The Faceless Ones

In a busy train station, Oporto stood among the crowd, waiting for his train. The air smelled of metal and damp clothes. People moved past him, their faces blurred in the dim yellow light. He sighed and checked his watch.

Then he saw it.

A man stood near the vending machines. But something was wrong. He had no face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth, pale skin.

Oporto blinked hard. Maybe he was seeing things. He looked again. The faceless man was still there.

Oporto’s heart pounded. He turned to the woman beside him. “Do you see that man?” he asked, pointing.

She glanced at the vending machines. “What man?”

Oporto swallowed. “The one with no—” He stopped. The faceless man was gone.

The woman frowned at him and walked away.

Oporto felt cold. He shook his head. Maybe he was just tired.

The train arrived. He got on, found a seat, and rubbed his temples.

But as the train doors closed, he looked up. Across from him sat another faceless person.

Oporto’s breath caught in his throat. It was a woman this time. She wore a blue dress, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But her face—her face was nothing.

Oporto gripped the edge of his seat. He looked around. No one else seemed to notice her.

He turned to the man beside him. “Do you see her?” Oporto whispered.

The man gave him a strange look. “See who?”

Oporto’s hands shook. The train jerked forward. He shut his eyes. Maybe when he opened them, she would be gone.

He counted to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

He opened his eyes.

She was now sitting beside him.

Oporto jumped up with a gasp. The train doors opened at the next stop. He rushed out, heart pounding.

He ran through the streets, barely noticing the people around him. He just needed to get home.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was sweating. He locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered. “It’s just my mind playing tricks.”

His phone buzzed. A message from his friend, Marco.

Hey, Oporto! You okay? Want to grab dinner?

Oporto hesitated, then typed: Yeah, meet you at the diner in an hour.

Maybe he just needed company. Maybe that would make everything feel normal again.

The diner was warm and smelled of coffee and grilled food. Oporto sat at a booth, watching people. Normal people. With normal faces.

When Marco arrived, he grinned. “Hey, man. You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Oporto muttered.

Marco laughed. “What’s wrong?”

Oporto hesitated, then said, “I keep seeing people with no faces.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“In crowded places. Train stations, the streets… even on the train.” Oporto shivered. “But no one else sees them.”

Marco leaned back, frowning. “Dude, that’s creepy.”

Oporto rubbed his face. “I know.”

The waitress came to take their order. She smiled at Marco, then turned to Oporto.

His breath caught in his throat.

Her face was blank.

Oporto grabbed Marco’s wrist. “Do you see her face?” he hissed.

Marco frowned. “Uh, yeah? She’s right here.”

Oporto looked around. No one else reacted. The other customers just ate their food like nothing was wrong.

The faceless waitress tilted her head.

Oporto’s vision blurred. His head spun. The walls of the diner felt like they were closing in.

He shoved back his chair and ran outside.

“Oporto!” Marco called after him.

But Oporto kept running.

That night, Oporto lay awake in his apartment. The city outside was quiet, but he felt watched.

His phone buzzed. A message from Marco.

Dude, are you okay? Should I come over?

Oporto hesitated. No. Just need rest.

Marco’s reply came fast. You’re scaring me, man. Are you sure you’re alone?

Oporto’s fingers froze over the screen. He looked around. The room was dark, silent. He turned on the lamp.

A shadow moved in the corner.

Oporto’s chest tightened. He forced himself to breathe. “It’s nothing,” he whispered.

The room felt smaller. He checked the window. It was locked. The door, locked.

Then—

A soft knock.

Oporto sat up.

Another knock. Slow. Rhythmic.

His phone buzzed. A message from Marco.

Hey, are you okay? Open the door.

Oporto sighed in relief. It was just Marco. Maybe he had come to check on him.

He went to the door. Hesitated. Then unlocked it and pulled it open.

His breath froze in his throat.

Marco stood there.

But Marco had no face.

Oporto stumbled backward. His legs gave out, and he hit the floor.

The faceless Marco stepped inside. His head tilted slightly.

Oporto’s vision blurred. His chest ached.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him—

Were the faceless people filling his apartment.

Watching.

Waiting.

When Oporto woke, he was no longer in his apartment.

He was in a train station.

The same one where it all started.

But this time, no one had faces.

Hundreds of smooth, blank heads turned toward him.

Oporto screamed, but no sound came out.

He turned to run, but his legs wouldn’t move.

A faceless woman in a blue dress stepped forward.

She reached out.

Oporto tried to scream again, but something was wrong.

His lips wouldn’t move.

His hands shot up to his face.

His fingers trembled as they touched smooth, featureless skin.

No eyes.

No nose.

No mouth.

Oporto was one of them now.