The Ghost of Blackwood Creek
The dust bit at Marcus Hale's throat as he dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the parched earth of Blackwood Creek.
E.g. ：That Cafeteria Lunch Tray Still Haunts Me.
- 1、The Ghost of Blackwood Creek
- 2、The Silent Saloon and the Cold Glass
- 3、Arthur Jenkins's Last Entry
- 4、The Hour of the Phantom Train
- 5、One Passenger
- 6、The Unseen Presence
This wasn't just another forgotten town; it was a scar on the frontier, a place where whispers of a phantom midnight train lingered longer than any living soul.
His mission here was grim, yet utterly compelling: locate Arthur Jenkins, a fellow railway investigator who had vanished months ago while tracking a series of unexplained disappearances linked to this very settlement.
Jenkins, his mentor and a man of unshakeable logic, had become obsessed with the legend of an unregistered rail service that reportedly transported souls to an unknown destination from this very spot.
Local folklore painted Blackwood Creek's demise not as a gradual decline, but as an abrupt, terrifying evacuation after a sudden influx of "departures" from the train station, each one coinciding with the spectral train's arrival.
Marcus carried Jenkins’s own worn pocket watch, its steady tick a constant reminder of the unanswered questions that haunted him.
He was here to find answers, to pull back the veil on the inexplicable, and to bring Jenkins home, even if only in memory.
The only building still standing with any semblance of integrity was the 'Silver Spur Saloon,' its swinging doors hanging crookedly, like broken teeth in a ghoulish grin.
This was Jenkins’s last known location, according to the cryptic telegraph he’d sent before silence descended.
A cold dread settled in Marcus’s stomach, a premonition that this place held more than just dust and echoes.
The Silent Saloon and the Cold Glass
Pushing through the saloon's decaying doors, Marcus was met by an oppressive silence, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through broken window panes.
His spurs clinked loudly on the grimy wooden floorboards, each step disturbing decades of accumulated dust.
The air hung heavy, thick with the ghosts of forgotten laughter, spilled whiskey, and desperate deals.
Sunlight struggled to penetrate the filth-streaked windows, casting long, distorted shadows across overturned tables and empty chairs.
Spiderwebs, thick as cotton, draped from the ceiling like morbid decorations.
Every surface was coated in a fine, powdery layer of red desert dust, a testament to the years of abandonment.
Yet, as his gaze swept across the long, scarred bar, something snagged his attention, jarring him out of his reverie.
Amidst the uniform blanket of dust, a single whiskey glass stood conspicuously clean.
Marcus approached cautiously, his hand hovering over the rim.
He hesitated, then gently touched it.
A profound, impossible cold radiated from the glass, as if it had just been filled with ice from a distant winter.
His brow furrowed in confusion; how could anything be this pristine, this cold, in a sun-baked, abandoned building?
He looked around again, a prickle of unease turning into genuine alarm.
There was no sign of life, no trace of anyone having recently been here, save for this singular, inexplicable object.
His grip tightened on the Colt revolver holstered at his hip, a gesture of comfort more than immediate threat.
This wasn’t just a ghost town anymore; it felt like a scene specifically set, a stage waiting for an unknown player.
Arthur Jenkins's Last Entry
Marcus slowly moved behind the long, polished but now dull counter, his eyes searching for any further clue.
The silence pressed in, amplifying the creak of the floorboards beneath his weight.
Advertisement
He found nothing but more dust, empty bottles, and the lingering scent of stale hops.
Then, partially hidden beneath a stack of old, mildewed newspapers, he saw it.
A leather-bound ledger, its cover worn smooth, lay open.
It was Jenkins's personal logbook, the very one Marcus had recognized from his mentor's office.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he carefully lifted the book, the pages brittle and yellowed.
He scanned the cramped, familiar handwriting, noting Jenkins’s meticulous observations about Blackwood Creek's rail lines and the unusual reports of vanishing townsfolk.
He flipped past entries detailing standard freight manifests and passenger counts, each one more desperate as Jenkins struggled to reconcile the official records with the local legends.
Then he found it: the final entry, scrawled hastily across the last used page.
"TRAIN ARRIVES AT MIDNIGHT."
The words were stark, capitalised, and underlined twice, imbued with a sense of urgency that transcended the paper they were written on.
It wasn't a schedule; it was a warning, a discovery, perhaps even a plea.
Had Jenkins uncovered the truth about the phantom train?
Had he become its latest victim, or had he meant to confront it?
A chill colder than the glass on the bar snaked down Marcus’s spine, for he now knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was walking in his mentor's final footsteps.
The Hour of the Phantom Train
Marcus’s hand instinctively went to the pocket watch he carried, the one that had belonged to Jenkins.
He pulled it out, the polished brass cool against his palm, and flipped open the cover.
The delicate hands pointed unequivocally to 11:59 PM.
A gasp caught in his throat.
Midnight.
The very hour Jenkins had marked as crucial.
The saloon, already a tomb of silence, seemed to hold its breath.
A low, resonant thrum vibrated through the floorboards, a sound so deep it was felt more than heard.
Then, from the corner of the room, near the old, dusty upright piano, three sharp, discordant notes suddenly rang out.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
They echoed eerily in the empty space, a ghostly melody played by unseen hands.
Marcus spun around, his revolver now fully drawn, pointing into the shadows where the music had come from.
Nothing.
Just the silent piano, its keys undisturbed, covered in the same pervasive dust as everything else.
The thrumming intensified, accompanied now by a distant, mournful whistle that cut through the night like a cry from the past.
He felt an irresistible pull towards the saloon’s front window, a terrible fascination drawing him closer.
Peering through the grimy glass, his breath hitched.
Beyond the abandoned street, down the long-overgrown tracks, a colossal shape began to materialise from the inky blackness.
A steam locomotive, impossibly large and shrouded in an ethereal mist, was slowly, deliberately appearing.
Its single, cyclopean headlamp pierced the night, casting an unearthly glow that swept across the desolate street, bathing the saloon in its spectral light.
The ground began to tremble beneath him, the windows rattled, and the very air grew heavy with the smell of coal smoke and something else – something metallic and ancient.
One Passenger
The phantom train's whistle shrieked again, closer this time, a sound that tore at the fabric of reality.
Its massive wheels, glowing faintly with an internal light, screeched against the tracks, slowing its approach but never quite stopping.
It was real, yet utterly impossible.
Marcus, his mind reeling, looked from the approaching train to the ledger still clutched in his hand.
He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to re-examine Jenkins's final entry.
Advertisement
His eyes fell upon the stark, capitalised words: "TRAIN ARRIVES AT MIDNIGHT."
But now, directly beneath it, in the same familiar script yet undoubtedly fresh, a new line had appeared.
It read: "ONE PASSENGER."
The ink was darker, vibrant against the aged paper, as if written just moments ago.
A cold wave of dread washed over Marcus, far deeper than any chill from a glass or a ghostly piano.
This wasn't just a clue from Jenkins.
This was a live communication.
Someone, or something, was adding to the ledger, reacting to his very presence.
And the message was undeniably personal.
"One Passenger."
Was this the train's purpose? To collect a single, destined soul?
And if so, who was it?
A soft, almost imperceptible creak sounded directly behind him, a sound that wasn't the wind, nor the straining wood of the old saloon.
It was close.
He felt a faint breath, like cold air, ghost across the nape of his neck.
His blood ran cold.
He slowly, agonizingly, turned from the ledger, his gaze sweeping over his shoulder, the revolver still clutched tightly in his trembling hand.
The Unseen Presence
The train outside let out a final, lingering hiss of steam, its massive form now almost completely visible, directly opposite the saloon.
Its headlamp held steady, fixed like a predatory eye upon the very spot where Marcus stood.
The saloon remained empty, or so it seemed to his eyes.
But the feeling of being watched, of not being alone, was overwhelming.
The cold glass on the bar seemed to shimmer with an inner light, and the silence behind him felt charged with an undeniable presence.
Marcus’s eyes darted frantically, searching the deep shadows, the overturned tables, the dusty corners.
Was Jenkins here? Was it the entity that had taken him?
Or was it something far more ancient, something tied to the very tracks outside, waiting for its next, singular fare?
His knuckles were white around the revolver.
His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He was the investigator, the man of logic, but logic had abandoned Blackwood Creek long ago.
The chilling truth was slowly dawning on him, a truth far more terrifying than any phantom train.
He was no longer just a traveler, nor merely an investigator searching for answers.
He was the next entry in the ledger.
He was the "ONE PASSENGER."
