The Man on the Metro
By: Mel Rie
Tags: Fiction Writing, Horror, City Living, Fiction, Short Story

She stands alone, waiting for the train to arrive. It’s been nearly six months since she moved to this city and her hatred of it has progressed exponentially.

Metro’s haunted, her colleague had told her during her first week at the new job.

Huh?

Haunted. Her colleague shrugged. Weird shit happens, people go missing. You take the metro to work, right? Careful at night, Kat. Just sayin’.

Oh. Has anything ever happened to you? Seen any ghosts? A dry smile had tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Nah, I don’t take the metro, basically no one does. Rachel is the only person I know that takes it. Ask her.

After six months, the only hauntings Kat’s seen are rent prices and the vacant, thousand-yard stares of commuters. And for “basically no one” taking it, the metro is offensively crowded every day.

The illuminated orange-on-black screen switches to “ARR” and she steps closer to the edge of the platform as headlights flood the tunnel and the train barrels in. Doors slide open and she squeezes past the crowd, finds a window seat. The train lurches into motion. A young woman sits down next to her, flipping long blonde hair over her shoulder.

In the flicker of harsh, fluorescent lights, faces look pallid. Dark carpet dirty and stained. Across from her sits an old man with coffee round eyeglasses, tucked up against the window with a book in his lap and hands folded solemnly over it. A brown leather briefcase is delicately placed between his feet. He looks straight ahead with an open, expressive face, a smile flickering tentatively at his mouth when someone sits down next to him.

The smile isn’t returned and he looks forward again, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses before recrossing his hands over the book more firmly.

Kat finds herself staring at him. Does he have grandchildren? she thinks. A wife? She hopes someone is waiting for him at home. Maybe a woman just as sweet and kind-looking as he is bustling in the kitchen, listening for the door, checking the clock. She watches as he looks down at the book and smooths its cover. She can picture him moving reverently in the kitchen, chopping and stirring until he has something for them to quietly eat together.

The prickly feeling of being watched invades her space until she glances to her left. Another man, younger, is staring at her. When she locks eyes with him he takes the opportunity to let his gaze travel down and back up. Irritated, she turns away and looks back toward the old man. He’s adjusting his glasses again, carefully, and she notices the absence of a ring on his left hand. Her heart sinks a little.

The train slows, brakes screeching, as it approaches the first stop. A few people shuffle off and the old man is left sitting alone for a moment. A woman ushers two young girls onto the train and they sit in the empty seat next to him, whispering and giggling. He moves over a bit, giving them more space to share a seat, smiling at them. The woman wordlessly pulls the girls away, pushing them ahead of her in search of somewhere else to sit. The man looks down, slides back to the middle of his seat, grips the book in his lap. Kat feels a pang of sympathy for him and briefly considers moving to sit there, to offer a smile.

A man dressed in suit and tie takes the empty seat. He’s talking loudly on the phone, a caricature of blithe disregard compared to his polite seatmate. He crosses an ankle over his knee, taking up more space. The old man shifts away slightly and looks out the window as the metro starts crawling.

The train descends into darkness and then back up for air again. Dozens of people wait to board at the next stop, overcrowding the train when they pile on. She watches as a woman engrossed in texting stands in front of the old man, swaying a bit when the metro moves again and accidentally stepping on his foot.

“Oh — I’m sorry!” the man says unnecessarily, smiling up at her, eyes bright behind his round glasses.

The woman readjusts her feet and says nothing, keeps tapping at her phone.

The lights flicker a bit in the next tunnel. She can’t see the old man anymore, her view obstructed by the texting woman, so she turns away. In the seats adjacent are two teenage girls; one is slouched down with her legs sprawled out in front of her, staring blankly, and the other yawns, pulls her hood up and tightens the strings around her face, leans her head against her friend’s shoulder.

The metro surfaces, rolls to a stop. Kat sees the old man stand and move toward the door as it slides open. Someone pushes past in a rush and he loses his grip on the book. It hits the dirty floor, pages splayed and crumpled, and his face falls.

She doesn’t move to help him. She doesn’t know why. No one does; people board, moving around him like a swarm. It’s almost as if no one sees him at all. He starts to bend down, bracing himself against the side of the metro.

She looks around, but no one pays any attention to the old man’s struggle. Metro’s haunted, Kat hears in her head. A coldness runs up and down her arms, making her shiver.

A hand, smaller and quicker, reaches for the book. One of the teenage girls. She picks it up and smooths the pages before closing it gently.

“Here.” The girl holds it out to him.

The man’s face crumples and he tries to smile. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Kat feels a flood of relief after the exchange, reassured that she’s not the only one who sees the old man. She shakes her head. Silly, she thinks, and smiles at him as he passes by her seat.

He smiles back, then pauses.

“They don’t usually interact with us,” he whispers to her, clutching the book to his chest and nodding toward the rest of the passengers. He makes to leave, then turns back and leans in. “Don’t make any of them mad,” he adds under his breath, then shuffles through the door and onto the platform as the metro starts to move. Kat tightens her grip on the bag in her lap until her knuckles turn white.