Each week, I send out a story via my email newsletter. Each story is around 1000 words, sometimes less, sometimes more. The stories are in a variety of genres: supernatural, thriller, sci-fi, horror, and sometimes romance, and all of my stories typically feature a gay protagonist.
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This is story number 25 of the series. Enjoy!
The Ghost Train
Dylan adjusted the strap of his camera bag as he stepped onto the rusted metal of the derelict train car. The structure groaned beneath his weight, its echo carrying through the abandoned station like a hollow whisper. The place was an infamous old locomotive, rumored to be haunted by the spirits of its ill-fated passengers.
Perfect for his latest documentary.
As he switched on his flashlight, the beam caught on something half-buried under a pile of debris—a tattered newspaper clipping from decades ago, the headline barely readable: “Tragic Wreck at Silverpine, Scores Perish.” Dylan’s fingers trembled as he picked it up, the paper fragile in his grasp. This was a tangible piece of the puzzle he was here to solve.
He let out a slow breath, steadying his nerves. This wasn’t his first haunted location. Not by a long shot. He’d spent the last six years chasing stories of the supernatural, traveling from one eerie site to the next, always searching, always documenting. Some people thought he was just another content creator chasing views, but for Dylan, it was personal.
He ran a hand through his curls and clicked on his flashlight.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s do this.”
The truth was, he hadn’t always believed in ghosts. He’d started this journey out of desperation, not curiosity. After his sister, Lena, disappeared when they were kids, he spent years chasing every possible explanation. The police called it a missing person’s case. Dylan called it unfinished business. He remembered the nights his parents sat at the kitchen table in silence, his mother’s hands gripping a coffee cup so hard her knuckles went white. They never found a body, never got closure. Some nights, Dylan swore he still heard Lena’s voice whispering his name in the dark.
That’s why he started making documentaries—because if there was something beyond this life, if there were spirits left behind, then maybe, just maybe, he could find the one that mattered most.
The thought settled heavy in his chest as he walked through the narrow corridor of the train car. The air was thick with dust and age, but something else lurked beneath it. A cold, unnatural stillness. The kind that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end.
“Hello?” Dylan called out, more out of habit than expectation. “Any ghosts want to chat?”
Silence.
He huffed a nervous chuckle, shifting his camera. “Guess not.”
But then, a whisper.
Low. Almost imperceptible.
Dylan froze, his breath catching in his throat.
The temperature plummeted, and a thin mist curled in the air around him. His breath came in small, ghostly clouds as frost bloomed along the windows of the train.
“That’s new,” he muttered, adjusting the thermal settings on his camera.
A loud bang split the silence.
Dylan spun around, heart hammering. The door he’d entered through had slammed shut.
His pulse quickened. He rushed to the handle and twisted it. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge.
A voice, just behind his ear:
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Dylan staggered back, gripping his camera like a lifeline. His rational mind screamed to run, but instinct held him in place.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice cracking.
The frost thickened. A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, then solidified into the shape of a woman. She wore a long dress from another time, her translucent form shimmering like candlelight.
“You’re trespassing,” she said, her voice like static through an old radio. “This is our domain now.”
More shapes emerged behind her—men, women, even children. Their expressions were hollow, sorrow etched deep into their eyes.
Dylan swallowed hard, his filmmaker instincts kicking in despite his fear. The clipping in Dylan’s pocket felt like it was burning a hole. “I— I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he stammered. “But that’s why you’re still here, isn’t it?” he stammered. “You need someone to know the truth. I can help.”
The ghosts hesitated, then nodded. “Show us you are different,” the woman said.
Dylan nodded, his resolve firming. “What if I could tell your story? Get the truth out there?”
The woman’s ghostly form flickered. “Our story? You know nothing of our pain.”
A murmur rippled through the spectral crowd. An elderly man stepped forward, his flickering outline barely holding shape. “We were betrayed,” he said. “This train… it was sabotaged. Hundreds died because of one man’s greed.”
Dylan’s mind raced as they shared their tale—a railroad tycoon cutting corners, putting profit before safety. A doomed journey. A catastrophe that never should have happened.
And just like that, Dylan understood.
This wasn’t just about ghosts. This was about unfinished business. About justice denied.
Just like Lena.
His throat tightened. He tightened his grip on his camera. “That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it?” he said softly. “You need someone to know the truth.”
The woman nodded slowly. “We’ve been waiting so long. So very long.”
Dylan inhaled sharply. He had to help them. He had to do something.
“What if… what if I could tell your story?” he offered. “Get the truth out there?”
The ghosts exchanged uncertain glances, then turned back to him.
“Why would do that for us?” the old man asked, his brow furrowed.
Dylan nodded. “It’s what I do. I shine a light on the things people want to forget. But I need your help. Show me what happened. Let me record it.”
The spirits conferred in hushed whispers. Finally, the woman turned back to him.
“Very well,” she said. “But be warned—the truth is not for the faint of heart.”
The train car shifted. The air thickened. The world around Dylan blurred, and suddenly, he was no longer standing in an abandoned wreck—he was there. In their moment.
The train roared with life, the shriek of metal against metal piercing the air. Panicked voices rang through the car as people gripped their seats. The crash unfolded in real-time around him—the helpless screams, the sickening lurch of the train careening off its tracks.
Dylan felt every second of it. The terror. The finality.
Tears burned his eyes as he filmed it all.
And when it ended—when the train lay twisted and broken—Dylan found himself on the dusty floor of the present once more, gasping for air.
His hands shook as he clutched his camera to his chest. “I swear,” he rasped. “I’ll make sure everyone knows what happened here. I’ll make sure the ones responsible—their descendants—face justice.”
The woman’s ghost smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “Thank you, Dylan. You have a kind heart.”
“Wait,” Dylan said, realizing something. “How did you know my name?
“We see more than you might think,” she added. “Including the man waiting for you outside—the one you’ve been too afraid to tell how you feel.”
Dylan blinked. “Marco?”
The elderly ghost chuckled. “Love is a powerful force. Don’t waste it.”
Warmth returned to the air. The frost melted. The spirits’ forms flickered, growing fainter.
“Will I… will I see you again?” Dylan called.
The woman shook her head. “You’ve freed us, Dylan. Now, go live your life.”
With a final, grateful smile, the spirits vanished.
The train door creaked open.
Dylan stumbled out into the golden light of late afternoon.
“Dylan!”
Marco’s voice.
Dylan turned to find him running toward him, his dark eyes wide with worry.
“You’ve been in there for hours! I was about to call for help.”
Dylan looked at him—really looked at him—and something inside him shifted.
“Marco,” he said, his pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
As Dylan recounted his ghostly encounter, he realized something. The spirits had given him more than just a story.
They’d given him the push he needed to stop chasing ghosts—
—and start living.
THE END