Every night at exactly 12:40 a.m., the last metro passed through the underground station without stopping. Few people knew why. Fewer dared to ride it.
Ravi, a night-shift worker,
boarded the last metro one evening when all other trains were canceled. The coach was almost empty—except for seat number 13. It was spotless, as if waiting for someone. A chill ran down his spine when the doors closed by themselves.
As
the train moved, the lights flickered. The digital screen showed no stations, only one message: SEAT 13 OCCUPIED.
A woman slowly appeared on
the seat. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, and water dripped endlessly from her clothes. She turned to Ravi and whispered, “This is where I died.”
The metro entered a tunnel longer than any Ravi had seen. Screams echoed
from the walls. Ghostly faces pressed against the windows, begging to be let in. Ravi tried to pull the emergency chain, but it melted in his hand.
Suddenly, the train stopped. Morning light filled the coach. Ravi was alone at the
depot. But on the lost-and-found board was a notice:
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