Tickets, Please

On a quiet and still night a fatigued businessman left his office to return home for some much needed rest. Upon entering the vacant streets, he checked his watch: 12:30a.m. He still had time to catch the last train home. The station was but a quarter mile away, so there was no rush. The sound of his shoes upon the cold, Chicago streets echoed and reverberated amongst the towering cascades of buildings nearly cloaked by the moonless night. In the distance, such a sound arose that it caused him to drop his suitcase and jump with fright. In the process, he tripped over it and fell hard upon the street. A few seconds later he arose and shook his head of its disorientation.

“What was that noise,” he thought. “Sounded like a car backfiring.”

He brushed himself off and continued on his way.

Street lights hummed and glowed, providing a path of light that guided him to his destination. Within minutes, he arrived at the steps that led down to the commuter train station. He checked his watch before beginning his descent: 12:45a.m. Fifteen minutes to spare. He made his way down the steps and reached the bottom where it opened up to a long, straight landing lined with benches that leaned against grand columns hosting signs of train lines and arrival/departure times. Placed in the middle of this was a ticket booth, which was closed. He didn’t need one though. He had recently bought a monthly pass to save him from these kinds of inconveniences. The businessman walked over to the nearest bench and sat down. He was alone. Surprisingly, there were no other stragglers or even the occasional vagrant, as was usually the case, present. Along with this anomaly came the strangest of sensations seemingly brought on by the night. As the businessman grabbed a nearby newspaper and opened it up, he noticed that the track in his distant sight seemed to slowly disappear as if it were grains of sand gradually sifting from its container. Upon closer investigation, it seemed as though it were a fog or mist of some mysterious composure enveloping the track.

“Some sort of strange weather phenomenon, no doubt.”

The man returned to his paper but before long was interrupted once more by the growing sound of a train’s whistle. He looked in its direction and then up at the clock that hung on a nearby wall. It read 2:30a.m. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, then looked again. It read the same. He then checked his watch: 2:30a.m. Astounded and perplexed, he worked to consider the possibilities that permitted a two-hour advance in time from what felt like a ten-minute wait. There was but little time for this, however, as the train was nearing the station. The man got up and looked to see if he could see it arriving, but there was nothing to accommodate his eyes. Mist had now crept into the station, blanketing the tracks and, yet, as though controlled by some unknown force, respected the boundaries and kept behind the perimeter of the platform on which the man stood. Moments later, the train appeared. Its arrival was so quiet that the only way the man knew it was there was by its lights, which glowed like embers in blue and white hues.

“All aboard,” the conductor announced.

The man cut through the fog and disappeared into the passenger car. Once inside, he sat down and opened his paper once more.

Inside the cab, nestled comfortably in his seat, the man read the paper’s latest news. He was the only one in his cab. He had noticed this when he first entered, but paid it no mind. It was warm and felt safe inside. Through this observation he concluded that the train had just begun its shift. The businessman welcomed this isolation as he found solitude in this relaxing transition from labor to rest. It would be a while before he reached his destination.

As the train progressed, gliding along tracks swallowed by the mist, it occasionally stopped to let more passengers in. A few stops later, the businessman pulled his head out of his paper to mend his stiffened neck. In the process, he looked around at the small assortment of passengers who had boarded throughout the train’s stops. Though he knew not to stare, he couldn’t help but as his eyes witnessed a seemingly grotesque gallery of human beings. To his side and across a man sat, one hand clutching his chest as if resting in some twisted, awkward angle. To the right of this man and a couple of seats down sat a woman. She looked pale. She leaned on the glass of the train window, occasionally moaning at the slightest turbulence. At one point, she adjusted herself and, as she turned, he observed that the side of her dress bore a thick, dark stain. Upon further examination, he realized that it was blood. She appeared seriously injured. He wished to say something, but couldn’t. His lips wouldn’t work and his tongue felt as though it were tied in knots. He went back to reading, holding his paper higher this time as not to let his eyes wander. A stop or so later, a strange noise turned his attention once more to the occupants of the cab. A curious dragging of something that scraped across the floor, lifted, and then scraped again. The businessman looked up from the horizon of the newspaper. It was an elderly and a middle-aged man. The younger man was supporting the older, his arm around the other’s shoulder. The older man’s head hung low and he moaned and whimpered slightly as the younger moved him towards the nearest seat. He looked drunk. His head, lacking the strength to hold itself upright, seemed to bobble with every step he took. His right leg, too, was angled funny. It appeared to be broken, and dangled and swayed about uselessly.

The two sat down and the older man’s moaning eventually ceased.

A second or two after the two sat down, the train started up again. Some time passed before the train made another stop. During that duration, the businessman had started a new article, yet couldn’t concentrate. He had now become uncomfortable and anxious in the vicinity of his strange and unnerving surroundings. It was better, as he thought it, that he keep his head in the pages before him than allowing his eyes freedom to wander and feed his mind all sorts of surreal and terrifying fantasies. He was midway through an article when the car’s door opened and a shadow fell upon him.

“Tickets, please,” a hollow voice instructed.

With paper still open and propped upright, the businessman rifled through the contents of his blazer pocket and pulled the ticket out. The newspaper folded downward as he extended his arm to hand the ticket to the conductor. But before he could hand him his ticket, he let out a horrifying scream.

“Is there something wrong, sir,” the conductor asked the businessman, who was now pressed against the back of the window, shaking with fright.

He couldn’t answer. He just shook his head, struggling to catch his breath.

“Sir, is there something wrong? You do have your ticket, don’t you?”

The businessman looked down at the ticket, now imprisoned in his tight fist.

Eventually, he relaxed his hand and unfolded the crumpled ticket. He looked down at what the conductor had requested and what now balanced in his open hand. It wasn’t the ticket that he had bought for the duration of the month. Instead, it was of a strange color and design. There was writing on it, too. The writing was foreign. Not to his country, but to his world. Never had he seen anything like it anywhere during his time on this earth.

The cab was now quiet and everyone was staring at him. He noticed that there were new passengers as well.

“Is there something wrong, sir,” the conductor further asked.

“What’s going on, where am I,” the businessman finally answered, still scared out of his mind.

“You’re on a train, sir,” the conductor replied.

“What kind of train is this? Why is everyone so, so… messed up?”

He stopped and looked around again.

“It looks like a hospital in here. Or a morgue!”

“Sir,” the conductor replied, “this is a train for the recently deceased.”

“But, but I’m not dead!”

The conductor then stretched out his arm and pointed to the window that the businessman was still glued to. He slowly turned to look at it. At the sight of his reflection he shivered and cried. Along the left side of his head, blood had oozed out from underneath his hat and dried. He took it off and turned his head slightly to the right. There, just below his hairline, was a bullet hole.

“Impossible,” he whimpered, exhausted. “Impossible.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Look around you,” the conductor suggested.

The businessman did as the conductor had recommended and looked around. Along the far end, almost out of sight sat two skeletons, dressed up in suits. And there, not far from them sat a man and, alongside him, a young boy.

“Tickets, please.”

The businessman turned sharply and then looked at the conductor. And this time, he placed the ticket into the conductor’s hand, which was but a skeleton’s; the flesh and tissue had long since fallen away. It produced hollow, cracking sounds as it closed. The conductor continued down the hallway where others willingly presented theirs.

Silently and steadily the train rolled along the track and disappeared into the night.

END