• We kindly request chatzozo forum members to follow forum rules to avoid getting a temporary suspension. Do not use non-English languages in the International Sex Chat Discussion section. This section is mainly created for everyone who uses English as their communication language.

The Clock in the Waiting Room - Horror Story

BnB007

Epic Legend
Senior's
It was almost midnight when Anil sat in the empty railway waiting room at Begunkodor station. His train was delayed by two hours.

The only sound was the old wall clock ticking loudly. Strangely, it showed 11:45, though his watch said 12:30.

An old man entered, and sat beside him.

Old Man: “Train’s late, as always.”

Anil : “Yeah. Been waiting too long.”

Old Man (smiling faintly): “Time runs differently here.”

Anil frowned.

Anil: “What do you mean?”

Old Man: “That clock doesn’t move forward unless someone leaves.”

Before Anil could ask more, the loudspeaker crackled: “Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2.”

Anil picked up his bag and turned to say goodbye — but the old man’s chair was empty.

He hurried to the platform. The train screeched in. Only one coach door opened, though the rest were sealed.

The guard leaned out.

Guard: “Hurry, you’re the last one.”

Confused but desperate, Anil boarded. As the train pulled away, he looked back at the waiting room.

Through the glass, he saw himself still sitting there — staring at the clock.

And the clock hand had just moved from 11:45 to 11:46.
 
It was almost midnight when Anil sat in the empty railway waiting room at Begunkodor station. His train was delayed by two hours.

The only sound was the old wall clock ticking loudly. Strangely, it showed 11:45, though his watch said 12:30.

An old man entered, and sat beside him.

Old Man: “Train’s late, as always.”

Anil : “Yeah. Been waiting too long.”

Old Man (smiling faintly): “Time runs differently here.”

Anil frowned.

Anil: “What do you mean?”

Old Man: “That clock doesn’t move forward unless someone leaves.”

Before Anil could ask more, the loudspeaker crackled: “Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2.”

Anil picked up his bag and turned to say goodbye — but the old man’s chair was empty.

He hurried to the platform. The train screeched in. Only one coach door opened, though the rest were sealed.

The guard leaned out.

Guard: “Hurry, you’re the last one.”

Confused but desperate, Anil boarded. As the train pulled away, he looked back at the waiting room.

Through the glass, he saw himself still sitting there — staring at the clock.

And the clock hand had just moved from 11:45 to 11:46.
That ending gave me goosebumps… time really stood still there!!
 
It was almost midnight when Anil sat in the empty railway waiting room at Begunkodor station. His train was delayed by two hours.

The only sound was the old wall clock ticking loudly. Strangely, it showed 11:45, though his watch said 12:30.

An old man entered, and sat beside him.

Old Man: “Train’s late, as always.”

Anil : “Yeah. Been waiting too long.”

Old Man (smiling faintly): “Time runs differently here.”

Anil frowned.

Anil: “What do you mean?”

Old Man: “That clock doesn’t move forward unless someone leaves.”

Before Anil could ask more, the loudspeaker crackled: “Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2.”

Anil picked up his bag and turned to say goodbye — but the old man’s chair was empty.

He hurried to the platform. The train screeched in. Only one coach door opened, though the rest were sealed.

The guard leaned out.

Guard: “Hurry, you’re the last one.”

Confused but desperate, Anil boarded. As the train pulled away, he looked back at the waiting room.

Through the glass, he saw himself still sitting there — staring at the clock.

And the clock hand had just moved from 11:45 to 11:46.
is this the end ?? Or to be continued??
 
Last edited:
It was almost midnight when Anil sat in the empty railway waiting room at Begunkodor station. His train was delayed by two hours.

The only sound was the old wall clock ticking loudly. Strangely, it showed 11:45, though his watch said 12:30.

An old man entered, and sat beside him.

Old Man: “Train’s late, as always.”

Anil : “Yeah. Been waiting too long.”

Old Man (smiling faintly): “Time runs differently here.”

Anil frowned.

Anil: “What do you mean?”

Old Man: “That clock doesn’t move forward unless someone leaves.”

Before Anil could ask more, the loudspeaker crackled: “Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2.”

Anil picked up his bag and turned to say goodbye — but the old man’s chair was empty.

He hurried to the platform. The train screeched in. Only one coach door opened, though the rest were sealed.

The guard leaned out.

Guard: “Hurry, you’re the last one.”

Confused but desperate, Anil boarded. As the train pulled away, he looked back at the waiting room.

Through the glass, he saw himself still sitting there — staring at the clock.

And the clock hand had just moved from 11:45 to 11:46.
The final reveal is so haunting. A perfect ghost story.
Awesome Intelligence
 
is this the end ?? Or to be continued??
Anil staggered back from the train door, heart pounding.

“What the hell...?” he whispered, eyes locked on the image of himself still sitting in that dusty waiting room, motionless, like a statue. The second hand on the clock ticked once. Just once.

He turned away, trying to shake the chill creeping up his spine.

The coach was dimly lit. No other passengers. No movement. The flickering lights cast long shadows, and the air smelled faintly of rust and wet earth. He walked slowly down the aisle.

“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone here?”

Only the rhythmic clacking of the train wheels answered.

He found a seat and sat down. But the moment he did, the lights above him flickered once... then steadied. A soft lull fell over the coach, as if the very air had grown thicker.

Then he heard it.

A faint sound.

Thud... shuffle... thud...

Coming from the end of the coach.

He stood up slowly and moved toward the sound, passing empty rows, each one darker than the last. As he neared the coach door that led to the next compartment, he saw something strange — the windows were black. Not dark — black, as if the outside world no longer existed.

He opened the door. The next coach was pitch black. Still, he stepped in.

Click.

The door shut behind him.

Instantly, the darkness whispered.

Voices, hushed and urgent, skittered across the walls. He couldn’t make out the words, but they clawed at his mind like fingernails on glass.


He stumbled forward, heart hammering, and then — a flash of light.


A small lantern, flickering in the middle of the aisle.


And beside it...


A girl.


Pale, barefoot, in a torn school uniform. Her hair clung to her face as if wet, and her eyes — white, like marbles.

She pointed at Anil.

“You’re not supposed to leave,” she said.

“I... I got on the train. The guard told me—”

“There is no guard.”

The train screeched, jolted violently. The lights burst, glass raining down. Anil screamed.

Through the chaos, he saw her mouth the same words again, silently this time:

“You’re still in the waiting room.”
 
Anil's ears rang from the explosion of lights. He covered his face, heart slamming in his chest.


When he looked up, the girl was gone.


So was the lantern.


The coach was silent again.


Only—now, there were figures in the seats.


Rows of passengers sitting unnaturally still, faces hidden by shadows. Not breathing. Not blinking. Every seat was full.

Anil backed away, choking down panic. He turned to escape, but the door behind him had vanished—just smooth, cold metal where it used to be.


He tried to run. As he moved down the aisle, the train changed. The overhead lights flickered like a strobe. The coach elongated — stretching unnaturally — the aisle growing longer with every step. It was as if the train refused to let him leave.

Then the announcement system crackled again.


But this time, it wasn’t the station's voice. It was a woman’s whisper, low and broken:


“Arrival... delayed. Departure... denied. Passenger remains incomplete.”


Anil screamed, pounding on the wall. “LET ME OUT!”


Suddenly — silence.


Then a ding.


Like an elevator.


He turned — a narrow, antique wooden door had appeared in the side of the coach. Its frame was charred, as if pulled from a fire.


He didn’t hesitate. He opened it.


And stepped out—


into the waiting room.


Exactly where he had been.


Clock at 11:45.


The same chair.


The same stale air.


Except...


There were now two Anils sitting side by side.


One stared at the clock. The other — his own body — pale and still, unmoving.


Anil backed away in horror. The old man was standing behind the chairs again, smiling faintly

Time moved,” he said. “But you didn’t.”


Anil turned and ran — through the entrance, down the empty platform.


But the station never ended.


He passed sign after sign — “Begunkodor,” “Begunkodor,” “Begunkodor” — like a looping nightmare.


And behind him, faint on the wind, the station loudspeaker whispered:

"
Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2...”


And the clock, wherever it was now, ticked once more.


11:47.
 
It was almost midnight when Anil sat in the empty railway waiting room at Begunkodor station. His train was delayed by two hours.

The only sound was the old wall clock ticking loudly. Strangely, it showed 11:45, though his watch said 12:30.

An old man entered, and sat beside him.

Old Man: “Train’s late, as always.”

Anil : “Yeah. Been waiting too long.”

Old Man (smiling faintly): “Time runs differently here.”

Anil frowned.

Anil: “What do you mean?”

Old Man: “That clock doesn’t move forward unless someone leaves.”

Before Anil could ask more, the loudspeaker crackled: “Train number 16347 arriving at Platform 2.”

Anil picked up his bag and turned to say goodbye — but the old man’s chair was empty.

He hurried to the platform. The train screeched in. Only one coach door opened, though the rest were sealed.

The guard leaned out.

Guard: “Hurry, you’re the last one.”

Confused but desperate, Anil boarded. As the train pulled away, he looked back at the waiting room.

Through the glass, he saw himself still sitting there — staring at the clock.

And the clock hand had just moved from 11:45 to 11:46.
It it a loooooooop
 
Anil stopped running. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped down his neck despite the unnatural chill that clung to the air.


Everything around him was quiet.


Too quiet.


He turned.


The station was still there. Right behind him. As if he hadn’t moved at all.


He blinked. Then looked down at the tiles beneath his feet.


There—barely visible in the cracked stone—was a word carved in jagged, desperate strokes:


“STAY DEAD.”
Anil stepped back.


The air twitched.


From the shadows of the platform, a figure emerged — not walking, but gliding, as if suspended from invisible strings.


A woman in a long sari, face obscured by matted hair. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, and she left no shadow.


Anil couldn’t move.


She pointed at him, and in a voice that sounded like a hundred whispers stacked together, she spoke:


"You boarded the ghost train.”


He backed away. “What do you want from me?!”


“You were meant to leave. You chose to stay.”


“I didn’t— I just followed what the guard said!”


“There is no guard,” she said again.




Anil’s mind reeled. “Then who opened the train door?”


She turned her head — slowly, slowly — toward the far end of the platform.


Where the old man now stood.


Still smiling.


But now his eyes were empty sockets, deep and full of writhing smoke.


“You should ask him,” she whispered.


But Anil didn’t.


Because the clock inside the waiting room chimed.


Once.
And from the open coach door behind him, the same pale schoolgirl emerged.


She wasn’t alone anymore.


Behind her came dozens... hundreds of figures — passengers in tattered clothes, all deathly silent, all with the same hollow eyes.


One by one, they walked past Anil and re-entered the train.


And as the last figure passed him — a man in a conductor’s uniform, blood on his collar — he muttered:

"Once you're on the train, you never leave.”


Anil turned to run — again — but froze.


The station was gone.


There was only the train.


And that impossible clock, now hanging in midair.


Ticking.


11:48.


And still... one chair remained empty in the waiting room.


Waiting for
 
Anil stopped running. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped down his neck despite the unnatural chill that clung to the air.


Everything around him was quiet.


Too quiet.


He turned.


The station was still there. Right behind him. As if he hadn’t moved at all.


He blinked. Then looked down at the tiles beneath his feet.


There—barely visible in the cracked stone—was a word carved in jagged, desperate strokes:


“STAY DEAD.”
Anil stepped back.


The air twitched.


From the shadows of the platform, a figure emerged — not walking, but gliding, as if suspended from invisible strings.


A woman in a long sari, face obscured by matted hair. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, and she left no shadow.


Anil couldn’t move.


She pointed at him, and in a voice that sounded like a hundred whispers stacked together, she spoke:


"You boarded the ghost train.”


He backed away. “What do you want from me?!”


“You were meant to leave. You chose to stay.”


“I didn’t— I just followed what the guard said!”


“There is no guard,” she said again.




Anil’s mind reeled. “Then who opened the train door?”


She turned her head — slowly, slowly — toward the far end of the platform.


Where the old man now stood.


Still smiling.


But now his eyes were empty sockets, deep and full of writhing smoke.


“You should ask him,” she whispered.


But Anil didn’t.


Because the clock inside the waiting room chimed.


Once.
And from the open coach door behind him, the same pale schoolgirl emerged.


She wasn’t alone anymore.


Behind her came dozens... hundreds of figures — passengers in tattered clothes, all deathly silent, all with the same hollow eyes.


One by one, they walked past Anil and re-entered the train.


And as the last figure passed him — a man in a conductor’s uniform, blood on his collar — he muttered:

"Once you're on the train, you never leave.”


Anil turned to run — again — but froze.


The station was gone.


There was only the train.


And that impossible clock, now hanging in midair.


Ticking.


11:48.


And still... one chair remained empty in the waiting room.


Waiting for
Broooooooo...
 
Anil stopped running. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped down his neck despite the unnatural chill that clung to the air.


Everything around him was quiet.


Too quiet.


He turned.


The station was still there. Right behind him. As if he hadn’t moved at all.


He blinked. Then looked down at the tiles beneath his feet.


There—barely visible in the cracked stone—was a word carved in jagged, desperate strokes:


“STAY DEAD.”
Anil stepped back.


The air twitched.


From the shadows of the platform, a figure emerged — not walking, but gliding, as if suspended from invisible strings.


A woman in a long sari, face obscured by matted hair. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, and she left no shadow.


Anil couldn’t move.


She pointed at him, and in a voice that sounded like a hundred whispers stacked together, she spoke:


"You boarded the ghost train.”


He backed away. “What do you want from me?!”


“You were meant to leave. You chose to stay.”


“I didn’t— I just followed what the guard said!”


“There is no guard,” she said again.




Anil’s mind reeled. “Then who opened the train door?”


She turned her head — slowly, slowly — toward the far end of the platform.


Where the old man now stood.


Still smiling.


But now his eyes were empty sockets, deep and full of writhing smoke.


“You should ask him,” she whispered.


But Anil didn’t.


Because the clock inside the waiting room chimed.


Once.
And from the open coach door behind him, the same pale schoolgirl emerged.


She wasn’t alone anymore.


Behind her came dozens... hundreds of figures — passengers in tattered clothes, all deathly silent, all with the same hollow eyes.


One by one, they walked past Anil and re-entered the train.


And as the last figure passed him — a man in a conductor’s uniform, blood on his collar — he muttered:

"Once you're on the train, you never leave.”


Anil turned to run — again — but froze.


The station was gone.


There was only the train.


And that impossible clock, now hanging in midair.


Ticking.


11:48.


And still... one chair remained empty in the waiting room.


Waiting for

This gave me goosebumps! The way the story loops back into the waiting room and keeps twisting reality is terrifying.
 
Top