The Man on the Train Station
A well-dressed man approached me as I walk down a bustling street. He seems polite, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘could you point me toward the train station?’
I glance at him. Harmless enough.
'That path, mister. Take the next left and keep going straight.’
He smiles—his eyes still empty.
‘I knew that, child. But I want to ask... where is the train station?’
Maybe he misheard me. The street is too quiet. No honking. No distant chatter. Just us.
‘Over there, mister. Take the next left and continue straight.’
This time, I point with my hand.
The man tilts his head at an unnatural angle.
‘I am aware, child. But. WHERE. IS. THE. TRAIN. STATION?’
I glance at the glass pane of a closed storefront.
Maybe the windows are just dirty?
I sigh and pull out my phone.
‘Look here, sir. You are here.’ I point to our location.
‘And the train station is... here.’ I tap the train icon.
He opens his mouth, but only static comes out.
His head twists like an owl’s, too far, too fast.
‘TRAIN. WHERE. STATION. IS. THE. ?’
His smile stretches—like a cut being made across his face in real time.
His suit flickers. His arms bend at wrong angles.
Before I can run, his shadow spills over me, curling like tendrils, reaching.
I shut my eyes, and then—
‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘could you point me toward the train station?’
His smile is sheepish. Polite.
His reflection is back in the glass.
I hear car horns again. Two people arguing down the block.
‘Y-yeah. Just... take the next left and keep going straight.’
He tips his hat and walks away.
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