The Underground itself has a faintly sharp, faintly seared, scent. It looks like the odor of hair style with electric cutting edges. There is likewise the spoil of dust, generally included human skin. On the off chance that power had a scent it would be this. John Betjeman, in Summoned By Bells (1960), reviewed that in the 1920s the Central Line had the scent of ozone; however it was not a characteristic odor radiating from the ocean or from the kelp. It was not of the sea. It possessed an aroma similar to a synthetic produced in Birmingham. His memory was exceptionally exact. The executives of the Underground had chosen to pump ozone onto the stages to check the acrid odor of the passages. It was a peculiar endeavor to make the world underneath the surface odor of the ocean from which it had once developed. It made suburbanites marginally sick. Betjeman, on another event, reviewed “the wonderful odor of wet earth and memorial parks that used to hang about the City and South Fulham SW6 Tube railroad.”
The sights, and sounds, of the Underground are extraordinary and identifiable. A sudden wind declares the inevitable landing of a train, joined by the curbed thunder of the methodology. A rattle of strides echoes in the passageways of white tile, together with the curbed jarring musicality of the lift. However imagine a scenario where there is no solid. What then? A quiet station is a troubling and even a reviled place. The forty-four neglected and overlooked stations of the framework are known as “dead stations.” The earth is the spot for the dead, is it not?
A voyager, going west simply past Holborn station, may get a look at tiled dividers. They are the last remnants of a station once known as British Museum. The tiles of Down Street station can likewise still be seen as you voyage underground between Green Park and Hyde Park Corner; over the ground, in Down Street itself, the bull blood tiles of terracotta imprint the spot of the long-overlooked station. Ruler William Street station, surrendered in 1900, still has blurbs on its dividers. Mark Lane can at present be seen amongst Monument and Tower Hill; North End, the most profound of all stations, can be witnessed as though in dream amongst Hampstead and Golders Green. The stages of Brompton Road, be that as it may, have been shut off and protected from the look of passing voyagers. A station once remained between Camden Town and Kentish Town, named South Kentish Town. It is said that an unwary voyager landed here when his train was halted by a sign. He got himself alone on a dim and surrendered stage, where he was marooned for a week. He was just saved when he got the consideration of a passing driver by smoldering some publicizing publications. It is an improbable story, yet it catches the apprehension of being caught in a framework from which there is no undeniable break.
Dead stations are otherwise called “phantom stations,” and obviously maybe a couple of them have been credited with phantoms and nebulous visions. Apparitions are comfortable in the underworld. The shadows of the dead have dependably should stroll underneath the surface of the earth. The Underground framework goes through numerous graveyard and maladie pits. Passings have happened over the span of its development. Killings, and suicides, have happened on the different lines.