"The show must go on," the voice rasped over the intercom as the train accelerated toward a collapsed bridge at the edge of the canyon. "And for the finale... we’ll all take a bow."
The conductor's radio crackled. It wasn't the police or the station master on the other end. It was the voice of the man who had supposedly died in the wreckage three years ago, broadcasting from the engine room. He wasn't looking for revenge; he was looking for an audience. Terror Train 2
The steam whistle didn’t scream; it rattled, like air escaping a punctured lung. "The show must go on," the voice rasped