Frank Malone was a drifter, a hobo who had spent the better part of his life riding cargo trains across the vast expanse of America. With a weathered face and a heart full of restless wanderlust, Frank had seen it all—dusty towns, sprawling cities, endless fields, and forgotten places. But nothing had prepared him for the terror that awaited him on his final journey.

It was a cold, moonless night when Frank hopped onto a slow-moving freight train in the heart of the Midwest. The train rumbled along the tracks, its rhythmic clatter a comforting lullaby to the seasoned vagabond. He settled into an empty boxcar, wrapping himself in his tattered coat to fend off the chill. As the train picked up speed, Frank drifted off to sleep, the darkness outside a vast, impenetrable void.

Hours later, Frank awoke to an eerie silence. The train had come to an abrupt halt, and the only sound was the whisper of the wind through the open door of the boxcar. Puzzled, Frank climbed out of his makeshift bed and peered into the night. The landscape was desolate, an empty stretch of tracks surrounded by dense, foreboding woods.

As he ventured further down the train, he noticed something strange—there were no other hobos, no railway workers, no signs of life at all. The train seemed abandoned, a ghostly relic stranded in the middle of nowhere. Frank’s unease grew as he approached the engine, hoping to find some explanation for the train’s sudden stop.

To his horror, the engineer’s cabin was empty, the controls unmanned and the gauges lifeless. Panic set in as Frank realized he was completely alone. He turned to leave, but a flicker of movement caught his eye. In the dim light of the moon, he saw a figure standing at the edge of the woods, its silhouette barely visible against the dark trees.

The figure stepped forward, revealing itself to be a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes and a twisted, malevolent grin. Frank’s heart pounded as the man began to speak in a low, raspy voice. «You shouldn’t have come here,» he said, his words echoing in the night. «This place is cursed, and now you’re a part of it.»

Frank tried to run, but his legs felt heavy, as if the very air around him was thick with malevolent energy. The man approached, his presence radiating a palpable sense of dread. «This train is a gateway,» he continued, «a passage to the other side. And you, Frank Malone, are its newest passenger.»

As the man’s words sank in, Frank felt a cold, clammy hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the faces of the dead—men, women, and children who had met their untimely ends on these tracks. Their eyes were vacant, their mouths twisted into silent screams. They surrounded him, their ghostly hands pulling him toward the train.

Frank struggled, but the grip of the dead was unyielding. He was dragged back to the boxcar, his pleas for mercy swallowed by the darkness. The train roared to life, its wheels grinding against the tracks as it began to move once more. Frank’s heart raced as he was forced to take his place among the damned, his soul forever bound to the cursed train.

As the train disappeared into the night, its haunting whistle echoed through the woods, a chilling reminder of the fate that awaited those who dared to ride the rails. And in the stillness of the night, the whispers of the dead could be heard, a mournful chorus that would never fade.

Frank Malone was never seen again, but his legend lived on—a cautionary tale whispered among the hobos and vagabonds who roamed the country. They spoke of the ghost train, a spectral locomotive that carried the souls of the lost, forever bound to the rails of despair.