Shadow in the Corner

A tremor of pain quaked through his body, activating his senses into furious alarm. Before any thought or reason returned to him, the pain in his head consumed his interest, this was all he knew for the moment: inexorable pain. He pressed his hand to his right temple, hoping he could excise the pain through sheer force of will. But, the pain deepened, sending frantic pulses of agony throughout his body.

“Fuck!” he cried violently and stomped his feet hard; anything to subdue his distress.

He removed his hand and looked to see it sopped in blood, crimson veins trickling down his arm. The sight sent a flush over his body making him feel faint. He felt vomit rising in his chest and swallowed it back, breathing in deeply to calm his nerves. He needed to regain control. He swayed gently, taking deep meditative breaths.

His environment shifted into focus. He was in a small room, slumped uncomfortably in a chair. He noticed a mirror across from him, poised over a small sink, and a small fridge beneath the counter. The vanity was entrenched between two floor-to-ceiling cabinets. There was a whistling of air filtering through a hole to the right of the mirror, just at eye level. The puncture in the wall was splintered and jagged.

He caught his reflection and saw the wound on his right temple. He gently pressed his fingers to the bloody mess on his head accompanied by a wince of pain. He saw the terrible gouge carved into the side of his head. The pieces of information shifted in his mind and the immediate thought that came to him was that he’d been shot.

Adding insult to injury, as he searched his pool of memories . . . nothing came to him. Not even a name. This discovery was more jarring than the first. Panic rose in his chest and the pounding heartbeat rapped at his temples acrimoniously.

The alarm rose in his body, and he quickly stood and staggered to the sink. He cleaned his wound the best he could, battling the vertigo. Screaming pain thrashed at his skull. He saw a small red bag in the overhead compartment above the mirror, a first aid kit. He retrieved it and patched his head to the best of his ability; it wasn’t good, but it would do.

He exited the room. The hallway outside was a wind tunnel, whipping air thrashed at his clothes. The silhouettes of trees beyond the window rushed past in the fading sunlight. He gripped the walls with his hands to steady himself and worked his way through the cabin to the sitting area just beyond the hall.

He was on a train, shuttling through a field patched with clusters of trees. Toppled chairs and tables rocked gently in the lounge as the train rattled on the tracks. A window had been shot out where the wind funneled through the cabin violently.

He worked his way to the gangway connector and entered the adjoining train car. The furious howls of wind dissipated as the doors shut behind him; it was quieter now. His head still throbbed angrily. He stumbled slightly and caught himself on the wall, his free hand gripped his head impulsively causing another jolt of pain to rush through his body.

He found a nearby chair and sat to pacify the dizziness welling in his head. He patted himself down nervously, first his face, feeling the slick sweat on his checks, next his chest, finally his thighs, where he felt something in his left pocket.

He dug in his pocket quickly to retrieve a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it with quavering hands and read the vague and unhelpful note:

Allegheny Courthouse. September 15, 3:15pm.

He searched his head for anything that could help jog his memory, but he still came up empty. None of this made any damn sense! Why was he here? Where was he going? What happened?

He held the note limply in his hand in stoic silence, searching the distant crevices of his mind for something, anything; any clue to orient himself in this miserable situation.

He heard faint, muffled pops of static briefly. Then again. This time a voice, broken and distorted, came crackling over a radio, too muffled to make out. He folded the note and paused for a moment as he caught a glimpse of a wedding ring on his hand. He watched the gold shimmer in the light a moment hoping it might trigger a memory, but still nothing. He stuffed the note back in his pocket and hurried to his feet, moving carefully, listening for another sign of the voice.

The radio broke in again, he heard a female voice, but it was distant and muffled; he couldn’t discern the words.

He rushed through the hall beyond closed cabin doors before finding an open cabin where an officer lay on the ground, shot several times in the chest. The walkie rested beneath the fold down chair in the corner, as if thrown from the officer’s hand. In his other hand he held a pistol, the slide stuck open exposing the empty chamber.

He tried to climb over the body as delicately as he could, but the rocking of the train made it difficult to act gracefully. He placed one hand on the floor just beyond the officer’s shoulder and it slid quickly when he shifted his weight to it. He pulled his hand back and found it thick with blood. His lips pulled back in disgust as he stifled more vomit. He moved his hand back, this time planting it on the man’s chest. With his other arm he reached over and fished the radio out from the corner of the room. He depressed the button on its side.

“H – Hello?” he began with a dry and raspy voice. There was a long silence over the radio.

“Hello?” He said again, projecting his voice a bit more confidently.

“Who is this?” the radio crackled in response finally. The voice was sharp.

“I – I don’t know my name,” He responded unsteadily. “I just woke up on this train and I can’t remember anything. I’ve . . .” He paused momentarily. “I think I’ve been shot.”

“Ok, sir,” the voice dropped to a softer tone, something more like you would use with a child, “you said you’re on a train? Do you know where you’re located?”

“No,” he rose to his feet slowly to peer out of the window. “I see a field with some trees. There are bullet holes everywhere and . . . there’s a dead officer.” He knelt to examine the name tag. “Officer Connors. He’s been shot; I found his radio.” His voice began to shake.

“I understand,” the voice replied calmly. “Sir, can you please switch your radio to channel four so that we can continue this conversation?”

He flipped the dial on the radio to the number four and waited for a moment.

“Are you with me sir?” The voice responded.

“Yes,” he replied and released the button.

“First, I need some information, what is the last thing you can remember?”

He thought for a moment. He struggled, shifting through the emptiness in his head and some faint images were there. The information seemed jumbled and chaotic, but something did come to mind. He wasn’t sure if it was real, but the image was clear; it was the best he had.

“I remember PENN Station. I boarded the train from PENN station. I have a note on me that says Allegheny Courthouse. I think that’s where I’m going.”

“Ok, sir,” the woman on the radio replied gently. “I have information here of a train leaving PENN Station in Baltimore heading toward Union Station in Pittsburgh. My name is Amelia. We are going to help you figure this out, ok?”

“Ok,” he said hesitantly. He stepped out of the cabin and worked his way further down the hall to the next gangway. Checking out the window, he was heading towards the front of the train.

“Do you have a wallet on you? Are you carrying any ID?”

He rolled his eyes. He felt a flush of embarrassment for not summoning this basic logic on his own. He patted his back pockets and retrieved his wallet from his back right pocket. To his dismay, the wallet was empty. No cash, no cards, no ID.

“I don’t,” he replied solemnly.

“Ok, sir, not a problem,” she responded. “Can you describe what you’re seeing?”

“The train looks empty; disheveled,” he examined the chaos around him. “It looks like people left in a hurry.”

“I’m sorry, did you say the train is empty?” Amelia questioned.

“The cabins that I have been in so far are empty,” he responded after a moment’s hesitation.

He passed through another gangway into what looked like the storage area of the train. The radio sputtered static briefly when the crackle of a voice filtered through.

“Hello?” he called. “Amelia, are you there?”

“Sir, I need you –” the radio chirped out briefly. “If we are going to get you – Can you do that for me?” The radio connection was growing unstable; sporadic.

“Hello, I can barely hear you,” he responded.

“Sir?” Amelia’s voice came in chopped and distorted. “-an yo- -ear me?”

The radio dissolved into static.

“Amelia,” he responded, stopping in the cargo bay. “Amelia?”

Static hissed over the radio, but there was no response. He rushed out of the cargo bay, blaming the stockpile of luggage for the disruption. He exited through another gangway and tried over the radio again but received no reply.

“Shit,” he hissed. He clipped the radio to his belt and looked around the train car. He was in economy now; rows of seats littered the floor. It was busy with furniture, but devoid of any life. The silence of this space was eerie. He made his way through the car slowly, checking each row of seats before moving on to the next one. Many people left behind backpacks, odd accoutrements, trash, and a neck pillow.

A backpack was sprawled open on a seat, its contents spilled out over the seats and floor. Among those he saw a bottle of water and a power bar. He snatched the power bar up, not realizing how hungry he was, and he downed the bottle of water in a few long gulps. It did little to slake his thirst.

He worked his way through the economy section to the next gangway connector and into the adjoining train car. The door shut behind him and a heavy lock slammed shut, echoing its clang throughout the barren car. This room had been stripped of adornments down to the bare metal, dissolving the illusion of luxury and replacing it with the threadbare appearance of an abandoned industrial building. Veins of conduit and piping scaled the walls and ceiling, there were no windows in this room.

In the far corner of the room was an old CRT television shuffling through a presentation of images. He made his way across the train car cautiously, easing closer to the screen to make out what it was displaying. A news article appeared with the title “Carnage in Family Home, Surviving Husband Receives No Remuneration.” The body of the article was too pixelated to read, and the screen changed too fast.

The next image appeared, this one appeared to be police images of a woman in black and white, surrounded by small number placards identifying different points of interest. The woman was strewn in a pool of blood, her face was grossly disfigured by, what he could only assume, was a severe beating. Her jaw was gapping wide, her eye bulged out slightly, and a gash ran through her skull. He had to turn away from the image.

The room flicked dark to light as the screen flitted to the next image. Another news article, a small excerpt removed from a larger piece. “Engineer Seeks Damages, Victim of Medical Malpractice. Refuses Settlement, Loses Case in Shut Out,” the title read.

Something about these articles tug at the strings of his memory, there was something familiar about these events. But what the hell does any of it mean? And what does this have to do with him? He shuffled his way to the door to the next car, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, straining until the wound on his head throbbed in furious revolt. He collapsed to the floor, dazed from the exertion.

His eyes wandered the room, he glimpsed an old security camera above the door he came in through, a red-light pulsing. He slowly rose to his feet on unsteady legs, peering at the camera curiously.

“I have trouble looking at the images too,” a voice resounded to the empty metal chamber, adding a tinny whine to the tone. He winced in pain as the sudden loudness caused a throbbing pain in his head. “Of course, the events penetrate me more deeply than they do you.”

“Who the hell are you?” He screamed at the disembodied voice. “And where the hell am I?”

“We will get there in due time,” the voice replied, he was growing more accustomed to the volume level. “For now, let’s focus on who you are.”

“I don’t know who I am,” he called back in mild rebellion, but his interest had piqued.

“Would you like to?” The man replied. “Though, you may not like what you find.”

He thought for a moment, weighting whether he could trust what this man would tell him. Given the situation, he worked on the assumption that his man would lie to him, but what choice did he have?

“Yes,” he said.

“To start, your name is Curt Matthews,” the voice said, there was a grit in the voice that suggested it was an older man. “You are a high-profile lawyer and we have met on two occasions. The first was when you defended the man who raped and murdered my wife, and again when you defended the doctor who nearly cost me mine.”

Curt Matthews. The name triggered a few distant memories. He has a wife, some semblance of her returned to him. But it was his daughter that came in clear. Emily. She would be nine next week. A series of various courtrooms came to mind. He wasn’t sure if he could trust this man, but there was some truth in what he was saying.

This didn’t answer the stream of questions pouring into his mind, in fact it raised more questions than it answered. The implication was ominous all the same. Whatever lay ahead was not favorable to him.

“What do you want with me?” He asked simply, trying to disguise the weakness he was feeling.

“It would feel cheap to call this a vendetta, it seems elementary. But it is fitting,” the voice squelched through the speakers. “But I’m not without reason. I believe that every man is capable of a second chance. I am prepared to give you a second chance.”

There is nothing reasonable about this, Curt thought to himself. He didn’t want to play this game; he didn’t care for this situation. He marched toward the door he came through and tugged hard at it. It wouldn’t budge, it might as well have been welded shut. He punched the observation window of the door hard out of frustration, now his knuckles throbbed violently.

“Fuck you,” Curt shouted at the man, shaking the pain out of his hand.

“You believe you have a choice?” The man laughed. “No. You’ve already made your choices, that’s why you’re here. But there is still more left for you to learn about yourself.”

He heard a clank at the other end of the train car as the heavy metal lock released. He stared at the door pensively. He could stay here in this room, refuse to indulge this psycho. He could wait for the train to stop, or work to dislodge the door to go back the way he came. But something in him revolted. There was a morbid curiosity pulsing through him to regain his memories. So, he made his way to the door and passed into the adjoining car.

The next car held the same ragged appearance as the last and once again, the door locked behind him. But he heard a muffled pop beyond the door behind him of the previous lock releasing. In this room, there was a large metal room in the center of the car. A door with an observation window was centered in the wall facing him.

He approached the door, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. He almost feared to look through the window of the door to find his wife or daughter inside. He wasn’t sure he had the strength for what might come next and whatever confidence he was clinging to fled from him.

The soft thudding of his footsteps echoed in the room, but these were masked slightly by the sound of steam hissing from the pipes that were snaking along the floor, all feeding the room at the center of the car. His heart was racing rapidly in his chest, but when he approached the window, a moment of relief washed over him.

A woman lay in the room, she was wearing a red cocktail dress and heels. She was unconscious. Curt slammed his fists against the door, but she didn’t move. He rapped at the door again, shouting to get her attention. She jerked and then slowly lifted her head. He could see the panic wash over her face as she looked around, attempting to get her bearings and realizing that she was in an unfamiliar place. She climbed to her feet holding her hands away from her and stumbling on uneasy feet.

Her eyes met Curt through the window, gray eyes that widened with surprise.

“Curt?” she muttered skeptically. She rushed to the door. “Curt, what are you doing here? Where am I?”

She looked around the room in terror, her lipstick smeared across her cheek and her mascara was flaking away. There was something about her that was familiar to him. The memory was there, just out of reach. He could almost feel her name at the tip of his tongue. Or maybe it was her beauty, she was stunning after all, but her eyes. Those were what drew him in, he knew those eyes.

He tugged at the handle of the door, but it didn’t move. Did he really expect it to? He tried pushing; nothing. She tugged at the handle on her side as well to no avail.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to help you get out of here,” Curt said to her.

His eyes wandered around and he found two buttons, one on either side of the door. He stepped back carefully.

“You are looking at Chelsea Daniels,” the voice chimed in over the speakers. “You have been having an affair with Chelsea for the last three years. But you aren’t the only one.”

There was a glee to his tone, he was enjoying this. The sick fuck was enjoying himself. Chelsea looked around in a frenzy.

“You were planning to leave your wife for her,” the voice prattled on. “I wonder if you feel the same now. As I said, I am a reasonable person. You’ve already noticed the two buttons, the one to the right of the door will stop the train now. The doors behind you will unlock and you can go home, but Chelsea will burn alive. Or you can choose the button to your left, which will release the lock to the door ahead of you as well as the one to the furnace and Chelsea will go free. But in sparing her life, you are dooming another.”

Chelsea looked at Curt, terror etched into her face. Her eyes drove into him a pleading for life. Curt stared back, trying to organize the onslaught of emotions.

“Curt,” she began, tears already brimming her eyes. “You have to let me out of here. You can’t let me die.”

He didn’t respond. He stared at her, his own eyes wide with fear. He couldn’t move.

“If I let her out,” his voice shook, “whose life takes her place?”

Her eyes stared at him incredulously. The voice laughed over the speakers.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but it will be someone close to you.”

His knees went weak, and he stumbled back slightly. His hands were shaking violently as he brought them to his head.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I won’t do this.”

“If you don’t make the choice, then I will,” the voice spat over the speaker.

“God damnit!” Curt yelled.

He threw his fist into the wall of the room and pressed his head against the glass, tears were streaming down his face. He had no memories of this woman, but taking a life was too much for him. He couldn’t do it; his mind couldn’t grapple with the thought of even making the decision. But he had to, he had to make some decision. His hand slid down the wall and hovered over the button.

“God damn you,” he wept. “You sick fuck, God damn you.”

His hand pressed the button, and he immediately felt the heat from the other side of the door. He heard Chelsea screaming, the screams were horrible, they echoed in his mind, haunting every corner of his thoughts. He kept his head pressed against the glass until he felt a searing pain from the heat of the fire. Chelsea’s screams had stopped, and he stepped away from the cage. He wouldn’t let himself look, he simply stepped back towards the door he came in through. But it was still locked, and the train was still moving.

“Bravo,” the man called over the speaker. “I didn’t think you had it in you, but maybe you do have it in you for a second chance after all.”

“Unlock the door,” Curt muttered.

“Not quite yet,” the voice said in a stern tone. “Do you think I brought you here simply to murder your mistress?”

“Let me out of here you sick bastard!” Curt screamed thrashing his fist against the door. “I’m not playing your sick fucking game, let me out!”

“See, you were supposed to be on your way to the Allegheny Courthouse as a defendant to my appeal. I have no doubt that you would win the case. I may hate you and detest your moral deficiency, but you are a good lawyer, unfortunately for me. Losing this case will certainly lead to my death. I have no more money to keep up with treatments or to get the surgery I need to live.”

“I won’t go,” Curt said. “I will return home and refuse the case, just let me go. Let me be with my family.”

“You already are with your family,” the voice said softly.

He heard the lock release from the other side of the room. He couldn’t move. After what this room contained, he feared what he might find in the next one. He slowly made his way to the door at the far end of the car and slowly opened it to the small room between cars.

He paused for a moment, taking deep breaths, wringing his hands nervously. When his wrist brushed against the walkie that was clipped to his belt. He detached it and held it up. He depressed the button.

“Hello?” he whispered and held his breath. The wait for a reply was maddening.

Please god, he thought to himself. Please, someone answer.

“Sir, are you still there?” Amelia’s voice chimed through.

A surge of relief flooded him, fresh tears coated his eyes, he fumbled the walkie in his hands.

“Yes, yes, I’m still here,” he said. “I’m here, I’m still on the train, but I’m locked in a train car. A man is watching me, controlling the doors somehow. He has my family, I need help. He forced me to murder someone, I need to get out of here!”

A long silence followed this. He fidgeted impatiently, waiting for Amelia to reply.

“Sir,” Amelia’s voice came in. “We have been tracking your radio and have agents en route to your location. I need you to remain calm. Officers will be there shortly to board the train. I recommend that you stay in contact and stay where you are.”

He let out a sigh of relief and his heart beat steadied, the stress in his shoulders uncoiled and he felt tears wetting his cheeks. But he wasn’t out of this yet.

He opened the next door and dropped the walkie behind him. The door shut and a hollow thud echoed from behind him as the heavy lock engaged. A faint pop behind him indicated the other door lock releasing.

The lights of the car flickered to life, and he saw his wife and daughter on the other side of the room, thick metal collars encapsulated their necks and heavy chains ran to a panel in the ceiling. Their hands were bound behind them, and their mouths were gagged. A large digital clock rested behind them with the numbers displaying: 20:00:00.

“Here we are,” the voice came back over the speakers. “I’m quite proud of this one, as simple as it may seem. I don’t believe this needs much explaining. You have twenty minutes to free them. The key to each collar is hidden in this room. Every minute, the chains will raise until your wife and daughter are eventually hanging from the ceiling, suffocating to death. Save them, and the train will stop. You can all go home.”

“No, please,” Curt said in shock. “Please, you can kill me, your vendetta is against me. Don’t hurt my family.”

“I watched my family die,” the voice said teeming with rage. “I watched as that man ravaged my wife. I watched, bound and gagged on the floor, as he beat her with a crowbar over and over. And you defended him in court. Five years, that’s all he got. Five . . . years. Now you will watch your family die.”

“I thought you were a reasonable man,” Curt cried spitefully. “Where’s the reason in this?”

“I am reasonable,” the voice said softly. “At least I am giving you the opportunity to save your family.”

A static pop indicated the man disengaged the microphone and the clock timer started counting down. He rushed over to his wife and daughter, attempting to remove the gag, but he couldn’t find a latch or release to remove them.

“I am so sorry that you are here,” Curt cried. “I will get you out of this, both of you.”

In the corner of the room, he found a long lead pipe leaning against the wall. He grabbed it and immediately went after the camera. Then, he turned his attention to the chains raising from the collars, hoping he could jam the gears with the piping, but the chains fed into the ceiling where the mechanism was concealed.

The clock struck 19 and the slack in the chains tightened a few links. His wife and daughter began breathing in heavy, panicked breaths. He looked around frantically for anything that might indicate where the keys would be hidden.

He found loose panels on the wall and began tearing them off and checking them thoroughly, then checking the compartment in the wall that they were covering. After he pulled loose the second panel, he heard the slack in the chains tighten once more. The panic in him rose. He tried to remain calm and steady so he wouldn’t make mistakes, but his fear was brimming.

He discovered that there was a crease that ran between the floor and walls on each side and began sliding his fingers down the channel looking for a key.

The chains clinked up another few links and the slack was now gone from Emily’s collar; she was standing on the tips of her toes. The clock read 12 minutes now. He rushed to the other side of the car to check the other channel in the floor.

His heart sank when he brushed against a small key. It was lodged deep into the crevice and his fingers were fat and clumsy and slick with sweat. Whenever he got a decent grip on the key, it slid from his fingers and dropped back into the crack.

He wiped his hands on his shirt hurriedly. He reached in again and fished the key out. He looked at the key for a moment in breathless relief, then rushed to his daughter and tried the key in her lock. He fumbled uselessly, unable to drive the key into the lock.

The chain raised a few more links and Emily’s feet dangled over the floor, she began gasping and gagging.

“Shit, come on!” Curt shouted to himself.

He grabbed his daughter around the waist and lifted her slightly. She placed her feet on his bent knee for support. He drove the key into the lock and wiggled it. At first, it didn’t budge, but finally the key turned, and the collar sprang loose.

Emily dropped to the floor, coughing harsh raspy coughs. Curt dropped to his knees and hugged her tightly. In the distance of the train her heard the pounding of the doors. The police weren’t far. The door he had come in was ajar, caught on the walkie he had left behind.

He let go of his daughter and began hunting for the next key. 10 minutes remained. The police would be here soon, he could hear them working their way through the previous car. Emily started working her way through the car searching for the key.

It would all be over soon.