On the night train, riding through the valleys of the tallest mountains, all were quiet as many ticket-paying, pyjama-wearing customers were sleeping. The night staff kept everyone tucked in and free from nightmares.

The rowdy kids are asleep, like their parents; the rival rugby teams, who had spent the day screaming in each other’s faces while drinking the train dry, now sleep in their cots with a personal attending wiping the drool off their chins. All find peace as the night staff like.

But, unlike the rest, a pencil-wielding fifteen-year-old sits at her desk scribbling over her first edition copy of Terry Pratchett’s first novel set in the Discworld, The Colour of Magic.

‘Illustrations keep the magic alive!’ She yells to the dismay of her Attending, a man who, at the beginning of the trip, had a full head of hair but now stands bald as her rubber which has been used to erase many mistakes.

‘Go to sleep,’ her sister mutters from the top bunk. She returns the half-conscious plea for peace with a defiant spit onto her sisters’ slippers that sit at the bottom of the bunk-beds ladder; the poor Attending grabs the slippers, runs into the corridor, and quietly sprints to the laundry cart.

‘Your going to give that man a heart attack, is that your plan? It is, isn’t it?’ Her sister whispers.

‘Serves him right, that pervert.” She yells back at her sister.

The door is left wide open, and the accusatory scream travels down the hallway in each direction; a fleet of the night staff’s finest attending fill the door with an old lady who is easily over one hundred years old arriving last. The old lady makes her way to the front.

‘What happens to be the problem, dear?’ she says like each word takes another minute of her life, her white hair almost vanishing as she speaks.

‘I’m not tired!’

‘Is that all?” The old lady replies, looking at the room, up to her sister, who is pretending to be asleep and across the desk where her stationary is laid messily.

‘Yes,’

‘We, members of the night staff, apologise for any disturbance our colleague has caused you this night. And, of course, if you wish to file a complaint, we can leave you with the form.’ Says the old lady; she takes three steps into the room, right in front of the little troublemaker. She leans over her, making her instinctively turn around.

The old lady reaches for the book that lays open on the desk; she rubs her hand over the pages taking in the illustration; her breath, faint and coarse, caresses the artist’s ear as she stares directly forward into the window’s reflection. The old lady whispers,

‘These are nice, but now I think it’s time for bed.’

‘No.’

As she stares into her own reflection, she sees the congregation of night attendants start to lose their form; she wipes her eyes, only to hear,

‘See, you are getting tired.’

The mass of night staff rolls into the room, filling the doorway, which cracks at the seams; their fleshy tendrils grasp along the ceilings and floor, dragging themselves closer and closer. Tears roll down her face.

‘I’m sorry,” she pushes out of her whimpering lips. She slumps in her chair, but no matter how far she slides, she can still see the night staff in the reflection of the window; she looks up to her sister, who has at this point pulled her Peruvian cotton duvet over her head, she looks up to the old lady who is slowly assimilating with her colleagues.

The noise of her scream doesn’t penetrate through the fleshy mass as it folds over her. The silence of the following gruesome act is only broken by the young girl on the top bunk, who, at this point, can not stop the tears from flowing; she tries her best to stifle the noise.

‘Good night Alison,’ says the old lady.

She comes out of her defensive shell when the sun peaks through the blinds. The room shows no disturbance from the night before.

It must’ve been a dream.

She slides down the ladder and ponders around the room; she looks under the bed, under the desk, in her suitcase and by the entryway, frustrated she exclaims,

‘Where are my slippers!’

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