unseen at rakha mines

It was supposed to be a routine journey.

A young college student from Bhubaneswar had boarded the evening train headed to Ghatshila, planning to visit a friend over the weekend. The gentle hum of the train and a long day of travel lulled him into a deep sleep. But somewhere past midnight, he was jolted awake—disoriented, groggy and unsure of where he was.

The train had slowed. A dimly lit sign outside the window read Rakha Mines.

Still heavy with sleep and confused by the unfamiliar name, he mistook it for Ghatshila. He grabbed his backpack and rushed to the door just in time to jump out before the train picked up speed again, only to realize his mistake as the train vanished into the darkness. It left him alone on the platform.

The station was eerily deserted, wrapped in a thick, unnatural stillness. No vendors. No passengers. Just broken benches, flickering tube lights and the occasional crackle from the overhead speakers—silent except for static.

A cold wind blew across the platform in the December month, carrying with it the smell of metal and earth. In the distance, shadowy trees swayed under the moonlight- the perfect setting inspiring fear. Back in the year 2001 when mobile phones were not a thing yet, he was left with no other option but to wait out the remaining night. It was 1:00 AM and the next train was only at 5.30 am. 

He noticed that the platform lights didn’t illuminate past a certain point and from the from that darkness came faint, rhythmic sounds… like footsteps… but out of sync with each other. Slow, dragging footsteps.

That’s when he saw him.

An old man with a limp slowly walked into view from the darkness.

 His appearance was sudden, yet strangely calming. He wore a faint smile. His presence was steady, not threatening.

“You don’t see many people get off here this late,” the man said with a quiet chuckle.

Although unsettled, the student was relieved to have company. The man spoke of the town’s industrial past, asked the student about his studies and mentioned that the next train wouldn’t arrive until morning.

“You might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to a bench.

They sat together through the cold hours of the night. Sometimes talking, mostly silent. Oddly, the student felt less scared and more at peace—as if the old man’s presence offered some kind of silent protection.

As the first light of dawn crept over the tracks and a distant whistle announced the station waking up, the student stretched and walked toward a now-open tea stall. He looked around—the old man was gone.

When the student ordered tea, the vendor looked at him with surprise. “You were here all night? Alone?”

“No,” the student replied. “There was an old man here… walked with a limp. Kind fellow. Kept me company.”

The vendor went pale.

“There’s no one like that here,” he said slowly. “But... you’re not the first to see him.”

“What do you mean?” the student asked, confused.

“That platform’s haunted,” the vendor said under his breath. “They say an old railway worker who died here still walks the platform at night… checking on those who lose their way. Most people run when they see him.”

The student stared in stunned silence, still trying to absorb this information. The man who had offered him comfort, conversation—and calm—wasn’t even alive.

And yet…
He hadn’t felt fear.
Only a strange warmth.
Like the spirit wasn’t haunting the station… but guarding it.