TRUE Train Horror Stories That Will Haunt You

TRUE Train Horror Stories That Will Haunt You | Chilling Tales from the Tracks

 I enjoy spray painting and have decent skills with a can in hand. However, the tagging community is quite toxic; artists often lack respect for one another and are generally unfriendly. As a result, I've developed a more discreet routine, choosing quieter spots where my art is less likely to be seen by others, including fellow artists.

Old train lines are ideal since there are endless train cars, and new ones are frequently decommissioned and left to decay. My friend Marvin often joins me, even though he isn't deeply invested in tagging. I appreciate his company; it's sad that some people don't recognize the value of a good friend. Most of my other friends don’t seem to respect my time or interests as much as he does.

One evening, Marvin and I found ourselves smoking on a set of old tracks I had discovered earlier that day on Google Maps. While I’m not a frequent smoker, I tend to indulge when I'm with Marvin, who smokes a lot of weed. It was a little past 10 PM when we finished a joint and began walking alongside an old, rusty freight train. Oddly, there wasn't a single tag on the train. Excited at the prospect of being the first to paint on such a clean surface, I tossed Marvin a spray can and started working on my own tags.

After about 15 minutes and two cans, I was proud of the three decent tags I had created next to each other. I admit, I tend to discard my empty cans wherever I finish using them, so I flung the cans back the way we had come, enjoying the satisfying clatter of the ball bearing inside. I then caught up with Marvin, who had rolled and lit another joint while neglecting the paint I had given him.

For context, I’m not a big stoner because I often experience intense anxiety when high—about 90% of the time. In hindsight, smoking two joints with Marvin was a questionable choice, especially since we were already engaging in an illegal activity, which heightened my anxiety. Nevertheless, I decided to smoke the second joint, believing I would be okay.

Suddenly, we heard a muffled clang from behind us. We froze, staring into the darkness as sweat formed around my neck, and adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn’t tell if the sound came from inside the train or from outside, and both options felt threatening. We waited in silence for a full minute, but nothing happened. Then, I took out my phone and recorded a video. In the video, you can see someone picking up one of my empty paint cans and throwing it at us before chasing and shouting after us. Although you can't see the can in the video, I assure you that's what made the initial noise.

As we fled, the person behind us yelled, "You better not trip, boy." Moments later, a gunshot rang out, startling Marvin and nearly causing him to fall. The shock made me slip my finger off the record button on Snapchat, cutting off the video. We ran down the tracks until we reached a main road, not stopping until we felt safe. I don’t think I've ever been more terrified. The fact that I was stoned only amplified my fear; my hands were literally shaking—so were Marvin's.

Once we reached my car, we drove home in silence. What could I do? Call the police? I was breaking the law. That wasn’t an option.

However, the story didn’t end there. A few weeks later, I returned to those tracks during the day, armed with my trusty Glock 17. To my surprise, the train was still there, but three spots where my tags had once been were now covered with ugly blotches of red paint. Someone had deliberately obliterated my work.

Continuing my exploration, I found a train car with its door wide open. Inside, I discovered an empty space except for a chair in the center and scattered ropes and chains. Some ropes were wrapped around the chair's legs, while others lay on the floor. The most unsettling part was the overpowering smell of bleach, as if the entire car had been drenched in it.

As I reached for my phone to take a picture, I heard a metal clang further down the train. Whether it was real or my imagination, I didn't want to find out. I left quickly.

I’ve shared this story with many people, but none could rationalize the actions of that person. I doubt a homeless person would have access to a gun, but I can’t fathom why anyone else would respond so aggressively or why they’d choose to cover up my tags. The most disturbing aspect was the chair in the middle of the train car. I want to return to take a picture of what I saw, but I haven’t found the courage. Sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone with my thoughts, I still hear that gunshot echoing in my ears.

 

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