The Station

The gloomy mist shrouded the Bramley train station as the clock on the platform's faded sign relentlessly ticked away the hours. A lone figure stood beneath the dimly lit canopy, staring off into the obsidian night, their thoughts a tempest of introspection. The cold wind rustled through the skeletal trees nearby, casting eerie, elongated shadows on the platform.

This figure was Martin Hughes, a man whose life had recently become a dissonant symphony of misfortunes and existential contemplations. He had come to the station not out of a desire to escape his tumultuous thoughts but to meet an old friend. They had arranged to meet here, in this desolate corner of Leeds, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate.

As Martin stood there, he began to notice something peculiar. The shadows that danced upon the platform's ground seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Bright, unblinking eyes appeared within these shadows, reminiscent of the uncanny visuals from The Cure's "Boys Don't Cry" music video. They stared at him, unrelenting and inscrutable.

Unease coiled within Martin's chest as he watched the eyes with a mounting sense of dread. He knew it couldn't be real; such a phenomenon defied the laws of nature. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, and even pinched himself to ensure he wasn't losing his grip on reality. But the eyes persisted, watching him like ethereal sentinels from the abyss.

In the midst of this nightmarish spectacle, Martin felt a creeping sense of insignificance wash over him, reminiscent of Lovecraft's cosmic horror. He was but a fleeting, inconsequential speck in a universe far more vast and unknowable than he had ever imagined. The eyes were a reminder of his own vulnerability in the face of incomprehensible forces.

The distant rumble of an approaching train finally snapped Martin from his trance. As the train pulled into the station, its harsh, white lights shattered the illusion of the shadowy eyes, and they vanished into the dark corners of the platform. Martin's old friend stepped off the train, greeted him warmly, and inquired about his well-being.

Still shaken by what he had witnessed, Martin hesitated to share his experience. He had a gnawing feeling that some truths were better left unspoken, hidden away in the depths of his mind. Instead, he simply smiled, shook his friend's hand, and boarded the train, eager to escape the enigmatic terrors that lurked in the depths of his own consciousness.

As the train pulled away from the Bramley station, Martin looked out the window at the desolate platform, wondering if the shadows with bright eyes had truly been a manifestation of his own inner turmoil or something far more ancient and unknowable. In that moment, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of dread, as if the cosmos itself had whispered secrets too terrible to comprehend.

This is a tribute piece to two great influences of mine. Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft.