The vibration under my feet persisted, subtle yet insistent, like the heartbeat of something enormous moving just beneath the floorboards. I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the tiny TV, watching my double—or whatever that was—reach forward as if it could step through the screen. My hands trembled. I wanted to grab the remote, yank the cord out of the wall, do anything that would stop it, but it felt like the room had grown heavier, every movement slowed by invisible weight.

I swallowed. The taste of pizza was stronger now, greasy and sharp, clinging to the back of my throat. I realized with sudden clarity that it wasn’t just smell. It was a presence. Thick, almost tactile, curling around my shoulders, my arms, my legs, anchoring me to the carpet.

The screen flickered. The figure leaned closer to the glass, its lips curling into a smile I didn’t recognize but somehow feared. It raised a hand. My own hand twitched in response, involuntarily. It was mirroring me. Every twitch, every blink. I couldn’t tell where I ended and the image began.

The hum of the TV shifted. It was deeper, layered now with a mechanical rhythm like the wheels of a train grinding on tracks. The walls vibrated imperceptibly with the sound. Then came another noise: a low hiss, like the release of steam. Not from the TV. Not outside. From under the floor.

I stood slowly, the room rocking slightly beneath me. The couch groaned, the table shivering, the old CRT trembling on top of it. The pizza box on the coffee table rattled as if the slices inside were shivering.

“Hello?” I whispered. My own voice sounded strange, distant. The sound echoed in the room, longer than it should.

The screen went black. And then, words appeared in jagged, red letters:

STEP FORWARD.

I froze again. My heart was pounding like a train bell in a tunnel. I should have turned away, should have run. Instead, I felt myself stepping forward, drawn toward the screen. My legs moved on their own, compelled by a force I couldn’t resist.

Closer. Closer.

The smell intensified. It wasn’t just pizza anymore. There were other odors: metal, rain, something sweet and sharp that made my stomach twist. I realized I could hear faint whispers layered under the mechanical hum. Names, maybe. My name. Repeated over and over. A chant.

I reached out, almost touching the screen. The figure’s hand met mine, or at least it seemed to. My fingertips brushed against cold glass. And the TV shuddered. The picture stretched, distorted. The edges of the screen bled into the room, the train platform expanding, spilling into my living room like water breaking a dam.

The walls disappeared first, then the ceiling. My floor dissolved into slick metal tracks, wet with rain. The smell of pizza mixed with diesel and wet timber. The hum of the engine was deafening now, vibrating my chest. I stumbled, trying to keep my balance on the shifting surface.

I wasn’t in my living room anymore.

I was standing on the platform of a train station that shouldn’t exist. The lights were harsh, fluorescent, glaring off puddles that reflected nothing else but the endless rails. My tiny TV sat behind me, still warm, still emitting that distinct greasy aroma, like a beacon tethering me to a world I couldn’t return to.

A train screeched in. Not one I recognized. Not one from any schedule I’d ever seen. Its headlights cut through the fog like knives. The doors hissed open. Steam and smoke billowed from the undercarriage, thick and choking. And then I saw them: people, dozens of them, all faceless, moving in perfect synchrony toward the car doors. Their steps were silent, but their presence pressed on me, heavy and oppressive.

I stepped back. The platform seemed endless. The tracks twisted and stretched toward infinity. The figures didn’t notice me—or they were pretending not to.

And then one of them stopped.

Right in front of me.

I could feel the heat radiating off its body, though it had no face to reflect it. And yet, I knew it was looking at me. Recognizing me. Studying me. The smell of pizza shifted again—sweet, bitter, metallic—and I realized I could follow it, like a scent trail leading deeper into the station.

I wanted to run, but the vibration beneath my feet told me it was pointless. The platform itself was alive, pulsing, dragging me toward the train. The screen of my TV flickered, now showing the inside of the train: narrow aisles, roomettes dimly lit by amber light. And someone—or something—was waiting there.

I swallowed, my throat tight. I couldn’t tell if my pulse had stopped or if it was racing too fast to register. The figure in front of me lifted its hand. And the whispering rose into a low chorus:

ALL ABOARD.

The train’s door opened wider. Steam poured into my face. I felt the pull now—not just from the platform, not just from the TV, but from the train itself, as if it had been waiting for me all along. I could resist, but every instinct told me to step forward. To go. To leave the world behind.

I took a breath.

I stepped.