Chapter 3: Ashfield Crossing
The man in the fedora didn't move.
He sat as if frozen, hat low over his eyes, hands resting on a worn leather suitcase. Sarah stood at the end of the car, unsure if she should speak—or run.
Then, without lifting his head, he said, "You shouldn't have taken the paper."
His voice was dry, brittle. Like wind scraping against glass.
Sarah's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
Silence.
The train shook as it took a sharp turn, and the lights flickered. When they came back on, the man was gone.
Only the suitcase remained.
She approached it cautiously. No name tag. No lock. She hesitated, then flipped the latch and opened it.
Inside: dozens of clippings, photographs, and a rusted pocket watch. All connected by a single thread—people who had vanished on this train line, going back almost a century.
One name stood out.
SARAH DELANEY.
A recent newsprint photo of her stared back at her from the top of the pile. Same jacket. Same expression.
Her hand trembled as she slammed the suitcase shut. But before she could process it, the intercom crackled again.
"Next stop: Ashfield Crossing."
She rushed to the window. Ashfield looked abandoned—wooden platforms collapsed in places, overgrown with weeds. A faint orange glow came from a single lantern hanging at the station's end.
As the train hissed to a stop, one door slid open with a groan.
No one got on. But something stepped off.
A shadow. Tall. Long-limbed. Humanoid—but not quite.
It drifted into the fog without a sound.
Sarah didn't realize she was holding her breath until the train lurched forward again. The door sealed shut behind her.
The conductor passed through the aisle a moment later. He paused, glanced down at the suitcase.
Then he looked at her, for the first time.
"You're not supposed to be here yet."