The Last Stop

Tonight, once again, I shall tell you a strange tale from Japan.
Relax… but do not turn around too quickly.
I am watching just behind you.
Heh, heh, heh…

He was in his early twenties, earnest in his studies,
but equally eager to explore Japanese culture.
On weekends he would take short trips to nearby towns,
hike mountain trails,
and wander through backstreets just to see what daily life felt like outside of the classroom.

One evening, his research group invited him to a casual drinking party
at a local izakaya,  just beyond the city center.

The warmth of grilled dishes,
the unfamiliar yet delightful taste of regional sake,
and the easy laughter of his friends
made him forget about the time.

When they finally stepped outside,
the night air was cool,
and from somewhere in the distance came the faint, metallic clanging of a railroad crossing.

The streets had grown strangely quiet;
Shops were shuttered,
Streetlights sparse.

“Hey, we might miss the last train,”
one of his classmates muttered.

The foreign student had already learned—
from bitter experience—
that Japanese trains were punctual to the second.
Miss one, and you might be stranded until morning.

They hurried to the station,
legs aching from the sprint.

Just as they reached the platform,
a train pulled in with a sigh of brakes.

The cars looked a little old, their paint dull under the fluorescent lamps,
but the doors slid open smoothly.

Breathing hard, he leapt aboard.

The car was surprisingly empty.
Perhaps it was because the train headed away from the city,
deeper into the suburbs,
where few passengers remained at this late hour.

Harsh white light spilled from the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
Every few seconds, the wheels struck the joints in the rails—

clack, clack—

a monotonous rhythm that only emphasized the stillness.

He sank into a window seat, staring at his own faint reflection in the glass. The day’s exhaustion mingled with the haze of alcohol,
pulling him into drowsiness.

Stop after stop passed,
and the car grew steadily emptier,
until he realized he was the only passenger left.

A small worry stirred in him: 

What if the train went all the way to the depot?
What if I ended up locked inside?

But the thought faded as his eyelids grew heavy.
He drifted, lulled by the rhythm of the train,
until the world slipped away.

He woke with a start.

The train had stopped—
though no announcement played.
The car was utterly silent.

Blinking, he looked outside.
He did not recognize the station.
The platform was dimly lit,
its benches cracked and peeling,
its, signboard so faded the name was unreadable.

Not a single soul moved in sight.

Panicked, he stood, stepped out—
and barely had time to turn around before the doors closed.

The train pulled away without a sound,
leaving him alone on the empty platform.

The silence pressed in.
The mountains around him loomed black against the starless sky.
Even the crickets seemed absent.

He checked his phone—no signal.
The clock read just past 1 a.m.
He knew, with sudden dread, that the last train had already passed.
There would be no more until morning.

He walked toward the station exit.
The passageway was lined with tattered posters—
advertisements for local festivals years out of date,
their corners curled and flapping slightly.

Where he expected modern ticket gates,
he found only a faded wooden barrier, unattended.
It seemed less like a functioning station than a relic left to rot.

Then, through the dusty glass of the office window,
he saw it: a figure.

A man in a station uniform stood beyond the glass.

Relief surged through him.
“Excuse me!” he called, his voice echoing in the empty corridor.

The man did not answer.

He moved closer. “Hello? Do you know how I can get back?”

Still no reply.
The student pressed against the window, peering into the room—

There was no one there.

Only his own reflection stared back, pale with fear.
The figure he had seen had vanished completely.

In Japan, railways carry more than commuters and tourists.
Folklore whispers that certain lines, certain stations—
especially the last stops at night—form gateways to the other side.

There is the idea of the kakurezato, the “hidden village.”
Step off the path in the wrong place,
or pass through a mountain shrouded in mist,
and you might wander into a settlement that exists outside time.

Once inside, the stories say,
you can never truly return.

The last train, too, is said to balance on the edge of the ordinary and the uncanny.
After the world has gone to sleep,
the final carriage still runs through the darkness.

Some believe that if you ride too far,
if you fail to disembark,
the train may carry you not merely to a depot—
but somewhere else entirely.

He returned to the platform.

And froze.

The train was back. The very same train that had left minutes ago now stood waiting, silent,
as though it had never departed.

Through the windows,
he saw passengers seated again.

For a moment, relief rose—
until he looked closer.

Every face was wrong.

Each passenger’s head was a featureless void,
as though someone had painted over their eyes,
their mouths,
every detail with a thick black ink.

They sat motionless,
row upon row of faceless commuters.

His breath caught.
His body refused to move.

Then he heard it—just behind him,
almost against his ear.

“…You made it in time.”

The voice was in Japanese, clear and deliberate.
He understood it perfectly.

After months of study,
he could grasp the meaning without hesitation.

But what had he “made it in time” for?

Not for the last train.
That much was obvious.

No—he realized, with a sick certainty,
it meant something else.
He had escaped being drawn into that silent, faceless crowd.
For the moment.

A chill surged from the soles of his feet upward,
as if something cold and unseen had wrapped around him.
His vision swam.
The platform, the train, the faceless figures—
all blurred into darkness.

When he opened his eyes, he was back on an ordinary train.

The lights were steady.
The hum of the engine, normal.
A cheerful announcement rang out,
and the doors slid open.
It was his stop.

Passengers shuffled sleepily around him—
ordinary people on their way home.

But his heart still pounded,
and sweat clung icy to his back.

Later, he told his classmates about the experience.
They laughed.

“You drank too much. Must have been a dream.”

But his trembling voice convinced no one.

And yet, from that night on,
he has felt it again and again.

Standing on the platform late at night,
waiting for the train,
he sometimes glimpses them—

the commuters with no faces,
standing quietly in the shadows.

And he cannot forget the voice.

You made it in time.

Was it meant as reassurance?
Or as a warning of what almost happened?

No one can say.

Ah, yes… such dreadful things truly do happen in this world.
And so, until our next tale, we must part ways.
May you remain safe… until then. Heh, heh, heh…