The Passenger

The train station was unusually quiet that evening. Maya adjusted her scarf against the biting cold, her breath visible in the dim, flickering light. She was on her way home from a long business trip, exhausted but eager to return to her cozy apartment. The train rumbled into the station, and she stepped into an almost-empty carriage.

She chose a seat near the window, staring at the blurred city lights as the train sped into the night. Moments later, a man boarded at the next station and sat across from her. He was unremarkable, dressed in a plain gray coat, but something about his expression unsettled her. His eyes never met hers but seemed to be observing her reflection in the glass.

Maya tried to dismiss her unease, scrolling through her phone to distract herself. The train stopped again, but no one else boarded. The man remained silent, his hands clasped tightly around a small leather bag. Maya noticed it wasn’t a typical travel bag—it was worn, the kind of bag that might hold something valuable or dangerous.

As the train approached a tunnel, the lights inside flickered and dimmed. When they came back on, the man was gone, leaving the bag behind. Maya’s heartbeat quickened. She hesitated, torn between curiosity and fear, but finally leaned forward to inspect the bag. Before she could open it, her phone buzzed.

It was a text message from an unknown number:
“Don’t open the bag. Get off at the next station. Now.”

Her stomach dropped. She glanced around the empty carriage, then at the bag. Who had sent the message? She didn’t recognize the number, but something in her gut told her to listen. As the train slowed to a halt, she grabbed her things and bolted out, leaving the mysterious bag behind.

On the platform, she looked back at the train, her heart pounding. As it pulled away, she saw the man from earlier, staring at her through the window. But his face was no longer unremarkable—it was twisted in a grotesque grin, his eyes hollow and menacing.

Maya turned and ran toward the exit, her mind racing. Who was he? What was in the bag? And how did the sender of the text know about it all?

When she finally reached the street, her phone buzzed again. Another message, from the same number:
“You did well. Go home, but don’t look back.”

Unable to resist, Maya glanced over her shoulder—and froze. The man was standing at the station’s entrance, holding the bag, his eyes locked on hers.

Her phone buzzed once more.
“I said, don’t look back.”

The story ends here, leaving you with the chilling realization that sometimes, curiosity can be deadly. What was the truth behind the man, the bag, and the cryptic messages? That, dear reader, is a question left for your imagination.