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The Man in the Red Hoodie

The night shift at the Dewfield Transit Station was usually quiet—lonely, even. But at 1:43 a.m., Officer Dana Reyes knew something was off the moment she stepped inside

By Muhammad MehranPublished about a month ago 3 min read

M Mehran

The night shift at the Dewfield Transit Station was usually quiet—lonely, even. But at 1:43 a.m., Officer Dana Reyes knew something was off the moment she stepped inside.

The air felt wrong. Too still. Too expectant.

A janitor flagged her down immediately.

“Officer, thank God.” His hands shook so badly the mop clattered. “There’s a man on Platform C. He’s been here for three hours… just sitting. Not moving. Not speaking.”

“That’s not a crime,” Dana said gently.

“No, you don’t understand.” The janitor lowered his voice. “He’s wearing a red hoodie. The red hoodie.”

Dana froze.

The last time someone in a red hoodie appeared in Dewfield, a woman vanished. Before that, a college student. Police had no leads, no footage, no suspects—just witness descriptions of “a man in a red hoodie.”

A ghost. A rumor. A nightmare the town whispered about.

“You’re sure?” Dana asked.

“Positive.”

Platform C was at the far edge of the station—cold, dimly lit, a place where trains rarely stopped anymore. Dana’s boots echoed as she approached, hand brushing the holster at her hip.

Then she saw him.

Sitting on the metal bench.

Hunched forward.

Red hoodie pulled low over his face.

Still as a statue.

“Sir?” Dana called.

No response.

She stepped closer. “Sir, this station is closing soon. I need you to look at me.”

The man slowly lifted his head.

His face was pale beneath the hood. Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Eyes hollow, fixed on her like he wasn’t fully present.

Dana steadied her breath. “Can you tell me your name?”

Silence.

He raised one hand and pointed to the far corner of the platform.

Dana’s pulse quickened.

“What’s over there?”

Another silence.

Then, in a voice hoarse from disuse:

“She’s waiting.”

Dana’s skin prickled. “Who?”

He whispered: “The girl.”

The missing girl from last winter had been wearing a red hoodie too. But they never found her. Never found anything.

“Where is she?” Dana asked, moving slightly closer.

He lifted his arm again, pointing insistently.

Dana followed his gaze.

A maintenance door.

Locked.

Unused for years.

Her instincts screamed.

“Stay here,” she ordered, though she doubted he’d move.

She approached the door.

The lock appeared dusty… yet the dust was smudged. Recently touched.

Dana keyed her mic. “Dispatch, I need backup at—”

Static.

She tried again.

Nothing.

The radio was dead.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She drew her flashlight with one hand, her gun with the other, and pushed the door open.

Cold air swept over her.

The room beyond was dark except for her narrow beam of light. Old mechanical equipment lined the walls. Pipes groaned overhead.

Then she saw it.

A shoe.

Small. White. Child-sized.

Dana’s chest tightened.

She stepped inside.

“Hello?” she called. “Is someone in here?”

A whisper answered from the darkness.

“Help…”

Dana swung the light toward the voice.

A girl sat on the floor, pressed against the wall, rope around her wrists. Dirt smeared her face. Her eyes, wide and frightened, reflected the beam.

Dana rushed forward, kneeling. “I’m Officer Reyes. You’re safe now.”

The girl shook her head violently. “No. No, no, you don’t understand. He’s coming back.”

Dana’s stomach dropped. “Who?”

Before the girl could answer, footsteps sounded behind them.

Heavy.

Deliberate.

Dana jumped to her feet, raising her weapon.

But it wasn’t the man in the hoodie.

It was another man—older, broad-shouldered, dressed in a maintenance uniform that didn’t belong to any active employee. A ring of keys jingled at his belt.

His eyes glinted with recognition.

And hunger.

“You weren’t supposed to find her yet,” he said calmly.

Dana kept her gun steady. “Hands where I can see them.”

He didn’t move.

He just smiled.

“You came alone. Good.”

In one quick motion, he swung a wrench.

Dana dodged, the blow whistling inches past her head. She fired a warning shot, sparks flying as the bullet ricocheted off metal.

The man lunged again.

Dana tackled him, both of them crashing to the concrete floor. Pain shot up her arm as he slammed the wrench against her wrist, knocking her gun loose.

He reached for her throat.

Then—

A shout.

“STOP!”

The man in the red hoodie stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild.

The attacker snarled. “You were supposed to keep watch.”

The hooded man’s voice cracked. “I told you—I can’t do this anymore.”

“You don’t get to quit.”

The attacker moved for Dana again.

But the hooded man stepped between them.

“Run,” he whispered to her.

Dana didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the girl’s hand and bolted.

Behind her, the sound of a struggle erupted—grunts, swings, a crash of metal. She didn’t look back.

They burst onto the platform. Dana slammed the emergency alarm, sending sirens wailing across the station.

Backup arrived within minutes.

But by the time officers stormed the maintenance room, both men were gone.

Only blood and broken metal remained.

And a single red hoodie on the floor.


---

Hours later, as the girl was treated and taken into protective care, Dana stood alone on Platform C.

Two men.

One monster.

One victim forced to help him.

The town would always remember the red hoodie as a symbol of fear.

But now, Dana wondered if it had also been a quiet cry for help.

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