The Midnight Express was a relic, a groaning beast of steel and steam that cut through the fog-choked countryside like a dull blade through flesh. Its route was an obscure one, winding through forgotten towns and skeletal forests, a journey no one took unless they had no other choice. The train ran once a night, departing at 12:01 a.m. sharp, and it was said that those who rode it carried more than just their luggage—they carried desperation.
Clara Henshaw was one such soul. She boarded the train on a damp October night, her breath fogging in the chill as she clutched a worn leather satchel to her chest. She’d missed the last bus out of Harrowgate, and the Midnight Express was her only way home. The platform was deserted save for a flickering lantern and a ticketmaster who didn’t meet her eyes when he handed her the stub. “Seat 13B,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. “Mind yourself.”
The train was nearly empty when Clara stepped aboard. The air inside smelled of mildew and old tobacco, and the dim lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the threadbare seats. She found her assigned spot in the second carriage—13B, a window seat facing a cracked pane of glass that reflected her pale, tired face. Across from her was 13A, empty, its cushion sagging as if it hadn’t been touched in years. She settled in, grateful for the solitude, and the train lurched forward with a mournful whistle.
The first hour passed in uneasy quiet. The rhythm of the wheels clacked against the tracks, a hypnotic drone that lulled Clara into a half-sleep. She might have drifted off entirely if not for the sudden chill that prickled her skin. Her eyes snapped open, and she froze. The seat across from her—13A—was no longer empty.
A man sat there, though she hadn’t heard him approach. He was tall and gaunt, his frame swallowed by a long, tattered coat that looked damp, as if he’d been caught in the rain. His head was bowed, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, and his hands rested in his lap, pale and still as marble. Clara’s heart thudded. She hadn’t seen him board, hadn’t heard the creak of the seat or the rustle of fabric. He was just… there.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t see you sit down.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. The train rattled on, and Clara shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the carriage. The handful of other passengers—a weary-looking woman with a knitting needle, an old man dozing with a newspaper—paid no attention. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Do you have a ticket for that seat?”
Still nothing. But then, slowly, the man’s head tilted upward. The brim of his hat lifted just enough to reveal his face—or what should have been a face. Where eyes, nose, and mouth belonged, there was only a smooth expanse of skin, blank and featureless, like a canvas left unpainted. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She stumbled to her feet, her satchel tumbling to the floor, and backed away, her eyes locked on the figure. It didn’t move, didn’t chase her, but she felt its presence pressing against her, heavy and cold.
She fled to the next carriage, her footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor. The conductor was there, a wiry man with a clipboard, checking tickets. “Sir,” she gasped, “there’s someone in 13A—something—I don’t know what it is, but it’s not right.”
The conductor didn’t look surprised. He sighed, scribbling something on his clipboard. “The Forgotten Passenger,” he said, as if it were a title. “Always in 13A. Don’t mind it. It doesn’t leave the seat.”
“What do you mean?” Clara demanded, her voice rising. “What is it?”
“No one knows,” he replied, his tone flat. “Been there since before I started this route. Some say it’s a ghost, some say it’s worse. But it’s harmless if you leave it be. Go back to your seat, miss. We’ve got a long ride ahead.”
Clara didn’t want to go back, but the conductor’s indifference left her no choice. She returned to her carriage, steeling herself. The figure was still there, motionless, its blank face turned slightly toward the window now. She sat as far from it as she could, pressing herself against the cold glass, and tried to focus on the blurred landscape outside. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching her, even without eyes.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—time felt slippery on the Midnight Express. The other passengers began to nod off, their heads lolling against the seats. Clara stayed awake, her nerves frayed. Then she heard it: a low, wet sound, like someone exhaling through water. It came from 13A. She risked a glance and wished she hadn’t.
The figure’s blank face was rippling. The smooth skin stretched and bubbled, as if something beneath it was trying to break free. A slit appeared where a mouth might have been, and from it came a voice—soft, garbled, and impossibly sad. “Forgotten,” it whispered. “Forgotten… forgotten…”
Clara clapped her hands over her ears, but the word burrowed into her skull. The slit widened, and now she saw teeth—jagged, yellowed things pushing through the flesh. The figure’s hands twitched, fingers elongating into thin, claw-like points. She screamed, leaping from her seat, but the other passengers didn’t stir. The train shuddered violently, the lights flickering, and the voice grew louder, a chorus of despair: “Forgotten! Forgotten!”
She ran again, this time toward the front of the train, pounding on locked doors and shouting for help. No one came. The air grew thick, suffocating, and she stumbled back into her carriage. The figure was standing now, its coat dripping with something dark and viscous. Its face—or what had been a face—was splitting apart, revealing a writhing mass of tendrils and teeth, a nightmare given form. It reached for her, and she felt its cold fingers brush her arm.
The train screeched to a stop, throwing Clara to the floor. When she looked up, the figure was gone. Seat 13A was empty again, the cushion sagging as before. Her satchel lay untouched, and the other passengers were waking, stretching as if nothing had happened. The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Last stop. All off.”
Clara staggered onto the platform, her legs shaking. The train pulled away, disappearing into the fog, and she swore she saw it—the figure—sitting in 13A, its blank face pressed against the window, watching her.
She never took the Midnight Express again. But sometimes, late at night, she’d hear that wet, whispering voice in her dreams: “Forgotten…” And she’d wake up wondering if it had ever let her go.