The Stranger on the Train

Something is wrong. There is a stranger in the back of the train. Someone I have never seen before. Sitting alone, among all the daily commuters I see every day. Perhaps I never noticed him before. Though he has a distinct look I would have noticed. His face is smooth and there is not a hair on his head, not even a brow or lash. He wears a round brim hat that would at times obstruct his rubbery face. A black leather briefcase sits on his lap. The stranger is looking at me, and I freeze. His gaze is impassive. I feel as if I should look away but can’t. A man walks between us and obstructs our view. When he passes, the stranger is looking straight ahead, seemingly at nothing. I am uneasy. I hope the stranger gets off the train soon. 

Minutes pass and the crowd thins, yet the stranger remains seated in the back. I try to distract myself from the stranger. I watch the other commuters. I know them all by face, but do not know their names. I observe them every day. I know what kind of books they like, even though sometimes they cover the title with paper, I still know. The man at the end of the car has a tendency to rub his nipples while reading romance novels. I know who is married with children by the look of frustration as they travel home. The woman by the door has three children, one of which is with her today, the purple lines looming below her eyes like an overcast day. I know the man sitting closest to me has been having an affair as he slips the ring from his finger each time before exiting. I occupy myself by keeping track of whose stop it is, and the woman who is sexually frustrated just missed hers. The man across from me reads a book called How to Change. He really needs more than self-help if he is to ever get over his Oedipus complex. I stare out the window for a little while. In the reflection of the window, I see the stranger looking at me again. I try to ignore it. There’re only two stops left. I really hope the stranger gets off the train soon. 

I watch the man who eats too much. He furrows his brow and smirks, thinking of what passive aggressive thing he could say to his wife when he gets home. The woman standing by the door yanks her child’s hand. The child is looking as if to ask if it gets better than this. It doesn’t. I cough loudly to startle the dozing man; the next stop is his. The train is nearly empty: only one stop left, and the stranger is still here. There is little to distract me now. I wish the stranger would get off the train sooner. I stare out the window, trying not to notice the stranger looking at me. I see telephone poles, their wires dipping back and forth like hill tops as we speed by. I see the gray sky in the distance. I see the trees and try to think of all the animals and creatures that live inside them, how they burrow into the wood to sleep at night. But the thought always comes back and tells me to look. I turn and his eyes are burrowing a hole into me.

I don’t like the stranger. I don’t. I don’t like him. Please go away, I don’t like you. My skin begins to cry, I hate when my skin cries, it’s okay skin, the stranger will leave soon. There is a screeching like a cry to rouse me from my thoughts. I thought it was me, but it’s just the train coming to a halt. I’m happy I didn’t screech. I hate when I do that. I glance to make sure the stranger hasn’t moved before shuffling quickly towards the door. Stupid smelly man, move. The doors, they won’t open. Oh, please. The stranger is standing, please, please, doors open. Oh, thank God! The doors slide open with a whine from the track. I rush onto the platform, staggering in my steps as I push through a man and woman holding hands on the platform. The woman scoffs about me being rude. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know about the stranger. I turn my head and see him. He’s looking at me. Help. Help. My fast stumbling walk turns into a sprint. Need to get away. My feet slap against the brick of the platform as I run and throw open the door to the station house. The large dome above echoes my footsteps as my limbs flail. It’s late, no people here. The station is empty. No one can help me.

My breath is heavy, and I must stop. Throat feels like I swallowed a knife. I bend over, resting my hands on my knees. Is the stranger gone? The only sound is the labored breaths from my dry mouth. I hear the tapping of feet echoing off the dome, but my feet are still. It’s slow and distant, but it’s getting closer. My hands begin to shake, my brow dampens, and the veins of my neck beat along with my chest. The shadow of a man enters my view. Please. I see the outline of a large, brimmed hat and long coat. No. I see his briefcase in hand. He is walking towards me calmly. Not him. Please. No. I try to run, but my legs wobble and I fall. I push back with my feet to try and get away from him. God. Please. I crawl back and cry out for him to stay away. But his blank stare keeps getting closer. My heart will burst. I throw myself upon the floor, my wails breaking into a sob. He’s here. Stranger. Don’t like you. Go away. Go away stranger. The tapping of his steps stops for a moment. I look up to the stranger standing before me. He is holding something out to me, and I stare into the light.

The light appears to stay, but then I realize I’m lying down, staring up at a single burnt bulb. Can’t move. My arms. My legs. They’re stuck. Even my head. I strain my eyes, turning them to the side of my skull. From the corner of my sockets I can see the window in the room. But not outside. A window to another room. And I see them there, watching. A group of men. Can’t see how many, but they’re there. In the dim light they appear gray. Turning my head back to the light, he is here again. The stranger. No. Go away. I don’t like him. His hat blocks out the light and I cannot see his face. But I think he is smiling. He shows me things. In my head. Terrible things. Bodies mutilated. Turned inside out. Pieces I cannot recognize strewn about. The gray men. Inside my house. I cry out for him to stop. But he does not. I dart my eyes away, straining to the point they could roll out of my head. But I still see the terrible things. My eyes shift to the window with the gray men. As if they would help. But the stranger pulls my eyes back. I cry. I squeal. I beg him. I will not tell anyone. I swear. I swear to God, on my life, and anything else I can think of. Then he stops. He wants me to tell. About him. The bodies. The gray men. Tell everyone. And they’ll let me go. He again reaches out and shows me the light. 

After a moment, I catch myself staring at the bright overhead light on the train. The clacking tracks brings my mind back. My senses slowly realize where I am. The noxious scent of the cologne the man next to me is wearing. A wailing baby in the car. The rooftops of buildings outside pass like leaves in a stream. I am back. The sexually frustrated woman. The fat man. The romance reader. We all are here. I breathe easy as I go back to watching all the people. A man seated across, a few seats down, looks intently at the newspaper, and I wonder what story concerns him. He flips a page, and I see he is doodling over the faces of people on the page. Two teens on the other side of the car are trying to impress each other by gripping the safety bars and attempting to pull themselves up. 

Then I see him. The stranger. Staring at me. My skin begins to cry from the sudden heat. My hands rattle gripping the seat as I try to stay still. But it is no use. I jump to my feet and cry. I shout to the passengers. I point to him. The stranger is bad. The gray men are bad. I tell them about the mutilations. How they followed me. Trapped me. The passengers all stare at me, silently. Some glance back at the stranger, confused. The teens laugh quietly to themselves. The woman looks scared. A man next to me inches away. I look around the car at them and each stare at the floor instead of my eyes. I think of what to say. How we must stop them. Then the train stops. I reach out to a man who passes by for the door, but he pulls away. He asks why they should believe me. I sound crazy. The woman scurries out the other side of the car. Another man yells at me to shut up. The rest go back to what they were doing. Then I realize my mistake. Why the stranger wanted me to tell. Now no one will ever believe the gray men are here. They will continue to trap us, cut us to pieces. No one will ever know. The stranger stands, staring at me. He walks forward. I cannot breathe. Then he turns and exits the train, smiling at me.  

About the Author

Stephen Niedzwiecki is writer based in Northern Virginia. His articles have appeared in InsideNoVa, Capitol Standard, and Northern Virginia Magazine.