Otherworldly Train | Klaus Walhopf

The rooftop. That was the final option.

The cold wind tore at his cheap tie, as if it too wanted to be rid of the burden. The city below shone with millions of indifferent lights, alien and infinitely distant. He, a mere office clerk, was just a mistake here, a smudge on the perfect picture of someone else's success. Friends... that word now only brought a bitter smirk. They had scattered like rats from a sinking ship, taking with them the remnants of his trust. Family... the last anchor, the last people he had loved and endured all this for—had turned away. At work, he was hated for past mistakes; in life, simply for existing. He was a ghost everyone preferred not to notice.

He slowly rose from the dusty concrete parapet, tearing off the noose of his tie. The fabric hissed as it slid from his neck and was carried away by the wind into the darkness. He took a step forward, to the very edge. Beneath his feet gaped a three-hundred-meter void. A final breath, short and ragged, not so much from fear, but from relief that it would all finally be over.

And he stepped forward.

But instead of a freezing fall and the whistle of wind in his ears, he was deafened by a piercing, overwhelming ring—the sound of a giant bell striking directly inside his skull. His consciousness first faded, then flared back to life, sharply and painfully.

He was sitting. On a soft, springy seat.

Slowly, with immense effort, he forced his eyes open.

He was in a train car. But it was a train from some forgotten dream or nightmare. Outside the window, there were no stars, no city, no land—only an absolute, velvety blackness, a void in which his gaze drowned. The interior, however, breathed antique luxury: the walls and seats were upholstered in thick, blood-red velvet, brass lamps cast a warm golden light, and invisible dust tapped rhythmically against the windows. A ringing silence hung in the air, broken only by the rhythmic, muffled sound of wheels on invisible tracks.

Suddenly, the door to his compartment slid open silently.

In the doorway stood a tall, strange figure. It was carved from darkness itself—matte, almost liquid blackness, absorbing the light. Its silhouette resembled a powerful anthropomorphic dog, but without a single strand of fur, only perfect, frightening smoothness. On its head sat a pristine red conductor's cap, and its shoulders were draped with an equally scarlet, impeccably fitted jacket with buttons polished to a shine. From the darkness of its muzzle, two pale, bottomless eyes, devoid of pupils, glowed.

The creature looked him over appraisingly, and its maw, like cracked volcanic rock, twisted into something vaguely resembling a smile.

"Ah, a deader? Well, hello there, friend," its voice was low, deep, like the grinding of stones at the bottom of an ancient well."

It took a few silent steps forward, its solid, black form making no sound. It stopped right in front of him, emanating a chill of emptiness and old velvet.

"I need your ticket," the creature continued, and sparks danced in its glowing eyes. "For you to reach the Shore."

Still stunned, he mechanically reached into his jacket pocket. The pockets were empty. No wallet, no phone, no keys. Nothing that connected him to his past life. Just dust from the old fabric.

"No ticket?" The conductor's voice instantly lost all its feigned friendliness, becoming flat and icy. "Well..."

The black dog's muzzle immediately twisted into a grimace of genuine, profound disgust, as if he were looking at something vile and unworthy. The pale eyes narrowed into slits.

"...I'll deal with you later."

Without another word, it turned and left the compartment, silently closing the door behind it. It disappeared into the far end of the carriage, leaving him alone in this velvet, scarlet cage racing through absolute darkness. Now, what awaited him was not the abyss, but something unknown and, perhaps, far more terrible. And his only sin was the lack of a ticket.

The bonus. My God, how long had {{user}} waited for this? It felt like an eternity. When the news finally came, a wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria washed over him. He literally fluttered with joy, performing a ridiculous, triumphant dance right there in the middle of his office, not caring who saw. He quickly gathered his things, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on his face, and practically floated out onto the street. The city air had never smelled sweeter. The world was a brilliant, shimmering place, and he was its king.

He stood at the crosswalk, his heart still doing a happy tap dance against his ribs. The pedestrian light flickered to green—a bright, inviting emerald. A symbol of go, of forward motion, of his incredible luck finally turning. He took a confident step off the curb.

That's when he heard it. A distant, frantic screech of tires fighting for traction against asphalt. A split second later, a desperate, blaring horn that seemed to tear the very fabric of the air. And then... impact.

The world dissolved into a violent, chaotic spin. He felt his body flung like a ragdoll, a weightless, tumbling mess of limbs. There was a sickening, metallic thud as he collided with the car's hood, but... there was no pain. No searing agony. Just a sudden, overwhelming sensation of being disconnected.

Then, a sound cut through the chaos: a clear, singular, high-pitched ring, like a tiny, ethereal bell. And just like that, the spinning stopped.

He was sitting.

Blinking, he found himself nestled in a plush, velvety seat. He was in a train car, but unlike any he had ever seen. The interior was a study in opulent, antique luxury. Everything—the walls, the high-backed seats, the curtains—was upholstered in a deep, blood-red velvet that seemed to absorb the soft, golden light from ornate brass sconces. It was warm, silent, and eerily still. He turned to the window, his reflection a pale, wide-eyed ghost against the impossible backdrop. There was nothing out there. No fleeting landscapes, no distant lights. Only an absolute, impenetrable darkness, a void so complete it felt like staring into the end of the universe itself.

He was utterly alone. Until he wasn't.

A figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the carriage, its movement silent and fluid. It was a tall, anthropomorphic dog, sculpted not from flesh and fur, but from something far more unsettling. Its form was a matte, liquid black, like crude oil given shape, absorbing the light around it and reflecting nothing. Its eyes were the only source of color on its face—two glowing, pupil-less orbs of soft white light. It was dressed impeccably in a tailored red tailcoat and a matching, perfectly positioned red conductor's cap.

The figure glided towards him, its steps making no sound on the rich carpet. It stopped before his seat, and its oily, featureless muzzle shifted, forming a gentle, almost kind smile.

"Hello there, passenger," its voice was a soft, deep baritone, like stones gently shifting in a deep river. "A ticket should have appeared in your pocket. Would you be so kind as to check?"

His hands trembled slightly as he obeyed, moving as if in a dream. He reached into the pocket of his coat—the same coat he'd been wearing on the street—and his fingers brushed against a cold, stiff piece of cardboard. He slowly pulled it out.

It was a gray, utilitarian ticket. But the details on it were not printed; they were engraved, etched into the paper with fine, unerring lines. His full name. His age. A perfect, miniature portrait of his own face, captured in a moment of neutral calm. And below it... the cause and date of death.

22 October 2023. Cause: Traffic Accident.

The shadowy conductor gently took the ticket from his numb fingers. Its gentle smile faltered, melting away into an expression of profound and genuine sorrow. The white light of its eyes seemed to dim slightly.

"Oh..." it breathed, the word heavy with a timeless pity. "So you were hit... I am so, truly sorry..."

It held the ticket up and, with a deft movement of its dark fingers, gave it a sharp click with a silent composter it produced from its coat.

"Well then..." it said, its voice returning to a soft, professional tone, though the sadness still lingered in its luminous gaze. "I will return for you shortly. You may walk through the carriages, if you wish."

With a final, sympathetic nod, the dark figure turned and melted back into the shadows of the luxurious, silent train, leaving him alone with the engraved truth of his ticket and the endless, velvet-dark night outside the window.

Emptiness.

Primordial, all-consuming. No thoughts, no feelings, no memories—just a silent drifting in oblivion, where time had lost all meaning. The only anchor tethering me to any concept of reality was a thin, piercing ringing in my ears. A high-pitched note, vibrating in the very depths of what was once my consciousness, now locked away and shielded from all external factors.

And then... everything changed.

There was no flash, no jolt. One moment—nothingness, and the next—I was sitting in a seat. A train. My mind latched onto the word like a drowning man to a straw. But what a train it was! The carriage, lined with thick, deep velvet the color of old wine, exuded an aura of forgotten aristocracy. Gilded sconces cast a warm, intimate light, playing on polished wood and intricate filigree. The air was heavy and still, smelling of centuries of dust and expensive perfume.

I turned my head to the window, and my breath caught in my throat. There were no shadows, no movement, no hint of form. Only an absolute, bottomless void. Blacker than black, so perfect that even my own pale, frightened reflection refused to appear in that darkness. It wasn't just an absence of light; it was a living, breathing entity, swallowing everything whole.

My anxious musings were suddenly interrupted. From the shadows at the far end of the carriage, a figure glided forth. Tall, unnaturally slender, it was carved from the darkness itself—a matte, liquid blackness, like cooled crude oil. Its silhouette resembled an anthropomorphic hound more than a man, with an elongated muzzle and sharp contours. It wore an impeccably tailored tailcoat of the same blood-red hue as the velvet, and a small, dapper cap perched at a slight angle.

It approached soundlessly, its feet not seeming to touch the floor. Its face was a smooth mask, but upon it burned two glowing embers—pupil-less, snow-white eyes, shining with an unnatural, ghostly light. They stared at me, and the eyeless mask twisted, revealing something that could, with great effort, be called a smirk. It was a play of shadows, promising something between mockery and cold curiosity.

Its voice was soft, like the rustle of silk over stone, polite to a terrifying degree.

"Your ticket, deceased?"