The Storytelling Podcast - Ep54 - The Platform That Wasn’t There

There is a small railway station in the north of England, the kind of station that exists in the background of travel rather than at its center, where trains slow down just enough to sigh before continuing on to somewhere more important. 

Let me tell you the story of what happened to Daniel on a rainy, dark October night in 1997 at Blackridge Halt Station.

Spotlight Creative Agency sponsors this episode.

Visual Episode: https://youtu.be/OPdQpd0d25o
Spotify episode: https://open.spotify.com/episode/4BTpxKUrMi5pmhsWT3yJAK?si=d013a8ca80224ea8

Available on all Podcast platforms.

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Music by:
Sound Effect by freesound_community from Pixabay

Sound Effect by Scottish Guy from Pixabay

Sound Effect by michael koreli from Pixabay

Image Credit: AI Originated

Thank you to our Sponsor: Spotlight Creative Agency https://spotlightcreativeagency.com/

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Spotlight Agency sponsors this Podcast!
Spotlight Creative Agency proudly sponsors the Storytelling Podcast.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Hi everyone and welcome back to the Storytelling Podcast, your cozy corner of captivating tales. I'm your host Alejandra and today I'm bringing you a story that it's not pulled from any official archive nor from any newspaper clipping or buried in a dusty library basement. This episode is an original story written specially for the storytelling podcast. If you enjoy strange tales, eerie encounters, and stories that leave you glancing over your shoulder long after the episode ends, make sure you are following the podcast and share it with someone who loves a good unsettling mystery. So dim the lights, settle in, and let me take you to a railway station that may not exist anymore. Or perhaps it does. And this episode is sponsored by Spotlight Creative Agency. If you're starting a podcast or trying to grow the one that you already have, Spotlight helps creators with editing, scripting, and social media so you can focus on telling great stories. This podcast has been growing with their support behind the scenes. If you want help turning your ideas into a polished show, Spotlight Creative Agency can help you. Check them out. Link on the description. And just remind you that this channel is made for YouTube binge. Many more episodes are waiting for you here on the channel. If you prefer a visual experience, you can also find the episodes on YouTube where you can watch and listen at the same time. There is a small railway station in the north of England. The kind of station that exists in the background of travel rather than at its center. Where trains slow down just enough to sigh before continuing on to somewhere more important. The paint on the railings peels off in long curling strips, and the benches carry decades of carved initials. And the departure board hums constantly, as though it's thinking very hard about what it is supposedly to display. The station is called Black Ridge Halt. It has two platforms, separated by twin sets of steel tracks that gleam faintly under tired fluorescent lights. There is a single waiting room that smells permanently of damp coats and old newspapers. And a small ticket office that now operates only during the mornings. For most people, Black Ridge Halls is forgettable, a place passed through rather than remembered. But older maps, the kind printed before mid-1960s, show something peculiar. They show three platforms Platform 1, Platform Two, and Platform 3. Modern railway records insist that platform three never existed. There are no official documents acknowledging its construction, no maintenance logs, no demolition permits, and no accident reports tied to such a structure. According to the railway authority, Blackridge Holt has always and only ever had two platforms, and yet the maps remain. On a wet October evening in 1997, a 21-year-old university student named Daniel Mercer found himself stranded at Blackridge Holt after missing his connection home to Manchester. He had stayed late at University Bribery in Leeds, preparing for an exam, losing track of time as rain began to fall steadily against the tall windows of the reading hall. By the time he arrived at Blackridge, his connection train had already departed. The station was nearly deserted. The air carried the metallic scent of wet rails and cold concrete. Rain tapped rhythmically against the glass canopy above platform two. While the overhead lights flickered with the tire persistence of something overdue for replacement. Daniel checked the illuminated departure board. Platform 1, 2241 cancelled. Platform 2, 2310 delayed. He exhaled in frustration and sank on a wooden bench, adjusting the strap of his backpack against his shoulder. His phone signal was weak, fluctuating between one bar and none at all. And the battery icon blinked an unwelcome warning. The station clock above him ticked loudly in the relative silence, each second echoing with a natural clarity. It was 2247. The rain intensified, sliding down in the glass and uneven streams, distorting the view of the tracks beyond. Daniel rubbed his hands together for warmth and stared blankly at the dark horizon where the rails disappeared into night. Then the humming of the departure board changed. It deepened, as though a current of electricity had surged through it. The screen flickered once, twice, and then a third line appeared. Platform three, twenty two fifty-five on time. Daniel frowned, convinced that for a moment that fatigue has blurred his vision. He stood and stepped closer to the ward, squinting at the glowing letters. The text remained steady and clear. Platform three, twenty two fifty five on twine. He turned slowly, scanning the length of platform one, and then crossing the footbridge to inspect platform two. But there were only two familiar tracks stretching into darkness. No third line, no additional platform, no hidden construction. And yet, something caught his eyes beyond the dimmest edge of the station lights. Further down the tracks, perhaps fifty meters past the fence boundary where weeds grew and checkered, there was a faint yellow glow. It flickered as though cast by an older kind of lamp, warmer and softer, and the harsh fluorescent lights above him. Daniel hesitated, aware of the unease creeping up his spine, but curiosity pressed harder than caution. He climbed down carefully from the edge of platform two and followed the gravel path running parallel to the tracks. Almost immediately the sounds of the station shifted. The tick-tock clock faded, the Hamas lights dulled, and even the rain seemed to lose its voice. It continued to fall, but it no longer made a sound when it struck the ground or his jacket. As he moved closer, the shape became clearer. There, standing where modern maps insisted nothing existed, was an old platform. Its concrete surface was cracked and uneven. Iron pillars streaked with a rust supporting and a narrow canopy. A wooden sign hung slightly crooked, bearing the name Black Rich Holtz in an outdated typeway face. Beneath the name, barely visible, were the words Estimated 1891. A single bench sat beneath a flickering yellow lamp, and on the bench were three figures. A woman wearing a nineteen forties wool coat buttoned neatly to her throat, a man in a dark bowler hat, posture straight, and hands fold calmly in his lap. And a young boy clutching a small wooden toy train against his chest. They were seated side by side, staring forward at the empty tracks. They did not move. They did not blink. Daniel's voice trembled as he called out an hesitant greeting, but the sound seemed absorbed by the air itself, as though the platform refused to carry it. The woman's head slowly turned towards him. Her expression was serene, yet deeply unsettling. Her eyes were not hollow or shadowed, they were simply too still, like painted glass set into a portrait. You're early, she said, her voice echoing faintly as though spoken through a long terminal. Daniel swallowed and stepped back slightly, asking what she meant. A train, the boy said softly, lifting the wooden toy in his hands. And then Daniel heard it. A distant whistle, low and resonant, vibrating through the rails beneath his feet. He turned instinctively, but there was no train on tracks he had walked beside. The sound came from the direction of platform three. The rails there began to tremble, a faint vibrating metallic, building steadily into something stronger. Out of the darkness emerged a steam locomotive, its iron body gleaming with rain, thick smoke billowing upwards into the night. The windows glowed with warm golden light, and within each window stood figures, silent and unmoving, staring outward with the same unnatural stillness as those on the bench. The train slowed with a prolonged metallic screech and came to a complete stop before the platform. The doors opened without a conductor, without an announcement, without a single sound beyond the hiss of steam. The man in the bowler hat rose calmly and brushed invisible dust from his coat. It doesn't stop twice, he said gently. Daniel felt an invisible pressure tugging at him, not physically pulling him, but altering the weight of the air around him, as though gravity itself had shifted toward the open train door. He turned to retreat the way he had come, but the gravel path behind him was gone, swallowed by darkness that seemed thicker than night itself. The woman stepped closer to the door and looked back at him with something resembling pity. No one comes here by accident, she said. Duboy paused at the threshold and glanced at Daniel, and for the briefest moment his expression flickered with something almost human. Neither were we, he whispered. The doors began to close. The whistle blew once more, and Daniel shouted that he was not supposed to be there, that he did not belong on that platform, that this this was some kind of mistake. The train pulled away slowly, vanishing back into the darkness for which it had emerged. The light from the platform flickered violently, and then everything went black. Daniel woke lying on a wet pavement beneath the fluorescent lights on platform two. The rain had gained its sound and it was drumming loudly against the canopy above him. The station clock ticked as it always had. The departure board displayed only two lines once more. Platform one cancelled. Platform two delayed. There was no third platform. No distant glow. No steam train. He pushed himself upright with his heart pounding, convinced that he had dreamed the entire encounter. But something rests in his palm. A wooden, small toy train. An old and smooth with age toy. And carved on its underside were three words Black Ridge Platform 3. Years later, during renovation works near the far end of the tracks, construction crews unearthed buried concrete foundations and rusted iron supports that did not match the current station layout. Among the debris was a fragment of an old platform sign bearing the faint mark estimated 1891. Railway historians searched archives for answers and discovered a brief mention from December 1947 describing a steam locomotive that passed through Blackridge during heavy fog under unclear circumstances. Officially, it never stopped. And officially no incident occurred. Unofficial account suggested otherwise. Older residents of the town still refused to stand near the far edge of platform two after 2250 at night. They claim that on rare occasions the departure board flickers and briefly displays an additional line. Platform three on time. Share this episode with someone who would absolutely walk towards a mysterious third platform instead of staying safely where they are. And remember, if you ever find yourself alone at the quiet station late at night and you see a platform you do not remember being there before, stay where you are. Because some trains are not delayed, they are just waiting. Maybe for you. Until next time, stay curious, stay safe, and keep listening.