to listen to him. To record every word and share his controversial tales that made the entire village avoid him, calling him crazy or possessed.
Uncle Tariq is an old man in his late fifties, face deeply wrinkled by the sun and years, short hair still jet-black as if time forgot him. He’s instantly recognizable by his black galabeya and those thick eyebrows that look like twisted ropes. I stood in front of him, took a deep breath, and said:
“How are you, Uncle Tariq?”
“Fine, my son, praise be to God.”
“Tell me, Uncle Tariq, how long have you been here?”
“I grew up here, son… you could say I was planted here on the level crossing, and I’ll wither away here on the level crossing.”
He pointed toward a small hut made of straw and mud and continued:
“I was born in this exact spot, and I inherited the job from my father, Hajj Salem — may God have mercy on him and soften the earth above his head. With time I got used to it and even grew to love the work, but…”
“But what?”
“If I had known from the very first day what really happens here, I would have run away immediately. But fate has its own rules, and I’ve been sentenced to spend the rest of my life right here… on the level crossing.”
“And that’s exactly why I came to you,” I said. “I want to know why the villagers avoid you — or to be honest, why they’re all scared of this level crossing itself.”
“Wait a moment,” he replied. “Let me make us a cup of thick tea, black as ink and bitter as gall, to steady my nerves. I’ll light a cigarette too so I can stay awake and tell you everything calmly. How much sugar do you take?”
“No sugar, thank you. Go ahead and make yours — I’ll wait right here.”
He headed to the hut. I stayed where I was, gazing at the green fields, the clear sky, and the gloomy canal running beside the tracks. The village looked peaceful and beautiful, its people friendly and smiling, yet I could feel a strange, heavy negative energy the moment I stepped near the level crossing.
Uncle Tariq returned with the steaming tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. We sat on the old wooden bench, and he began speaking while slowly drawing on the cigarette:
“Ten years ago, on a night when the moonlight vanished behind a pitch-black cloud… like kohl… I stepped out of my shack wrapped in a thick blanket because the cold was biting into my bones. I closed the crossing five minutes before the train was due — even though traffic here is light or sometimes none at all, caution is still a duty. Moments later I heard the train whistle, and then… from the darkness… it appeared in the last carriage. I don’t know if it was a human being or something else, but what I confirmed later is that it was — God forbid — a spirit. The spirit of a man murdered years earlier. His face was soaked in blood, his clothes torn to shreds, and his head… oh God, his head was split clean in two. That was the moment I knew this was nothing natural. The world spun around me, my temperature shot up even though we were freezing. I was completely alone, so I took two pills and somehow the next day I was back on my feet like a young horse. But I never forgot what I saw.
Some time later, at exactly the same hour — the last train at 1:30 a.m. — I saw it again. But this time the train stopped… and my heart stopped with it. I stood frozen like a statue, unable to move, until the figure spoke in a calm, terrifying voice:
‘The soul belongs to its Creator… and justice on earth is not yet finished. By blood I shall rest — with the death of the butcher.’
The instant I heard those words, I felt the strength of a twenty-year-old surge through me. I didn’t wait to understand anything. What could I possibly understand from a human soul? I grabbed the hem of my galabeya and ran, shouting ‘Ya fakiik!’ I left everything behind — the level crossing, the hut, the lantern. After all, oh soul, there is no soul after you, Professor Samir… But what happened to me afterward was far worse than everything I’ve told you so far.
I wanted to finish the story for you right now, but as you can see, the night is dark and the road is long — you barely have time to get home safely. I’ll be waiting for you another night so I can tell you the rest.”
“You’ve left me dying to hear the ending, Uncle Tariq, but we’ll meet again, you kind man.”
“I’ll be waiting. Don’t you dare stay away… and don’t forget to bring me a pound of coffee so I can talk with a clear mind.”
“My eyes are on you. With your permission.”
After I left him and started walking back, my mind was exploding with questions. Did this man really see that ghost and speak to it?
Or was everything just wild imagination with no truth behind it?
To be continued…
#SamirTheGhostHunter
#EgyptianGhostStories
#HauntedRailroadCrossing
#RealHorrorStoryEgypt
#SplitHeadGhost
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