands. Identical to the one she was on.
Ananya stepped back.
The lights above her blinked rapidly.
And then — everything froze.
The lights. The sounds. Even time itself seemed to stop.
Except for one thing.
The whisper.
> “You already boarded.”
Suddenly, she was no longer in the compartment.
She stood on the platform.
The train was gone.
The station stretched endlessly in both directions — no signs, no map, no exit.
She spun around, panic rising.
The tiles underfoot were damp and left footprints… but not hers.
Tiny feet had walked in a circle. Over and over.
She heard footsteps behind her.
She turned — nothing.
A clinking sound echoed next.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Like something metal dragging on stone.
She started running.
Her footsteps echoed unnaturally — out of rhythm, as if someone else was mimicking her steps.
But just a second late.
She passed pillars plastered with ancient, yellowed posters. One of them caught her eye.
She stopped.
It had her face on it.
Missing Person.
Date: June 6, 2025
Name: Ananya Mehra
Last seen: Marine Lines Station
Status: Presumed Deceased
The date was today.
Her hand trembled as she touched the paper.
It crumbled to dust.
The whisper came again.
> “You missed your stop…”
> “Now you’re ours.”
Suddenly, a train horn shrieked behind her.
She turned just in time to see another train rushing toward her — but not on tracks.
It glided above the ground, with passengers pressed against the glass, all of them screaming silently, their mouths open in agony.
One of them was the old man.
Another — the girl with headphones.
And then — herself.
A version of her, pale and stiff, eyes wide with terror.
The train passed through her like wind.
The lights exploded.
And she was plunged into darkness.
---
When she opened her eyes again, she was lying on a bench at Marine Lines Station. Morning light filtered in through the glass roof. Birds chirped.
A man in a uniform stood over her.
“Madam? Are you okay?”
She blinked. “What time is it?”
“Just past 6 AM. You were unconscious.”
She sat up, dizzy.
“I… I was on the train. It stopped at some underground—”
“There were no trains after midnight,” the man said.
She froze.
“But I… I saw a platform. A child. A…”
He looked confused. “Maybe you had a dream?”
She stood and walked quickly past him, ignoring his curious stares.
But as she left the station, she noticed something written on the back of a pillar in faded red chalk:
> “Some passengers never get off.”
---
Later that day, Ayaan sat with his laptop in the café near Shivneri Heights. He was trying to search for keywords he couldn’t ignore anymore: “Midnight whistle,” “CCTV man,” “unknown basement floor.”
Curiosity had turned into obsession.
He typed: “subway ghost stations in Mumbai.”
One thread stood out.
> “UNNAMED PLATFORM - Anyone else ever end up at a subway station with no signs, no maps, and hear children whispering?”
Posted by: AnanyaM – 5 minutes ago
He clicked.
The post read:
> "It’s not a dream. It’s real. There’s a station that doesn’t exist on maps, somewhere between Churchgate and Marine Lines. If you hear a whisper calling your name, don’t answer. If you see yourself in the passing train, don’t blink. And if a child offers you a toy train…
Run."
Ayaan sat back.
He looked out the café window.
The train station was just visible in the distance.
And at the very top of the clocktower near the platform…
A small red train sat on the ledge.
Balancing.
Watching.
Waiting.
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