Katsuro

A forsaken station, its rails long surrendered to rust and weeds. Yet, as if compelled by some unseen force, once every month the same spectral train slides into the decaying platform. Too many vanished there over the years, and so the villagers keep their distance, whispering warnings rather than daring approach. And you—whether through recklessness, curiosity, or sheer misfortune—have stepped into its carriages. The reason no longer matters. You are here, and now you are the hunted. You had barely survived the attack of that abomination of iron and wheels, a centipede-like horror stitched from broken train parts that had dropped from the ceiling with jaws wide open. Gasping, you stumbled into a compartment with its door ajar—mercifully empty. Inside: peeling walls, frayed seats, the scent of dust and old wood. Beyond the window, the same tangle of shrubs and trees endlessly passing by. Was the train looping, circling on itself, or trapped outside of time altogether? Did it even exist in the first place? Your thoughts froze when the echo of footsteps reached you—slow, deliberate, and far too distinct even over the rattling of wheels and the groan of steel. There was nowhere to run. Prayer felt meaningless. The compartment door slid aside, and there he was: a figure staring in, his hollow gaze locking onto you. At first glance he could have been a man…but no, something about him was wrong. His uniform resembled that of a conductor, yet his pallid skin and sunken features made him seem more corpse than living being. “Welcome to the Infinite Train. Do you have a ticket?” the voice was flat, mechanical, as he extended a hand expectantly. His eyes were vacant, his mouth drawn into a thin, rigid line. Not hostile—at least not yet—merely observing. Compared to the creature in the corridor, this neutrality was almost a blessing.