So I’m walking home from the late shift, earbuds in, right? It’s like two-thirty, the kind of hour when even the kebab shop lights look tired. I pass the boarded-up entrance to the old Eastbridge line and I hear this… tap, tap, tap. Not construction, not rats—more like someone drumming their fingers on the metal sheeting, keeping a beat only they know.
I tell myself it’s the Red Bull wearing off, but my feet stop anyway. There’s a gap in the plywood big enough for a phone lens, and before I can think better I’m filming. Screen’s dark at first, then the pixel mess clears and there he is: windbreaker shiny under one busted bulb, hood up, smiling like we’re old pals. He jerks his thumb down the tunnel—come on, man, the train’s waiting. I laugh, because what else do you do at half-two in the morning when a ghost kid tries to ghost-hail you?
But the laugh sticks in my throat ‘cause the air that puffs outta that gap is ice-cold, the sorta cold that smells of wet stone and forgotten birthdays. My phone battery drops from sixty to zero in a blink, screen dies, and the city behind me goes weirdly quiet, like someone pressed mute on the whole block. I back away, heart doing drum’n’bass, and I swear I hear him say, “Next time, bring a ticket.”
Next day I’m scrolling Reddit, still creeped, and there’s my video—posted by a throwaway called JumperFan88. Same angle, same kid, but in the clip he turns, pulls the hood down, and it’s my face staring back, only younger, like fourteen-year-old me before I grew the beard. Comments are the usual mix: fake, glitch, ARG. One dude writes, “He’s picking you, bro. You got seven nights.” I laugh again, weaker this time.
I try to forget, but the city won’t let me. Every billboard I pass shows that same fluorescent stripe on the jacket, flickering just at the edge of the ad. The metro map at work has the Eastbridge line penciled back in, like someone’s doodling train stops that don’t exist. Coworkers joke I look pale; I joke I need a vacation. Inside, I’m counting nights.
Night three, I stay awake, Netflix on, lights blazing. At 2:27 a.m. the power cuts. Emergency inverter kicks in, hallway glows red, and there’s this faint rumble under the floorboards—definitely not the upstairs neighbor’s subwoofer. I peek through the peephole: nothing. Then the letterbox clacks, and a thin orange ticket slides through. Paper’s damp, smells of tunnel. “Admit one,” it says, date stamped tomorrow, destination: EASTBRIDGE.
I pocket the thing, tell myself it’s a prank, maybe my kid brother messing with me. But when I wake up the ticket’s fused to my palm, fibers woven into my skin like it’s always been part of me. I try to peel it; hurts worse than a hangnail from hell. Online docs say “seek psychiatric help.” Yeah, no thanks, I’ll stick to Reddit.
Night six, I’m walking without deciding to walk, shoes steering downtown. Streets are emptier than usual, neon signs blinking off one by one like they’re ashamed to watch. I reach the tunnel gate and the plywood’s gone, just a black mouth breathing that same freezer-burn air. On the ground lies a windbreaker, nineties brand, my size. I put it on—don’t ask why, maybe tired of fighting—and the ticket on my palm glows soft, guiding me down the steps.
Tracks are dry, third rail dark, no rats, no graffiti. Just the sound of my sneakers crunching gravel and, somewhere ahead, the echo of someone humming the tune that was in my earbuds the first night. Every few yards a poster flutters: MISSING EASTBRIDGE SEVEN, kids from the eighties, faces faded but eyes still bright. I recognize one—me, again, same gap tooth, same dumb bowl cut. My stomach flips.
Then I see him, ten yards away, back turned, hood up. He starts walking, doesn’t look, just expects me to follow like we rehearsed this. We pass old vending machines lit for the first time in decades, cans inside dated 1989. He grabs two, tosses one my way. I catch it—surprisingly warm—and when I pop the tab it hisses like it’s been waiting. Tastes like flat nostalgia.
“You’re almost late,” he says, voice exactly mine minus the years of coffee and disappointment. “Train’s sentimental, won’t wait forever.” I ask the obvious: “What happens if I board?” He shrugs. “You get off where you need to get off. Some folks step into ‘85 and warn their moms about cancer. Some hop to 2040 and bet on Super Bowl champs. Most just ride till they figure out what they forgot.”
We reach the platform. Headlight blooms, no engineer, just a single silver car screeching in like a cat too proud to beg. Doors slide. Inside, seats are plush red, empty except for a woman knitting with glow-in-the-dark yarn. She glances up, smiles like she’s been saving it for me. My double steps aside, gestures me in. Ticket burns on my hand, urging.
I think of my studio apartment, unpaid bills, the job that eats my nights. I think of Mom getting older, texting me photos of dinners I keep missing. I think of every time I said “next year” and felt the calendar laugh. Maybe that’s the real haunting—not ghosts, but the versions of yourself you let slip by.
I don’t get on. Instead I take the windbreaker off, lay it on the platform like surrendering a superhero cape. The kid stares, confused. “You’ll be back,” he mutters. “They always come back.” Doors shut, train glides off, and the tunnel lights die one by one till only his silhouette remains, shrinking, shrinking, gone.
I walk out, ticket crumbling to ash in my pocket. Dawn’s bleeding over Eastbridge, painting the skyline peach. City noises return—sirens, garbage trucks, pigeons arguing. Everything feels louder, brighter, like someone cranked the saturation. I pass the boarded-up gate; fresh plywood already nailed, graffiti reading CLOSED FOR GOOD this time. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I’m not waiting to find out.
Back home I delete the Reddit app, call Mom, book a train ticket—real one, daylight, destination anywhere. I still check my phone at 2:27 a.m. sometimes, half expecting a new video, half hoping. All I see is my own reflection, older, eyes open, alive. And that’s spooky enough.