Last Train (a 250-word freaky flash fiction horror story) by Oren Shafir

He didn't have to hurry, but he was walking fast because it was the last train. Not that he felt like slowing down anyway. Every week he got the same sinking feeling in his gut as he approached that dark, shadowy tunnel. 

He had an overwhelming sense of deja vú. No, not deja vú, he realized now it was his nightmare. He'd dreamt it so many times. The weird howl of the wind outside. The click of his heels echoing on the concrete all around him. And then, on this night, another set of footsteps behind him. Don't look back.

The footsteps were moving faster now behind him. Getting closer. But this was no dream. He knew that because... he just knew. In the dream, the nightmare, he couldn't move at all. He was frozen as the figure approached him from behind.

But he was moving now.  Fast.Don't look back. He was running now. Sprinting. But it was still as though he were moving in place compared to the predator behind him. He could feel them getting closer. Then just like in the dream, it happened all at once: feet kicking relentlessly, pavement splattered with blood, hands flailing, and the small voice - as if from far away outside of himself - begging please, please don't hurt me anymore.

He woke up. Not from sleep. He wasn't sleeping. From some some state of shock, he awakened. The screams, the voice, the blood, it wasn't his at all. He stepped over the body and climbed the stairs to the platform. He could still catch the last train.

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