Jack Mercer was a history man. Wrote little articles about train stations and war relics for whatever magazine would pay. Lived quiet. Kept to himself. That changed last October… when Jack got a letter. A real one — envelope yellow as old teeth. No return address. Inside, just a single page. Typed, not printed: “Find the tracks north of Harlow Junction. When the fog rolls in, wait by the signal house. You’ll hear the whistle. But do not board. You won’t come back.” No signature. No sender. Most folks would’ve laughed. Thrown it away. But Jack… had heard of Harlow Junction before. A whisper from history — 1924. A foggy night. A passenger train heading east — Number 109 — never made it to the next town. Vanished without a trace. No wreckage. No bodies. Just gone. Locals say you can still hear it, howling in the fog. Every October. Jack? He packed a bag. He found Harlow by map and memory. Forgotten stop on a dead-end line. Just a crumbling depot with vines growing through the windows. A rusted signal house. And the rails — crooked, sunken, but still there. He waited. And just as the letter said… the fog came. And then… so did the train.