The Royal Railway Mystery

A long time ago, there was a railway under the name of the Royal Railway. It was built in 1899 during the reign of Queen Victoria, and it was opened by her personally in 1901. The line connected two small villages, and only three engines worked on the route: a D40 named Victoria, a B12 called Alfred, and a J50 known as Neil.

The Royal Railway operated from 1901 to 1921, and it was known as the happiest line in the region—until one fateful day in 1920.

I was always fascinated by the stories surrounding the railway, especially the tragedy that occurred on the line. Victoria, the D40 engine, was hauling a train of passengers when something went horribly wrong. The driver realized the train was accelerating out of control. He tried to apply the brakes and shut off the steam, but nothing worked. The train sped faster and faster, and in a panic, the driver saw that the track ahead had bent out of place. It was too late to stop. The fireman jumped from the cab, but the driver stayed behind, trying one last time to save the passengers. But it was no use. The train derailed, hurtled off the tracks, and plunged into the cold, unforgiving sea below. The driver and many passengers were lost, their bodies claimed by the waves.

When the wreckage of the engine and coach was salvaged, only a few bodies were recovered. The others, including the driver of Victoria, were lost to the depths. The wrecked engine and coach were eventually scrapped, and the families of the deceased were compensated. The Royal Railway kept running for a few months, but the line's financial troubles grew. Eventually, it was forced to shut down, and the remaining engines were sold to the railway board.

I never imagined I would one day be called to investigate the mystery of that old railway.

Years passed, and in the 1930s, the LNER (London and North Eastern Railway) bought the line, intending to restore it. But on the anniversary of the fatal accident, strange things began happening. Workers who had been restoring the tracks reported hearing the faint sound of puffing from down the line. When they looked, there was no engine in sight. Then, a freezing gust of wind blew through the station, sending their tools into the ocean. As they peered over the edge, they saw the horrifying sight—the ghostly forms of the engine and coach that had crashed all those years ago. Terrified, the workers fled the station and swore they would never return. They told their families, but no one believed them.

The truth of what happened that day remained hidden, until the year 1990, seventy years after the accident. That's when I received a strange visit in my office in London.

It was 10 a.m. when an old man, wearing a grey trench coat and a fedora, walked into my office. His face was worn with age, but there was something in his eyes that told me he carried a heavy burden.

“My name is Billy,” he said in a gravelly voice. “And I want to hire you to solve an old case for me.”

I was intrigued. “What’s so important about an old case?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Billy looked at me, and for a moment, his eyes glistened with tears. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was old, the edges frayed, but I could make out the image of a young man and a woman standing together. They looked happy, like they had the whole world ahead of them.

“This is Jean,” Billy said, his voice trembling. “I lost her 70 years ago, on that railway.”

I took the photograph, studying it closely. “What do you want me to find out?” I asked softly.

Billy wiped his eyes and nodded. “I want you to find the man who caused her death. I want to know the truth.”

“I’ll try,” I promised, knowing I had to get to the bottom of this. Billy handed me an address—the location of the old railway where the accident had taken place.

The next day, I found myself standing before the old, abandoned railway yard. It was eerie, like stepping into a ghost story. The place seemed to have been maintained, almost as though someone wanted to keep it looking as it once had. The station looked like it had been preserved in time.

I walked through the yard, my footsteps echoing on the old tracks. Something felt... off. It wasn’t just the silence. It was the feeling that something was watching me. I was halfway across the yard when I heard a voice, low and distorted, whisper from behind me.

“Don’t go… I need your help…”

I spun around, but there was no one in sight. A chill ran down my spine, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark lingered in the air. Without a second thought, I turned and ran up the hill, desperate to get away from the unsettling presence.

Once I reached the top, I paused, trying to steady my breath. Nothing followed. I carried on, heading towards the site of the crash. As I walked, I began to hear a faint puffing sound, like the sound of a train’s engine. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around, scanning the tracks. But there was no engine in sight. I turned back toward the accident site, and that's when I saw it—the ghostly apparition of the D40 Victoria, its outline glowing faintly in the mist.

I froze. The pain in my chest was overwhelming, as if something were pulling at my soul. My vision blurred, and before I knew it, I found myself standing in the cab of the ghostly engine. I could hear the voice again, chilling and demonic.

“Welcome to your new life, driver...” it said, followed by a hideous laugh that echoed through the air.

I fought against the pain, forcing myself to stay conscious. I turned, stumbling back, and the vision faded. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air. There was something in my hand—an old, leather-bound diary. It was dusty and worn, but I could sense its significance.

I opened the diary, flipping through the pages. The entries were written in frantic handwriting, and they described the Royal Railway, its glory, and the horrific truth behind the accident. The driver had planned the derailment, altering the tracks to make it look like an accident. But the plan had gone horribly wrong. The train had accelerated out of control, and the crash had claimed more lives than he ever intended.

The final entries were the most disturbing:

“I made my choice. The plan is set. The crash will be blamed on faulty equipment, but I can feel it—something is wrong. I regret this… but it’s too late now.”

“I couldn’t stop it. The engine picked up speed, and it was too late. I’ve failed, but I’ll leave. No one can know the truth. The lives lost are on me. I have to disappear.”

I stared at the last line, my mind racing. The man who had caused the accident was still out there, hiding in the shadows. But now, at least, I knew the truth. The crash was no accident. The driver had deliberately caused it, and the consequences were more than he could have ever imagined.

A few days later, I returned to Billy’s flat and handed him the diary. He took it from my hands, his face pale as he read the final entries. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at me.

“This… this is the truth?” Billy whispered. “He planned it. He killed her.”

I nodded. “The man who caused her death... he’s the one who planned it. But it went wrong. The spirits of the railway are still trapped there.”

Billy wiped his eyes, his voice heavy with grief. “I always knew there was more to the story. I just wanted to know why.”

“You know now,” I said softly. “The truth is out. But the consequences remain.”

Billy closed the diary gently, his hands shaking. “Thank you, Jack. You’ve done what I couldn’t. At least now I know... Jean didn’t deserve that.”

I watched him for a moment, then turned to leave. There was nothing more to be said. The case was closed, but the mystery of the Royal Railway would never truly be solved. The spirits of those lost would forever haunt the tracks, their story unfinished, their souls restless.

The End.