Gather around the campfire, #MuslimGirlClique, as we countdown to Halloween with the spookiest stories our girl gang has to offer! Check back on the daily to jump in fright to a new story every day…
This story is an adaptation of true events.
The metropolis of Stockholm. A beacon of Scandinavian efficiency, and resourcefulness. On any given day, you can witness the locals on their way to and from the responsibilities of their daily lives. Some atop bicycles, some quickly walking along the picturesque streets. Most often, though, you’ll see people hurriedly boarding public transportation. More specifically, Stockholm’s popular metro system.
This wasn’t always the case though. Ten short years after Stockholm first launched their modern railway system, a burning fear gripped commuters. For news had spread of a ghostly train. A train found on no official government document, or map. A train that meant certain death for all those who had the misfortune of laying eyes on it.
Instead of the sound of a conductor’s announcements, there seemed to be an intermittent crackling, undercut by the sound of deep, rough breathing. tweet
The year was 1965, and Stockholm’s locomotive tracks were dominated by train carriages colored a murky shade of green, not unlike the fatigues of a cadet, fresh from a sprint in ankle-high mud on a rainy day. On a particularly exhausting day, a lone gentleman in a black bowler hat waited patiently on the concourse, in anticipation of his army-green train. A father of three, he was ready and eager to be on his way to his humble abode, straight into the waiting arms of his family. The fatigued father smiled wearily as he heard the whirring sound that signified the arrival of his vessel. He boarded, and as the doors closed behind him, he glanced up. He froze. The cabin, completely clean of the graffiti and advertisements that had become ubiquitous in Sweden’s trains and metro stations, was entirely void of seats. Unblemished, and entirely unrecognizable, the air was thick with a cloudy haze. Instead of the sound of a conductor’s announcements, there seemed to be an intermittent crackling, undercut by the sound of deep, rough breathing. The gentleman turned to face the train carriage in-line with his own, and instead of the green surface he expected to see, he saw nothing but silver. That man was never seen, nor heard from again.
Silverpilen, they called it. The Silver Arrow. Silverpilen claimed 27 victims since that first incident. Legend had it that anyone picked up by this wayward silver train was doomed to spend eternity riding it in an endless loop. That was until one presumed victim of the Silverpilen was found, years after she initially disappeared, haphazardly wandering the streets of Stockholm, clothes torn to shreds, with no recollection of who she was, or how long she had been missing.
To this day, the legend of Silverpilen paralyzes the residents of this Nordic nation with unadulterated fear. They whisper of its ghostly presence, but don’t dare to outwardly speculate that which is on everyone’s mind: will the next victim of Silverpilen be me?
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