Nightmares at the Station
Nightmares at the Station
Tom and Les were working on restoring the benches outside the station. The renovation was part of the seating area for the new restaurant that was being built inside the old building. It was part of the revaluation of the area. They had been working for most of the day, and the sun was starting to get low in the sky. And being the people, they were, and the Halloween season just beginning, they had been telling stories to try and frighten each other. But as the twilight started to fill the shadows around them the competition and stories became less than subtle.
Tom set down his sanding block and wiped the dust from his hands. “You want scary, Les? I’ll give you scary. Happened to my brother-in-law. He swears it’s true. I call it ‘The Laughing Baby.’”
Les looked up from the bench he was restoring, eyebrow raised. “Go on.”
“Mike lives alone. Never married, no kids. Lives in one of those old row houses on Maple Street, the ones built before the war. Nice place, he says, except for one thing.” Tom paused, letting the silence of the old station settle around them. “Every night at three in the morning, he’d hear a baby laughing.”
“A baby?” Les asked with suspicion.
“Yeah, baby. Not crying, laughing. That gurgling, happy laugh babies do when someone’s playing with them. The first time it happened, Mike thought maybe it was coming from outside, or through the walls of a neighbor. But when he checked, there was nothing. Just that laugh, clear as day, coming from inside his own house.”
Tom picked up his block again, running it absently along the wood. “It kept happening. Every single night at three AM. He’d wake up, he couldn’t help it. And moments later there it would be. Sometimes it sounded like it was coming from the hallway. Sometimes from the kitchen. Once, he said, it sounded like it was right outside his bedroom door.”
“What did he do?” Les asked.
“What could he do? He searched every inch of that house. No rational explanation. But here’s where it gets worse.” Tom leaned in closer. “After about two weeks of this, Mike started feeling… compelled. That’s the word he used. Compelled. When he’d hear that laugh, he’d feel this overwhelming urge to get up and follow it. To find the baby. To go see what was making it so happy.”
Les had stopped working entirely now. “Did he?”
“One night, he gave in. Couldn’t fight it anymore. He got out of bed at three AM when he heard the laughing and followed it. Down the hallway, down the stairs, through the kitchen. The laugh kept moving, always just ahead of him, always just around the next corner. Led him right to the basement door.”
Tom’s voice dropped lower. “Mike said he had his hand on that doorknob, ready to go down those stairs into the dark, when something made him stop. Call it instinct, call it whatever you want. He looked down and saw that his feet were right at the edge of the top step. Except there was no step. The entire staircase had rotted away years ago—he’d been meaning to fix it. If he’d taken one more step following that laugh, he’d have fallen fifteen feet onto concrete.”
“The laugh stopped the moment he pulled his hand away. Never heard it again. But sometimes, late at night, he says he can still feel it—something in that house, trying to call him toward the darkness.”
Les smiled slowly. “Not bad, Tom. Not bad at all. But since you mentioned basements and dark places, let me tell you something that happened right here. In this very station.”
“This one’s called, The Bell That Rings.” Les said before clearing his throat.
He gestured around them at the ancient wooden benches, the high ceiling, the old departure bell mounted on the wall near the platform. The brass bell that station managers used to ring to signal the train’s departure. “This was maybe three months ago, when I first started working on this restoration. I was here alone one evening, finishing up some detail work before the weekend. Sun was setting, getting to that grey time between day and night.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the bell above them.
“I was working right over there,” Les pointed to the far corner of the waiting room, “when I happened to look over at the bell rope. And I saw it swinging. Not much—just a gentle sway back and forth, like someone had given it a soft pull.”
“Wind?” Tom offered.
“That’s what I thought. Except there was no wind. All the windows were closed. I’d made sure of it because of the dust. I watched it for a minute, and it kept swinging with the same gentle rhythm, not slowing down. Then it stopped. Just… stopped, like someone had grabbed it.”
Les set down his brush. “I felt uneasy, but I shook it off. I went back to work. About twenty minutes later, I realized I needed more polish—I’d left it in my truck. So, I headed out. Through the waiting room, through the old ticket office, out the front doors. You know how it is. Got the polish, came back in. Kept working.”
“Half an hour passes, and I run out of polish again. Used more than I thought. So out I go again—through the station, out to the truck, back through all the rooms. I’m breathing hard when I get back to the waiting room, and I’m standing right about here,” Les moved to the center of the space, “when I hear it.”
“Hear what?” Tom asked.
“The bell. Two clear rings. Loud and bright, echoing through the whole station just like it must have done a hundred years ago when trains were leaving.” Les’s voice was steady, but his eyes were serious. “Now here’s the thing, Tom. I was standing right here, looking directly at the bell when those rings happened. The bell didn’t move. Not even a quiver. But I heard it, felt it in my chest. Two rings.”
Tom was staring at him now.
“I stood there frozen, and then I thought about it. The rope had swung on its own. Then I made two trips out to the truck—the bell rang twice when I was gone. And then, just as I was thinking about this, it rang once more—one single ring. But the bell stayed perfectly still. Like it was only real when I couldn’t see it.”
Les picked up his brush again, but his hand wasn’t quite steady. “I left early that day. Didn’t come back alone for a week. And I’ll tell you this—I count the times I go in and out of this station now. Always count them because I realized something else that night, after I’d had time to think. I made two trips out. The bell rang twice. Then it rang once more. And I was about to leave early. One more trip out.”
“It was counting my departures. Ringing them out like it used to do for the trains. Like it was announcing that something was leaving.”
The rope hung motionless between them in the fading light, and somewhere in the old station, a board creaked like footsteps on a platform.
Tom was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright, alright. You want to make this about the places we work? Fine. I’ve got another one that’ll make you think twice about the places you sleep. This one’s called, The Handprint on the Glass “
He moved to the window, looking out over the abandoned tracks. “I had a friend—Dave—who bought one of those Victorian houses over on Ashwood Avenue. Beautiful place, good bones, needed some work, but nothing serious. He was proud of it. First house he’d ever owned.”
“Everything was fine for the first few days. Then one morning, Dave comes downstairs and notices something odd. There’s a handprint on the bay window in his living room. Small one, child-sized. Greasy-looking, like a kid had pressed their hand against the glass after eating something.”
“He cleaned it off, figured maybe the previous owners had children. Didn’t think much of it. Next morning—same thing. Same window, same handprint, same size, same position. Same spot.”
Tom turned back to face Les. “This happened every single morning. Dave started testing things—he’d clean it at night before bed, lock all the doors and windows, even set up one of those home cameras pointing at the window. Nothing. No one came in. But every morning at dawn, when that first light hit the glass just right, there it was. That little handprint.”
“After two weeks of this, Dave decided he’d had enough. He was going to stay up all night and watch that window. See what happened. So he did. Mike sat in his armchair with all the lights off, watching that bay window. He told me he almost fell asleep around three thirty in the morning, but then… he saw it.”
By this time, Les had gone very still.
“The handprint appeared. Right in front of him. Not all at once, but slowly, finger by finger, like someone was pressing their hand against the glass in the dark. Dave said he felt his blood run cold because he could see which direction the print was facing.” Tom paused, letting the moment sink in. “It wasn’t pressing inward, not like before. Like someone trying to get in. It was pressing outward.”
“Outward?” Les, gulped.
“From the inside of the house. From Dave’s side of the window. It was as if something between the walls, something in the structure of the house itself, was trying to push its way out into the room. He said he sat there watching as each finger slowly materialized—thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky—pressing against that glass from the inside out. And when the full handprint was there, he swore he could see the glass bowing slightly, flexing, like something was pushing hard.”
Tom’s voice dropped. “He didn’t even pack. Left that night with the clothes on his back and never went back except to get his stuff during daylight with three friends helping him. Sold the house at a loss two months later. The new tenants?” He shook his head. “They lasted three weeks. The house has been vacant ever since. It’s still there, if you want to drive by. And if you look closely at that bay window from the street, even in the daytime, you can still see a faint smudge. Same size, same shape. Same small handprint.”
“They say houses settle, Les. Foundations shift, walls creak, pipes knock. But Dave swears to this day that what he saw wasn’t the house settling. It was something inside the walls, something that had maybe been there for a very long time, trying to get out.”
Les stood up, brushing off his knees, and looked up at the high ceiling of the waiting room. “Good story, really good. Almost makes me forget where we are. But, I’ve got one that still keeps me up when I’m working alone. The Echo That Answers Back. And it happened here.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Almost. Because what you described feels like something trying to get out, it reminds me of something trying to get in. Or rather, trying to get closer.”
“This happened here, in this station, about six weeks ago. I was working late—later than I should have been, really. The sun had set, and I was using work lights. I thought I heard someone come in through the main entrance, and heard the old doors creak. So I called out toward the ticket office, thinking it was you.”
Tom shifted his weight. “I wasn’t here that night.”
“I know that now. But I thought maybe you’d stopped by to grab your tools, or something. When you didn’t answer, I called again, but louder. ‘Hello? Anyone there?” Les’s expression darkened. “That’s when I heard it. My own voice. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ The same words, same tone, same everything. But it didn’t come from the ticket office, it came from down the platform. From the old tunnel entrance.”
“The tunnel? But that’s—” tom’s voice faded.
“But that’s been sealed for forty years, I know. That’s what I thought too. I figured it was some acoustic trick, sound bouncing off the tile walls or the curved ceiling. So, I walked down the platform toward the tunnel to check. Got down there, looked at the boarded-up entrance. Nothing. Just darkness beyond the gaps in the boards.”
Les ran his hand along the edge of a bench, not quite steady. “I decided to test it. Called out again. ‘Is anyone there?’ And again, my voice answered back. Is anyone there?’ But it came from deeper inside.”
“I stood on the platform, looking at those boards, and I heard my own voice calling from the other side. And then I realized something. Each time I’d called out, the echo had come from farther in the tunnel. First, from just beyond the entrance. Then from deeper in. It was retreating. Going backward into the dark.”
Tom had gone pale. “What did you do?”
“I stopped talking. Immediately. I just froze on that platform and waited. And I counted. I counted the silence, counted the seconds. Because I realized that if it had gone down into the tunnel, what was to stop it from coming back forward? What if it had just been, uh, making room?”
Les’s voice had suddenly gone very quiet. “I waited there for maybe two minutes. Felt like hours. Then I heard it. My voice again but not answering me this time. It was speaking, but all the things I’d said, but in reverse order. ‘Is anyone there?’ Then, ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Getting closer each time. Coming back through that tunnel toward the platform.”
“I backed away faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. Got to the waiting room and could hear it still coming, still speaking in my voice, getting louder. I made it to the main entrance when I heard it reach the platform. And then…” Les swallowed hard, his tale more like a memory. “Then I heard my voice say something I’d never said. Something new.”
“What did it say?” Tom asked.
“It said, ‘Why are you running, Les?'” He then looked directly at Tom. “I didn’t stop until I was in my truck. I didn’t look back. And here’s what keeps me up at night. I never told whatever it was my name. But it knew.”
The station became eerily quiet. Down the platform, something creaked, like weight shifting on the old floor.
“I came back the next day, of course. Had to. But I don’t work late anymore. And I don’t call out into empty spaces, not here, not anywhere. Because somewhere down there, in that sealed tunnel, I think there’s still an echo of me. Waiting. Getting ready to come all the way out.”
Tom looked down toward the platform, toward the dark shape of the tunnel entrance in the distance. “Have you… heard it since?”
“No,” Les said, looking away, his eyes giving a distant stare. “But sometimes, when I’m working and it’s very quiet, I feel like I’m about to. Like if I listened hard enough, I’d hear my own voice calling from the platform, asking me questions I never asked. Saying things I never said.”
He picked up his tools. “Come on. Let’s finish up and get out of here. I don’t like being here when it gets dark. Especially when the station gets too quiet.”
As they gathered their things, neither man behind them noticed the bell rope swaying ever so slightly in the still air. Neither heard the faint sound, like an echo of an echo, drifting from somewhere down the platform.
But if they had listened, really listened, they might have heard two voices whispering in the darkness.
And both voices sounded like the two men leaving the station just as the sun was setting.
Happy Halloween 2025, Everyone!!!