THE THIRTEENTH PASSENGER

1:01 A.M. — The Other Conductor

“Mr. Daniel Mercer, please return to Seat 13.”

The announcement ended with a sharp burst of static.

Daniel stood motionless in the conductor’s compartment.

His own voice had spoken through the loudspeaker.

His own name was the only one left uncrossed in Clara’s notebook.

And the brass nameplate on his uniform was blank.

“Tell me what you know,” he said.

Clara was staring at the locked door.

“Not here.”

“Clara—”

“Someone is listening.”

Three soft knocks came from the other side.

Then a familiar voice.

“Miss Vale? I believe you have my notebook.”

The stranger.

Daniel looked at the black notebook on the desk.

“You said he gave it to you.”

“He did.”

“Then why does he want it back?”

Clara opened the cover.

On the inside, written in red ink, were four words:

The door handle turned.

Once.

Twice.

Then the stranger spoke again.

“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the rules.”

Daniel reached for the emergency brake.

Clara caught his wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not supposed to stop before Return.”

The stranger laughed softly.

“Very good, Miss Vale.”

A moment later, footsteps retreated down the corridor.

Daniel waited until they were gone.

Then he noticed something beneath the door.

A railway ticket had been pushed through the gap.

He picked it up.

It was old, yellowed, and damp.

On the front:

BLACKTHORN → RETURN

ONE WAY

SEAT 13

And beneath the destination, in smaller letters:

PASSENGER: DANIEL MERCER

The departure date was fourteen years ago.

1:04 A.M. — The Driver’s Cabin

Daniel had worked the Blackthorn route for fourteen years.

He knew every bend in the track.

Every signal.

Every bridge.

And every emergency procedure.

If someone was playing a trick on him, the driver would know.

“We’re going to the engine,” he said.

Clara shook her head.

“The stranger told me not to go there.”

“Then perhaps that’s exactly where we should go.”

They stepped into the corridor.

The carriage was almost silent.

The elderly woman still sat beside her blue scarf, but her knitting needles were motionless.

The young woman who had been traveling with her husband stared out of the window.

She had no newspaper now.

Daniel tried not to count the passengers.

He kept his eyes on the door at the far end.

They passed through the second carriage.

Then the first.

Something was wrong with the windows.

The train was moving.

Daniel could feel the wheels turning beneath his feet.

But outside, the same dead tree appeared again and again.

Its branches were twisted into the shape of a hand.

Each time they passed it, the clock above the carriage door moved backward by one minute.

1:04.

1:03.

1:02.

Clara stopped.

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“Look at the floor.”

A narrow trail of wet footprints led toward the driver’s cabin.

They were the size of a man’s shoes.

But there was only one set.

The footprints pointed away from the cabin.

Not toward it.

Someone had walked out.

Nobody had walked in.

Daniel opened the door.

The driver’s seat was empty.

The controls moved by themselves.

The throttle slid forward.

The brake lever trembled.

Beyond the windscreen, the tracks disappeared into a wall of white fog.

There was no driver.

There had never been a driver.

Clara whispered, “How is it moving?”

Daniel looked at the polished brass plate above the controls.

A name had been engraved there.

D. MERCER

Beneath it was a date.

The same date printed on his ticket.

Fourteen years ago.

Daniel reached toward the plate.

And remembered a scream.

Not from the train.

From somewhere inside his head.

A woman shouting his name.

A terrible metallic sound.

Then darkness.

He stumbled backward.

Clara caught him.

“What did you see?”

Daniel shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

But he did know one thing.

The scream had come from the night he first became a conductor.

Or the night he believed he had.

1:07 A.M. — Thirteen Tickets

They returned to the third carriage.

The stranger was sitting in Seat 13.

His dark coat was perfectly dry.

A cup of tea rested beside him.

Daniel stopped in the aisle.

“You.”

The man looked up.

“Ah. You found the cabin.”

“Who are you?”

The stranger glanced at Clara.

“Hasn’t she told you?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps she’s learning.”

Daniel seized the man by the collar.

“What happened fourteen years ago?”

The stranger did not resist.

Instead, he placed a gloved hand on Daniel’s wrist.

“You really don’t remember the passengers, do you?”

Daniel released him.

The stranger reached into his coat.

He withdrew a small bundle of railway tickets.

Thirteen of them.

All identical.

Blackthorn to Return.

One way.

Seat 13.

But each ticket bore a different name.

Daniel recognized the businessman.

The elderly woman.

The young couple.

Clara Vale.

And himself.

“Why do they all say Seat 13?” Daniel asked.

“Because only one passenger can arrive.”

The stranger spread the tickets across the table.

Twelve were marked in red.

One was blank.

Daniel’s.

Clara took a step back.

The stranger watched her carefully.

“Miss Vale has been trying to save you.”

Daniel turned toward her.

“Save me from what?”

Clara’s lips trembled.

“From remembering.”

The stranger folded his hands.

“Every time the train makes this journey, the passengers forget what happened. The notebook helps them hold on a little longer.”

“Every time?”

The stranger looked at the clock.

“Some journeys take fourteen years, Mr. Mercer.”

Daniel felt the carriage sway.

“How many times have we done this?”

The stranger said nothing.

Clara answered.

“Thirteen.”

1:10 A.M. — The Last Page

Daniel took the notebook from Clara.

He opened it to the final page.

His name remained uncrossed.

But the paper was changing.

A second line appeared beneath it.

At first, it was only a faint impression.

Then letters formed in red ink.

Daniel looked at Clara.

“Choose what?”

She closed her eyes.

“Who gets off.”

The stranger lifted his teacup.

“And who stays.”

Daniel turned the page.

A photograph had appeared where there had been blank paper.

It showed a railway platform.

Blackthorn Station.

Fourteen years earlier.

Twelve passengers stood beside the last train.

Daniel was among them.

He was wearing an ordinary dark coat.

Not a conductor’s uniform.

He stood beside a young woman with short dark hair.

Clara.

She was smiling.

And behind them, half-hidden in the train doorway, stood a man in a conductor’s cap.

Daniel leaned closer.

The man had brown eyes.

A narrow mouth.

And a small scar beneath his left ear.

The stranger.

Daniel slowly raised his head.

“You were the conductor.”

The stranger nodded.

“Once.”

“What happened?”

The stranger set down his cup.

“You took my place.”

Daniel looked at the photograph again.

In the corner, someone had written a message.

Daniel’s hands began to shake.

He remembered the scream again.

Then the sound of brakes.

The smell of burning metal.

And a voice saying:

There is room for only one.

He looked at Clara.

“Did I leave you behind?”

She did not answer.

That was answer enough.

1:12 A.M. — Return

The train began to slow.

Outside, the fog parted.

A platform emerged.

There were no lamps.

No benches.

No waiting passengers.

Only a black station sign.

RETURN

The clock above it read 1:13.

Daniel looked down at his ticket.

The destination had changed.

It no longer said Return.

It said:

BLACKTHORN

DEPARTURE: 11:40 P.M.

The stranger stood.

“It’s time.”

Daniel blocked his way.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You said only one passenger can arrive.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

The stranger looked at Clara.

“Because this time, she remembered enough.”

Clara stepped toward Daniel.

“Listen to me. When the doors open, you must not follow him.”

“Why?”

“Because he isn’t trying to escape.”

The stranger’s smile faded.

Clara continued.

“He wants you to take his place again.”

The train stopped.

The doors opened with a long metallic sigh.

Beyond them, the platform was empty.

Then a voice came through the loudspeaker.

Daniel’s voice.

“Final station. All passengers must present their tickets.”

The elderly woman rose.

The young woman followed.

Figures began moving through the carriage.

Daniel counted without meaning to.

One.

Two.

Three.

There were twelve passengers again.

The businessman in the grey suit had returned.

The young husband stood beside his wife.

Everyone who had disappeared was back.

They walked toward the open doors.

None of them looked at Daniel.

None of them looked at Clara.

The stranger stood beside Seat 13.

“Last chance, Mr. Mercer.”

Daniel held up his ticket.

“What happens if I refuse?”

The stranger glanced at the station clock.

Its hands began moving backward.

1:13.

1:12.

1:11.

“Then we depart again.”

Clara grabbed Daniel’s hand.

“Don’t give him your ticket.”

Daniel looked at her.

“Why?”

She opened the notebook to the photograph.

Then she pointed to something he had missed.

In the reflection of the train window, the stranger was visible.

So was Clara.

So were all twelve passengers.

But Daniel was not.

He stared at the photograph.

The stranger spoke quietly.

“You see, Mr. Mercer…”

The carriage lights went out.

For one second, Daniel heard the terrible metallic scream from fourteen years ago.

Then the lights returned.

Seat 13 was empty.

The stranger was gone.

Clara was gone.

Every passenger was gone.

Daniel stood alone in the carriage.

In his hand was a ticket.

But it no longer bore his name.

It read:

PASSENGER: CLARA VALE

SEAT 13

From the platform came three soft knocks.

Daniel turned toward the open door.

Someone was standing beyond the fog.

A young woman.

Short dark hair.

A black notebook in her hand.

Clara.

She looked directly at him.

And said:

The station clock struck 1:13.

The doors slammed shut.

And the train began to move.