The Butcher

The Midnight Train buzzed through the gloomy terrain, a nearly quiet predator tearing through fog and shadow. Its mysterious occupants stayed silent, each carrying their own secrets and burdens. Tonight, however, the train brought a far darker soul, a guy whose presence made the air inside the cabin colder and more oppressive.

Derrick Cain was his real name, but the tabloids called him "The Butcher." Derrick, a killer with no remorse and no purpose other than to fulfil his own twisted needs did not kill for profit. He did not rob, rape, or target particular sorts of victims. No, for Derrick, the thrill was in the deed itself—the finality of ending someone's life. He enjoyed the sense of control he got as he watched the light vanish from his victims' eyes and their bodies crumple beneath his fingers. Derrick felt invincible at such moments as if he had authority over fate itself.

Until he was caught.

But even prison couldn’t hold him. Derrick quickly escaped, slipping away under the cover of night, leaving behind a trail of dead guards and a blazing jail yard. Now, battered and bleeding but alive, Derrick walked the city's outskirts, looking for a way out, a place to hide until he could strike again.
The world appeared quieter the night he escaped—as if waiting for something to happen. Rain splattered the streets, and the distant hum of the city receded behind him as Derrick walked deeper into the industrial fringes. His breath rushed out in ragged spurts, his mind racing with the exhilaration of freedom. But something didn't feel right. The world around him seemed strange.

Then he saw it.

An old, deserted railway station. It appeared to have not been used in years, covered in vines and rust, but there it was, resting there like a lost relic from another time. Just beyond the station, there's a train—a single black engine with cars stretching into the fog. Derrick made no objections. For whatever reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he just started walking towards the train.

As he approached, the compartment door slid open with a quiet hiss, and he walked inside, unaware of where the train would take him. All he knew was that it was an escape, which was enough.

The moment he boarded, something shifted. The air inside the train was thick, almost suffocating, and yet there was a strange stillness to it. Derrick took a seat, his hands trembling slightly, the adrenaline still coursing through him from the escape.

He looked around. The compartment was dimly lit, with no other passengers in sight. Yet he felt eyes on him, as though he were being watched. He brushed off the feeling. He was used to being the predator, not the prey.
As the train began to move, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels lulled him into a strange calm. He stared out the window, watching the world blur by, but something was different. The scenery outside the train wasn’t normal—it wasn’t the city outskirts he expected to see. Instead, the landscape shifted between dark forests, barren fields, and strange, twisted places he couldn’t quite identify. The train wasn’t heading anywhere he recognised.
But Derrick wasn’t afraid. Fear wasn’t something he felt anymore.
Time appeared to stop on the Midnight Train; hours could have gone, or perhaps it was just minutes. Reliving in his mind the faces of his victims and the instants he had them under his control, pleading for compassion, Derrick kept to himself. His most valuable belongings were those recollections; they were the only things that gave him a sense of aliveness.

With a little creak, the compartment's end door abruptly slid open. A stranger moved inside and approached Derrick with measured, steady steps. The man was tall and slender, wearing an outdated suit that didn't fit in with the contemporary environment. He had a ghastly pale face, and his eyes glowed with a disconcerting cold intelligence.

A stranger sat across from Derrick, his gaze never straying from him. Derrick felt uneasy for the first time in years.

In a hushed voice, but with an unsettling power, the man said, "You've taken many lives." "And now you find yourself here."

Eyes narrowing, Derrick reached for the knife he had snatched during his runaway. Under his coat, it remained hidden. With a growl, he asked, "What do you want?"

The man's dark, calculating eyes held a faint smirk. It has nothing to do with my desires. What matters is what you deserve.

Derrick had always believed that he had complete control over his life, his victims, and fate itself. However, something had changed. The air inside the compartment became colder, and the man opposite him appeared to move in the shadows, his form becoming less clear and almost ethereal.

"The train," the stranger explained, "is unlike any other. You see, it has a knack for identifying people who must face... consequences."

Derrick sighed and let out a sinister chuckle. "Consequences? I've spent my entire life running away from them. "Do you think this train can stop me?"

The stranger's expression remained unchanged. "Derrick, it isn't the train that will stop you. It is you."

The compartment was suddenly filled with the sound of whispers—low, haunting sounds that appeared to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Derrick's heart started racing, and his pulse pounded in his ears. The voices became more audible, and the faces of his victims began to emerge, flickering in the faint light like apparitions.

There stood the young woman from the alley, terrified and pleading for her life. Derrick's hands tightened around the elderly man's throat, leaving him panting for breath. The teen kid was the final one he killed before being apprehended. They all looked at him now, and their voices overlapped, blaming, pleading, and cursing him.

"No..." Derrick shook his head and murmured. "This isn't real."

But it was real. The faces became clearer, the voices louder, and Derrick could feel their presence closing in on him, choking him.

The stranger leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Derrick’s. “You’ve spent your life taking from others, Derrick. But here, on this train, you cannot run. The lives you’ve stolen, the souls you’ve snuffed out—they’re with you now. They always have been.”
Derrick’s hands began to shake. The knife he had so relied on, the blade that had brought him power, now felt useless in his grasp. He could feel the weight of his actions pressing down on him—the realisation that he wasn’t in control anymore.
The train continued to race through the night, but the destination was no longer important. Derrick could feel the walls closing in, the faces of his victims surrounding him, pulling him into the depths of his own madness.

For the first time in his life, Derrick Cain—the Butcher—felt terrified.

As the train rushed on, the muttering became louder, eventually drowning out everything else. Derrick yelled, but no sound came from his lips. The Midnight Train had claimed him like it had done for so many others before.

And as the train hurtled into the unknown, Derrick realised one thing was certain: there was no escape from this journey, no escape from the souls he had taken. The Midnight Train was his prison now—one he had created for himself.

And it would never let him go.