You can see me, can't you? Don't worry, I won't bite. It's just rare these days, most just walk right through. Feels like a cold snap to them, nothing more. But you… you've stopped.

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They call me a ghost now. A phantom. Very grand for a simple lad like me.

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Nice to meet you, I’m William Cobb; came from Norwich in '46. I was building this, you see. The platform you're standing on, I laid that with my own hands.

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I was proud, wasn't just a job. It was a great iron road, cutting through the Fens. I was building the future, but my future ended a bit sooner than I’d planned. Silly, really. A wet morning. The flint was slippery. I didn’t heard the whistle blow that sent me home.

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I woke up, and the work was still going on. So I just stayed.

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At first, I tried to help, move a shovel, straighten a tie. The lads were frightened, so I stopped. Now I keep watch. It's my station.

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When I walk the platform at night, I'm not haunting it. The footsteps you hear, that’s me, making my rounds.

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Sometimes, late, when the last train has gone and the only sound is the wind in the wires, I fancy I can still hear the clang of hammers, the hiss of a steam engine.

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This isn't a place of death for me. It's a place of pride. It's my life's work. And as long as the trains run and the platforms stand, I'll be here, keeping an eye on things.