The Tall Figure on Platform Two Certified True by readers
Last train, empty station, and on the opposite platform stood a figure just slightly too tall, too still, wrong in proportions my brain kept refusing to finish measuring.
Readers believed 79% of the time (across 2443 True/Fake verdicts on this author's stories)
Last train, empty station, and on the opposite platform stood a figure just slightly too tall, too still, wrong in proportions my brain kept refusing to finish measuring.
He was one push-up away from walking out of basic training forever. Then a platoon of exhausted strangers did something no drill sergeant ordered them to do. Years later, he pulled me out of a fire. Funny how that works.
A tall man in a gray coat only ever came into my bookshop during thunderstorms, always to the poetry corner. The day I moved the Whitman, he noticed -- and he was not happy.
The drums came first. Then the bass. Then a rumor about the drummer's father that made the whole street stop complaining about the noise and start complaining about something much worse.
My family swears that before I had proper words I hummed a song in a tongue none of us spoke, and cried for a woman I called by a name that turned out to be real. This is what they told me, and what I found.
The invitation's 'colour assignments' seemed whimsical until we cracked the code at the reception — guests had been colour-coded by income bracket, gold nearest the couple.
One perfect first date, then total silence. Two weeks later a strange number told me the truth: her phone had been stolen, and a thief had been reading my hopeful texts and saying nothing.
My mother's wedding band vanished in 2003 somewhere in our garden. Twenty years later my daughter pulled a carrot for a school project — wearing the proof around its middle.
A payroll glitch terminated me on a Friday. By Monday a recruiter from my own company was cold-calling me about my exact old job, with no idea who I was.
Every time I wake frozen he is in the same spot, a tall silhouette in a wide-brimmed hat, hands folded, waiting. I have never seen his face. I am not sure I want to.
With the taxi booked and my dress on, dread arrived like weather and would not lift until I cancelled our anniversary dinner — staying home put us upstairs at the exact right minute.
Deep off-trail in the national forest we found a cabin that should not exist -- no road, no ruin, fully furnished, a fire still warm in the stove. We took nothing. Something followed us out anyway.
I thought my camera was off during the big video call, so I did some things you do when you think nobody is watching. Ninety people were watching. In grid view.
A man waved me down on an empty night road, friendly and normal. Something in me refused to slow. In the mirror I watched him drop the smile the instant I passed, and start running after the car.
My landlord invented damage to keep my whole deposit and laughed me off. He did not know I had photos, or that the city inspector I had already called was standing on his porch that afternoon.
When my dog vanished, I dreamed him sitting under an upturned rowing boat past three blue fences. Two days of searching the wrong places — then I found the fences.
I was the only night auditor in a half-empty hotel when Room 412 called the desk three nights running. Nobody had checked into 412 in a week.
On a marked forest loop I know well, the light jumped from noon to dusk between two familiar trail posts, and my fitness tracker recorded five motionless hours I never lived.
Overnight, inside a garage that only I can open, my car turned to face the door — mirrors folded, seat moved, and thirty new kilometres on a cold engine.