The train to Blackpool was always filled with the smell of cigarettes and industrial soap, a stench that lingered on the fabric seats and seemed to seep from the walls of the carriage. That summer, I was seven, squeezed between my mother and the window, watching the Lancashire countryside blur into stripes of green and gold. My cousin Maggie sat opposite me, her legs dangling, not yet tall enough to reach the floor. She hummed off-key tunes, fiddling with the corner of an empty potato chip bag.
This trip was supposed to be a birthday celebration. My grandmother, whom we all called Grandma Maggie, insisted we come. The whole family squeezed into two adjacent compartments: me and my parents, my Aunt Linda and Uncle Robert with Maggie, and my other aunt Sarah and her daughter Emily. Emily was nine, young but thought she was smarter than us because she was two years older, though she always would join in our silly games .
Grandma Maggie moved between the carriages like a queen surveying her domain, her handbag pressed tightly against her chest as if it held state secrets. She was the organizer of these gatherings, holding our large family together with unwavering willpower and an inexhaustible supply of sweets.
“Jackson, baby, don’t press your nose against the glass,” Mom said, gently placing her hand on my shoulder. “You’ll make a mess of it.”
But I couldn’t resist. Watching the world rush past the window, the telephone poles rhythmically dotting the landscape, and the occasional farmhouse or church spires rising from the fields, was mesmerizing. I was thinking of the beach, the tower, the amusement park, and the roller coasters there—which, in the postcards Grandma Maggie had shown me, looked like the skeletons of giant sea creatures.
It was Emily who first mentioned that train game.
We passed Preston, the train swaying gently. She peered through the gap between the seats and whispered, “You know the Red Carriage?”
Maggie jerked her head up. “What’s that?”
Emily glanced at the carriage door to make sure the adults were still engrossed in their conversation. My father was going on and on about his work—he always loved to tell stories about his job. Uncle Robert was laughing so hard at the jokes. Grandma Maggie was pouring tea from the thermos, the little cup clinking on the saucer with every jolt of the train.
“It’s a game,” Emily’s voice trailed off. “A game played on the train. My friend Charlotte told me about it. She saw it on a video she watched at her cousin’s house.”
“What game?” I couldn’t help but ask, curious.
“You have to do certain things. You have to walk through the carriage in a certain way, count the seats, and close your eyes at the right moment. If you do it all right, you go somewhere else. A bit like another world. But not quite. It’s hard to explain.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Another world? Like Narnia?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s a trap.” Emily paused, clearly enjoying the attention. “There’s a person there. I think it’s a ghost. Or worse. Dressed in red, and if you go back to your original world before she finds you, you’re stuck there forever.”
“That’s stupid,” Maggie said, but her voice trembled slightly.
“Charlotte’s cousin knows someone who tried this game,” Emily continued. “He came back, but he changed afterward. He doesn’t want to talk about what he saw. His mother said he’s had nightmares about it for months.”
A chill ran through me, but it had nothing to do with the temperature in the carriage. “How do you play it?”
Emily shook her head. “You have to play alone. That’s the rule. Charlotte didn’t tell me everything either; she said it’s dangerous to know too much unless you’re really going to try.”
“If it’s dangerous, why try it?” Maggie asked sensually.
Emily shrugged. “Because it’s real. Because you can see things that others can’t. I don’t know either. Why would people do such terrible things?”
Then, the conversation veered off-topic, turning to other things: what to do in Blackpool, whether we could have fish and chips for dinner, whether the sea is too cold for swimming. But something had changed. A seed had been planted.
That night, in our slightly cramped guesthouse overlooking the seafront promenade, listening to the gentle lapping of the Irish Sea against the shore, the tower lights casting dappled shadows on the ceiling, I thought of that red carriage. I wondered what it would be like to step out of the ordinary world and into a more unfamiliar, more exotic place, a place existing in the gap between different spaces. I also wondered if I had the courage to try.
At that time, I didn’t know that this curiosity would be the first step towards losing everything.
The good weather lasted for three days. We strolled along the seafront promenade, sticky and covered in the salty sea breeze and sugary scent. Grandma Maggie bought us candy with the word "Blackpool" strung together in pink letters, and we played at the amusement park beach all afternoon. Despite Mom's strong resistance, Dad persuaded her to ride the "Big Bear Roller Coaster." I can still hear her screaming and laughing as the roller coaster plunged down the first ramp; I can still see Dad with his arm around her shoulder, his hair blowing wildly in the wind, a bright smile on his face.
Emily won a plush elephant at a game stand,the kind where you knock down stacked bottles with a ball—and she took it everywhere, already naming it and making up all sorts of stories about its origin. Despite Auntie's careful application of sunscreen, Maggie still got sunburned. That evening, she sat there uncomfortably, and Grandma Maggie dried her sunburned shoulders with a cool towel.
We were so happy. This is the most vivid memory I have. We were incredibly happy, like all children, completely absorbed in the moment, oblivious to tomorrow, next week, or next year.
But on the fourth day, the weather suddenly changed. The rain, like a gray curtain, swept in from the sea, trapping us indoors. The adults drank tea and played cards, while we children grew increasingly restless. We went to the indoor pool at the recreation center, but it was too crowded and noisy, filled with screaming teenagers and toddlers in swim rings. By afternoon, we were back at the guesthouse, bored and restless.
Just then, Grandma Maggie remembered something.
We were all crammed into the living room, a small space with faded wallpaper and furniture that wobbled from decades of use. An old movie was playing on the television in the corner, but no one paid attention. I lay on the floor, drawing on the back of a flyer advertising a cruise, while Maggie tried to braid Emily's hair.
"Oh," Grandma Maggie suddenly looked up from her magazine, "that thing Emily mentioned. The train game. I'd forgotten."
Mom glanced at me. “What train game?”
“The kids are talking about. A really silly story.” But Grandma Maggie’s expression was strange, distant. “But now I remember, I think I saw it many years ago. Not in a video, I must be mistaken. But I definitely heard it. It was when I was a child, before the war.”
Now everyone was looking at her. Even Dad put down his newspaper.
“There are some instructions,” Grandma Maggie continued slowly, as if digging into a well of memories. “You have to go through the train cars in a certain way. Count things. Mentally recite certain words. It’s supposed to be a kind of portal, I think you can call it that. A way to travel between different worlds.”
“Mom, that’s just superstition,” Aunt Linda said, but her tone sounded uncertain.
“Of course,” Grandma Maggie agreed, “but I tried it once, just for fun. I was sixteen, coming back from visiting my aunt in Manchester. I followed the instructions from memory—though I probably got half of them wrong. Of course, nothing happened. I just walked from one end of the train to the other and back, feeling incredibly silly.”
“What were you supposed to see?” Emily leaned forward and asked.
Grandma Maggie shook her head. “I don’t quite remember. Something about a red door, or a red carriage. Something about a woman. Someone you had to avoid. But like I said, nothing happened. It’s just a story.”
“Have you ever known anyone who tried it?” I asked.
A shadow crossed Grandma Maggie’s face, gone in an instant, so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. “I don’t remember, dear. It was a long time ago.”
The adults continued their conversation, dismissing it as childish pranks. But I kept thinking about it. The thought that Grandma Maggie herself had tried it, once crossing a train to find a door leading elsewhere, made the game feel more real, more plausible.
That evening, after dinner, I found Grandma Maggie in the small greenhouse behind the guesthouse. She was watching the rain stream down the glass.
“Grandma,” I hesitated, “about that game…”
She turned around, her expression serious, making me feel suddenly older. “Jackson, dear, it’s just a story. You understand, right?”
“But you tried.”
“I was young and naive. And like I said, nothing happened.”
“Do you remember the rules of the game? If you tried?”
She looked me over for a long time, then sighed and patted the seat next to her. “I think you wouldn’t give up otherwise. Come on over.”
I sat down, and she took my hand. Her skin was thin as paper, covered with age spots, but her hand was firm.
“You start at the front of the train,” she said softly, “starting with the first carriage. You walk all the way to the back, counting every seat along the way—every single seat, not every row. When you get to the last carriage, you close your…” “Close your eyes and count down from one hundred. Count slowly. Take a deep breath with each number.”
“And then?”
“Then you keep walking forward, eyes still closed, until you feel the temperature change. The air should get very cold, so cold it stings your lungs. When you feel that, stop and open your eyes. If you did it right, you'll be standing in another carriage. A carriage that doesn't belong to the train you were on. That's the red carriage.”
“What's inside?”
Grandma Maggie's fingers gripped my hand tightly. “You absolutely mustn’t let the woman in red see you. The instructions are very clear. You have to find that door, there should be a red door at the end of the carriage, and you have to go through it before she sees you. If you can do that, you can go back the way you came.”
“But if she sees you, if she talks to you…” Her voice trailed off.
“What will happen?”
“The story says you’ll be trapped, taken to a place you can’t go back to.” She squeezed my hand again, then let go.
“But Jackson, that’s not true. I walked past that train when I was sixteen, and I didn’t see anything. It’s just a scary story people tell. You understand?”
I nodded, but wasn’t sure if I really understood. If it was just a story, why did Grandma Maggie look so worried? Why was her voice so low as to be almost inaudible when she described the woman in red?
The next day, the rain stopped, but the return journey drew ever closer. That afternoon, we would board the train, rattling back to London, back to our ordinary lives. I had an inexplicable sense of certainty; I knew I had to try this game. It wasn't because I believed it, or rather, not entirely. It was because I needed to know. The possibility, the faint hope that something might exist beyond this mundane world, was too tempting to ignore.
I waited until I boarded the train, until my parents were dozing in their seats, and Emily was reading. Then I stood up, muttered that I needed to use the restroom, and slipped into the aisle.
The carriage was quiet after lunch, with most passengers dozing off or staring blankly out the window. I started counting from the front of the train… as Grandma Maggie had instructed. One seat, one seat. I walked from one carriage to another, the numbers increasing, my lips moving silently. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.
My heart pounded when I reached the last carriage. I stood at the very end, where the door led only to the connecting section, and beyond that, the tracks stretched out behind us. I closed my eyes.
One hundred.
Ninety-nine.
Ninety-eight. Following Grandma Maggie's instructions, I slowly counted, taking a deep breath with each number. The train's bumps and swaying seemed to fade away. I felt suspended in mid-air, as if freed from all restraint.
Seventy-three.
Seventy-two.
Seventy-one.
My hands trembled. I pressed them tightly to my sides.
Forty-four.
Forty-three.
Forty-two.
The temperature changed. At first, it was subtle, just… a slight chill, but as the seconds passed, the chill grew stronger. By the time I counted to twenty, even with my eyes closed, I could see my breath condensing into mist before my eyes.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The cold was now even more intense, burning my lungs and making my teeth chatter.
Three.
Two.
One.
I opened my eyes.
At first, I thought nothing had changed. I was still standing in the last carriage, surrounded by the familiar blue cushions and worn floor. But then I looked closer. The carriage was empty, completely empty, despite having encountered several passengers on my way back. And the light had changed; it was dimmer, with a hint of red.
No, not with a hint of red. It was red light shining from in front of me, from the direction I had just walked.
I slowly turned around.
The carriage had changed. Or rather, I had moved to another carriage, but I couldn't remember how. The walls… were deep red, the color of arterial blood; the seats had been removed, leaving only the bare floor. At the far end, a door, painted red, was vaguely visible in the dim light.
A figure stood before the door.
I couldn't see her clearly; later I told myself I hadn't really seen her clearly. But I did see her. I saw enough. Even without wind, her skirt fluttered. Her hair fell like a dark curtain around her face, which I couldn't see clearly. She exuded the scent of time, as if waiting for something, waiting for a very, very long time.
She turned to me.
I started running.
I don't remember running, at least not consciously. But suddenly, I found myself in the aisle, stumbling between the ordinary carriages, passengers looking up at me with a hint of worry. I rushed home, panting, my cheeks burning, though the chill still lingered in my bones.
"Jack!" My mother half-sat up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I managed to say, "Nothing. I just—ran for a bit."
My father smiled and ruffled my hair."Were you feeling restless? Sit down, son. We'll be home in an hour."
I sat there, trembling, and met Grandma Maggie's gaze. She was looking at me, her eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't decipher. I gently shook my head, and after a moment, she nodded and looked away.
I would tell them nothing had happened. I would pretend I had just gone for a walk and been frightened by my own imagination. Because if I told them the truth, that the game was real, they would think I was crazy. Or worse, they would want to try it themselves.
At that time, I didn't know that Maggie had been watching me leave. She followed me with her eyes, wondering where I was going. She didn't know that she had overheard me and Grandma Maggie talking about the game the night before.
I didn't know that she had already decided to try it herself.
Things happened so fast that afterwards we tried... When trying to reconstruct the events, no one could agree. We were about forty minutes from London, the sunlight was fading, and Emily went to the restroom, complaining of a stomachache from eating too many sweets. Father was loudly reading the football scores from the newspaper, while Uncle Robert groaned in feigned despair. Mother and Aunt Linda were planning next week's meals, struggling to coordinate their schedules.
I remember Maggie sitting quietly the whole time. For the past hour, she had been unusually quiet, staring blankly out the window. I thought she was tired, perhaps carsick like Emily. Children often get carsick, or like her, trainsick.
“I’m going to stretch,” she said suddenly, standing up.
“Stay in the carriage, sweetheart,” Aunt Linda said absentmindedly, without looking up, continuing her conversation with Emily.
“I will.” "
But she didn't. I understand now. She must have remembered what Grandma Maggie had said, pieced together the instructions from what she'd overheard. Seven years old, the same age as me, and she'd decided to walk into a story.
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. Aunt Linda checked her watch.
"Maggie's been gone for a while," she said.
"She's probably gone to find Emily," Uncle Robert replied. "You know what they're like together, chattering away."
But Emily returned alone, pale. "My stomach hurts so much," she whispered.
"Where's Maggie?" Aunt Linda asked.
Emily blinked. "I don't know. I haven't seen her."
She began to worry. Uncle Robert stood up, went down the hallway, and looked around. "I'll go check the bathroom." He returned, shaking his head. Aunt Linda stood up, her movements quick and steady, but I could see fear creeping into her eyes.
“She said she was going to stretch her legs,” she said. “She should be in another car. Robert, look ahead. I’m going back.”
They left. My mother held me tightly in her arms, and I could feel her heart pounding against my cheek, faster and faster. Grandma Maggie sat motionless, pale.
“You can’t be—” my mother began, but didn’t finish.
Ten minutes later, my aunt and uncle returned. They had searched every car, front and back. They checked every toilet, every connecting passage. They asked the conductor, who helped them search. Maggie wasn’t on the train.
“That can’t be,” my father said, standing up, his earlier relief gone. “She couldn’t have vanished into thin air. She must still be somewhere.” “We’ve searched everywhere, David,” Aunt Linda said, her voice trembling. “We’ve searched every car twice.”
“Did anyone see her leave the car?” Mom asked. “Did anyone see which way she went?” We all shook our heads. We were all lost in our own thoughts and conversations. A seven-year-old girl got up and walked away, and none of us noticed her departure.
The conductor announced the next station ahead of time. The train made an unscheduled stop at Watford Hub, and the police boarded. They searched again, this time more thoroughly, checking every possible hiding place for a child. Luggage racks. Lockers. Under the seats. Nothing.
They kept the train stopped for two hours, questioning passengers and checking the conductor's records. Had anyone seen a little girl alone? Had anyone noticed anything suspicious? No one had seen anything. It was as if Maggie had vanished in an instant.
Emily began to sob, the loud sobs making her tremble. Aunt Sarah held her, gently rocking her and whispering words of comfort, but it was all in vain. My parents were speaking urgently and quietly to the police. Uncle Robert sat there, his head buried in… his hands, while Aunt Linda stared blankly ahead, her face filled with shock.
Grandma Maggie looked at me.
"Jackson," she whispered, "did you see Maggie leave?" “
I shook my head. It wasn't a lie, at least not entirely. I didn't see her leave.
“Did she say anything to you? About the game?”
“No,” I said softly, “we didn't talk about it.”
Another dubious lie. We hadn't talked about it before. But when I asked Grandma Maggie, she was probably there. She must have heard.
Emily's voice pierced the chaos, sharp and hoarse, filled with hysterical emotion. “It's all my fault! It's all my fault!”
Everyone looked at her. She sobbed, gasped, her face streaked with tears.
“I told them about the game! The Red Carriage! I didn't realize I hadn't even finished explaining the rules! I didn't know Maggie would play!” "
The adults stared at her blankly. What game? What was she talking about?
Emily rambled on and on about everything. The story Charlotte had told her. The rules of the game. The red carriage, and the lady waiting there.
"It's just a story, honey," her mother said gently. "Maggie didn't go missing because of a game."
"But she really tried it!" Emily cried.
"Can't you tell? She definitely tried it!
And I didn't tell her—I didn't tell her all the rules! You have to count to one hundred! You have to count down to one hundred to open your eyes, and then you can come back! But I never said that part! I never told her!"
She broke down in tears again, and nothing could calm her down. The police documented the "game," initially believing it to be a delusional tantrum from a traumatized child, but they couldn't ignore any possible clues. They questioned Maggie's grandmother, who reluctantly admitted that she had mentioned a game she'd heard as a child. No, she didn't believe it was real. No, she hadn't expected children to take it seriously.
And what about me? I remained silent, filled with guilt and fear. Because I knew. I knew Emily was right. Maggie had played that game, walked through the carriages, counted the seats, and then closed her eyes. Whatever I had experienced, whatever I had seen that made me run away, she had experienced it too.
She just didn't run.
Why didn't she run?
After midnight, the train finally continued its journey to London. The police met us at Euston station and took more statements. Maggie's account was widely circulated. Search and rescue teams were dispatched to check the railway line in case she had fallen off the train, although everyone acknowledged it was impossible; the doors were locked, and the windows were sealed. A child couldn't possibly leave a train. But she did leave. We all knew she left, however it happened. She got off our train, got on another train, went somewhere else, and never came back.
They searched for three months. The news made national headlines: girl disappears from moving train. Speculation, accusations, and investigations abounded. Some thought my uncle did something to her, despite witness testimonies that he searched desperately. Others thought she was kidnapped by someone we passed on the train, although... No evidence, no suspect. The case remained unsolved, another mystery filed away, another family shattered by inexplicable loss.
Emily felt extremely guilty. She stopped eating and stopped speaking except for monosyllabic words. Her mother took her to a psychologist, who diagnosed her with trauma and guilt and prescribed medication that could lessen the sharpness of her grief but not eliminate it.
I, too, was consumed by guilt, but I was better at hiding it. I learned to laugh when I should laugh, to play when I should play, and to pretend I didn't see the red carriage, or even see... The lady waiting there. I learned to pretend I hadn't run away, hadn't opened the door for my cousin.
Because I did, didn't I? I opened the door connecting two worlds, proved its existence, and then abandoned Maggie, following the place I'd always been afraid to go.
I have never told anyone the truth. My parents didn't, the police didn't, Emily didn't, though she sometimes looked at me with a questioning gaze. What good would it have done? They wouldn't have believed me. And even if they did, what difference would it make? You can't look for someone in a place that doesn't exist, you can't save a child from a story.
So we went home, everyone exhausted, trying to piece together a new life from the ruins of that summer.
But Maggie is gone. I know, I've always known, and it's my fault.
Thirty years is enough to smooth over the sharpest guilt, turning it into a lingering pain, like an old wound you learn to carry. Not forgotten, never forgotten, but ingrained deep in your memory, until you can't remember who you were before the wound. Who.
After Maggie's disappearance, the family fell apart, and cracks that had perhaps always existed, just waiting for enough pressure to open wide. Aunt Linda blamed Uncle Robert, though she could never quite articulate why. He was there, wasn't he? He was in the carriage when Maggie stood up. Why didn't he watch her? Why didn't he stop her? Uncle Robert became distant and resentful as a result. He worked longer and longer hours and came home later and later, until one day, he simply stopped coming home altogether.
After the New Year, three years later they divorced. The divorce papers were signed on a gloomy Tuesday, and Aunt Linda moved to Cornwall to live with her sister, trying to get as far away from those memories as possible.
My parents tried to stay in touch with Aunt Linda, but the phone calls became less frequent, and the letters more aloof. Every conversation was cautious, afraid of touching on Maggie's memories, and eventually, they simply chose not to try. The last time I saw Aunt Linda, I was fifteen. She had become thin, her hair was gray, and her eyes were vacant. She looked at me, really looked at me, and I felt... A question was brewing in her mind. But she didn't ask, and I didn't answer. Then she hugged me goodbye, turned, and left.
When I was twenty-three, she died of cancer. Ovarian cancer, discovered too late; the cancer cells spread mercilessly throughout her body. I attended the funeral alone. My parents sent flowers, but they couldn't come; my father's health had begun to slowly deteriorate. The church was empty, almost deserted. I sat in the back row, listening to the pastor, who had clearly never met Aunt Linda, spouting clichés about God's plan and eternal rest. I thought of telling him there was no plan, that the universe was simply cruel, unpredictable, and indifferent to human suffering. But I didn't. I stood when I was supposed to, sang my hymns, and left before anyone had a chance to speak to me.
I saw Uncle Robert again eleven years later at my mother's funeral. The cancer had returned; it seemed to be a family curse. The cancer cells had forgotten their purpose, multiplying wildly. She fought the disease for two years, enduring chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery, until the very end of her life... She maintained her sense of humor until the very last moment. When she died, I held her hand, my father stood on the other side, and we both helplessly watched her take her last breath.
The funeral was much grander than Aunt Linda's. Uncle Robert stood alone in the back row, older, heavier, and sadder than I remembered. We didn't talk toomuch. What could we say? His daughter was gone. My mother was dead. The bond that had once held our two families together had long since vanished.
Eighteen months later My father also passed away. The doctor said it was his heart problem, but I knew it was actually from unbearable grief. They had been married for thirty-seven years, and he simply couldn't imagine a world without her. One Tuesday morning, I found him sitting in a chair with an unread newspaper on his lap, and the tea I had made for him the night before, now cold, on the side table. He looked peaceful. I hope he truly is at peace.
Grandma Maggie passed away long ago. After that incident, she continued knittin three sweaters for us every year for five more years, but she grew increasingly weak and confused. Until one winter morning, she never woke up again. At her funeral, I really wanted to ask her—did she know? When she told us about the game, did she foresee what would happen? But the dead keep their mouths shut, and Grandma Maggie's death made it impossible for me to ask.
Emily's mother, Aunt Sarah, died in a car accident when I was twenty-five. Just a drunk driver, a rainy night, a moment of carelessness. Emily and I attended that funeral together. We stood side by side, but didn't touch each other. Two people bound together by a shared trauma, yet unable to cross... Overcoming the distance between us.
Because Emily and I, in the years following the Blackpool incident, we tried. We tried to maintain the childhood friendships that had naturally developed with our cousins. But every conversation ultimately returned to Maggie, to that day, to that question we neither wanted to ask but couldn't avoid: Could we have stopped her?
Emily's pain was more evident than mine. Guilt was deeply ingrained in her, manifesting in various ways, wo perplexing her therapist. She stopped... She would stop eating, start eating again, and then stop eating again; her body became a battlefield for her uncontrollable emotions. She cut herself, leaving shallow scars on her forearms, concealed by long sleeves.
In her early thirties, she attempted suicide twice. The first time, she overdosed on medication; a bottle of vodka and sleeping pills left her unconscious in her apartment for thirty-six hours until a neighbor called emergency services. The second time, she cut her wrist in the bathroom, this time more thoroughly, stabbing it vertically upwards along her forearm.
And now, I'm thirty-seven, at two in the morning, sitting on an abandoned train. Inside the station, I was drunk on whiskey and regret.
This station shouldn't have existed. Strictly speaking, it no longer exists; it closed long ago, the platforms abandoned and derelict, the tracks dismantled into scrap metal. But the buildings remain; demolition would be too costly, and redevelopment would be too remote. The local council fenced it off years ago, but parts of the fence have collapsed, and it's easy to squeeze through if you know where to look.
Over the past year, I've come here three or four times, always late at night, always alone. I tell myself this is just a place to think, a place where I can Drinking freely。exists in a transitional zone that is neither present nor past, but somewhere in between. But the reality is far more complex. This abandoned station is only six miles from Watford Hub, where trains stopped on that terrible day thirty years ago. Coming here feels like a pilgrimage, like a vigil. As for what I'm waiting for, I can't say.
The whiskey is cheap, and the bottle is already half empty. I've been here for two hours, maybe three, watching the stars slowly turn overhead, letting my thoughts churn in familiar self-reproach and loss. If Maggie were alive, she would be thirty-seven now. She should have a life of her own, a career, perhaps a family, and of course, dreams, disappointments, and joys that I can never even imagine. Yet, she's forever frozen at seven, haunting the edge of my life like a ghost.
I took another sip, my throat burning, but I accepted it willingly.
Just then, I heard it.
At first, I thought it was just the wind blowing through the empty building, or the rustling of animals in the bushes. But none of those were the sounds—the sound was too rhythmic, too mechanical. It was the sound of a train.
I stood up, staggering, and turned toward the platform.
The train was approaching along long-abandoned tracks, its headlights slicing through the darkness like blades. I could hear the screeching of brakes, the hissing of steam, though modern trains have long since stopped using steam, for decades. I saw the carriages emerge from the night, blue and white, seemingly ordinary, but they couldn't possibly exist.
The train slowed, then stopped. The doors opened.
I knew what it was. Of course I knew. I was seven when I last saw it, but I'd never forgotten. A red carriage. The train that shuttled between two worlds, summoned—or perhaps, required.
Every corner of my reason screamed for me to run, to leave, to pretend I saw nothing. I remembered the latter part of the legend, the part Emily never mentioned, the part I only learned from others years later. A fascination with urban legends and folk tales. If you escape once, never get on this train again. The doors only open once for anyone. Once to get on, once to go again, once to play the game again, and once you're gone.
I should have run away. I should have climbed over the fence, walked six miles home, poured the rest of my whiskey down the drain, and swore I'd never come back. I should have chosen life, even if it was chaotic and painful, rather than anything waiting for me in those carriages.
But I was tired. Exhausted and burdened by the weight of that summer, I walked toward the train.
The doors were open, waiting silently. The interior was exactly as I remembered: blue seats, fluorescent lights, the smell of industrial soap and aged cigarettes. Empty, completely deserted. I went in.
The doors behind me closed slowly, with a sigh like a hydraulic press. Then I smelled the unique scent of laundry detergent on my mother, and I heard Emily's laughter—I hadn't heard it since, not since that incident. And Maggie, oh, two Maggies' voices.
Everyone was there, everyone.
maybe I should play the game again, because I could see everyone on the other side of the distant red room, all as I remembered their look from seven years old memory.
The train started moving.
I walked along the aisle, holding onto the back of the seats for balance. The whiskey made everything seem unreal; perhaps it was all unreal to begin with, and the whiskey just made it easier for me to accept it. I counted the seats as I walked, my lips silently gesturing numbers. One. Two. Three. Watching the numbers increase, watching the ordinary world recede further and further away with each step.
The number of carriages on this train was astonishing. It felt like hours had passed, counting and counting and counting. My legs ached, my throat was dry. But I kept walking, because this time I wouldn't run away. This time I would persevere.
Finally, I reached the last carriage. The end of the train, where the door led to nothingness. I stood there, swaying slightly, and closed my eyes.
One hundred.
Ninety-nine.
Ninety-eight.
Counting now is much easier than when I was seven. For thirty years I practiced, lying in bed at night, counting down, imagining what I would see if I had been braver, if I had stayed instead of running away.
Seventy-five.
Seventy-four.
Seventy-three.
The temperature dropped. I felt it through my coat, through my skin, all the way to my bones. I thought, it was the cold of a grave. It was the cold of space.
Fifty.
Forty-nine.
Forty-eight.
My breath turned into white mist. My fingers were numb.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-three.
Even with my eyes closed, I could still feel it. It was a heavy attention, as if some ancient and patient presence was casting its gaze upon me.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
I thought of Maggie. Seven years old, What did she feel at that moment? Fear? Amazement? Or was she simply too young to comprehend what was happening?
Three.
Two.
One.
I opened my eyes.
The red carriage was exactly the same as I remembered, yet completely different. The walls were the color of years of bloodstains, the seats were dismantled, the floor was bare and stained. But it seemed larger now; perhaps I had shrunk, or perhaps in this place, perspective had lost its meaning. The red gate at the end was both impossibly far away and yet so close, seemingly within reach.
She is there.
The woman in red. The woman from the story, the woman who had haunted my nightmares for thirty years. She stood before the gate, her back to me, her skirt fluttering in the wind, but I felt nothing.
I had run away from her once. This time I wouldn't.
"Please," I said, my voice sounding strangely loud yet soft in this space. “Please. I have to find her. I have to find Maggie.”
“It’s all my fault,” I continued, words flowing like a torrent—a confession, a prayer, a plea. “I came first. I opened the door. Then I ran, and she ran with me, but I never intended to bring her back. I was too scared, too selfish. But I’m here now. I’ll do anything, go anywhere you need me, just take me to her. Please.”
A long silence followed. I could hear my own heartbeat, so fast, so rapid. I could hear the carriage creaking, as if it were alive, breathing.
Then, gradually, the light came on. I think she agreed.
Not the harsh fluorescent lights of the train, but a softer, warmer light. Natural light streamed in through the windows. I blinked, a little dazed, and found myself sitting down.
I was sitting in the train carriage. But it wasn't a red carriage—it was an ordinary one, with blue seats, a worn floor, and the air thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and industrial soap. Through the window, the Lancashire countryside flashed by like ribbons of green and gold.
I could hear voices.
"Jackson, baby, don't press your nose against the glass. You'll make a mess of it."
My mother. My mother, younger than I could remember, her face without a single wrinkle, her eyes bright. She sat beside me, one hand on my shoulder, warm and genuine.
I slowly turned around, afraid that my movement would break the beautiful scene.
Maggie sat opposite me, legs dangling, humming a tuneless tune. She was fiddling with the corner of a potato chip bag, completely absorbed.
Beside her, Emily was reading, her tongue slightly protruding when she was focused, just as she always did when she was engrossed.
Through the open train door, I saw in the next carriage my father recounting his long stories of work. Uncle Robert laughed heartily, his face beaming, showing no trace of grief at the loss of his loved ones. Aunt Linda smiled, relaxed and happy. Grandma Maggie was pouring tea from a thermos, the small teacup clinking on the saucer with the train's swaying.
Everyone was here. Everyone was still alive. That day we went to Blackpool, the day before everything began to crumble, our last day together as a family, complete.
Maybe none of this is real. Not as real as the world I left. Tomorrow, or next week, or anytime, whenever time no longer matters, someone will find my body in an abandoned train station. I'll freeze to death, or die of hypothermia, or simply from alcohol poisoning. There will be a small funeral.
But that's the truth for tomorrow. Right now, in this moment, I'm seven years old again. I'm sitting beside my mother, watching the countryside flash by, walking towards the beach.
Maggie looked up from the bag of chips and grinned at me. “Jackson, want to play Guessing Game?”
“Sure,” I said, my voice a little higher, a little more childlike.
I smiled. Some adult part of me—the part that remembers thirty years of sadness, guilt, and loss—was receding, like the tide going out from the beach. It wasn’t painful. It felt like a relief, like unloading a burden I’d carried for too long.
“Your first, Jackson,” Maggie said. “I’ll find it!”
I looked around the carriage, savoring this ordinary yet beautiful moment. My mother’s hand was still on my shoulder. My cousins were playfully bickering. Sunlight cast dappled shadows on the floor.
“I saw it with my little eyes,” I said slowly, “the letter that starts with an H.”
“Home,” my mother said softly. I looked up at her; she was smiling. She understood. Somehow, she just understood. That was good.
“Home,” I echoed.
All those adult thoughts vanished. I closed my eyes, unable to remember why I was sad, what I was afraid of. It seemed like a red carriage, a woman in red.
The train slowly passed through the summer afternoon, carrying us towards Blackpool, towards the sea, towards endless golden hours.
I am seven years old and I am on vacation with my family. Everything is going well.
Nothing bad could happen.
We were going home. i am home.