So I’m coming home from my crap bartending shift, right? Feet hurt, tips sucked, and the only thing I wanna do is crash on my lumpy mattress. But the clock says 1:58 a.m. and the last southbound is at 2:05. If I miss it, I’m stuck sleeping on the platform with the rats that look like they pay rent.
I swipe my card—clunk, red light. Swipe again, same deal. Third time the gate actually opens, like it changed its mind. Whatever. I jog down the escalator, past the poster of the smiling mayor promising “Safer Nights.” The poster’s torn at the corner and someone drew fangs on him with Sharpie. Made me chuckle until I heard the escalator steps behind me clacking too fast for one person.
I glance back. Nobody there. Just my own echo. Classic.
Platform’s empty except for this dude in a hoodie so gray it looks colorless. Hood pulled so low I can’t see a face, just a chin that’s too smooth, like plastic. He’s standing right at the yellow line, toes over, staring into the tunnel like he’s waiting for a private limo. I keep my distance; city rule number one.
2:03. No train yet. I pull out my phone to check the app—no service. The overhead bulbs start that disco stutter, on-off-on, making everything jump like bad stop-motion. Each time the lights come back, the hoodie guy is closer. Not walking, just… closer. First he’s ten feet away, then five, then right beside me, and I never once see him move. My heart’s doing drum solos.
“You got the time?” he asks. Voice sounds like a recording played underwater. My watch says 2:04, but before I can answer, the bulbs pop and we’re in total black. Not dark, black. Like someone dumped ink in my eyes.
I feel breath on my cheek, cold as freezer mist. “Time’s up,” he whispers.
Lights slam back. Dude’s gone. No footsteps, no squeak of sneakers, just gone. I spin around, half expecting to see him behind me, but the platform’s empty again. Then the train rolls in, slower than usual, windows dark. It stops and the doors ding open, yet no one’s inside. Not even a driver. The carriage lights are that sickly yellow that makes everyone look jaundiced.
I should wait for the next one. Problem is, there isn’t a next one. So I step in, telling myself the city’s just broke, not haunted. Doors shut like they’re glad I finally made up my mind.
Train pulls off and the tunnel swallows us. My reflection stares back from the window: hair a mess, bags under the eyes, neon shadow on my shoulder. Wait—neon shadow? There’s no neon down here. I blink and the shadow’s still there, a fuzzy purple outline clinging to me like spilled ink. I wave my hand; the shadow stays put. Great, now I’m hallucinating from exhaustion.
First stop: nothing. Doors open to an empty platform, tiles cracked, posters shredded. Second stop: same. I start counting stations because that’s what you do when your brain wants panic but your pride won’t allow it. Third stop, the doors slide open and hoodie guy steps on. No sound, no swoosh, just appears. He lifts his head—still no face, just smooth skin where features should be, like a mannequin forgot to get painted.
“You’re riding my train,” he says. Not angry, not happy, just stating a fact, like I’m a coat left on the seat.
I shrug, trying to play cool. “Public transit, man. First come, first served.”
He tilts that blank face. “You first. Me come. That’s the rule.”
The train lurches, but instead of speeding up it slows, like we’re wading through syrup. Lights dim till the only thing glowing is the purple shadow on my shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. I feel it tug, gentle at first, then harder, like it wants off. The hoodie guy reaches out, fingers long and jointless. “I just need a piece,” he whispers. “Just the sad part. You won’t miss it.”
Thing is, I kinda like my sad. It’s what reminds me I’m still alive after double shifts and crap tips. I swat his hand. “Back off, smooth-face.”
He recoils like I burned him. The shadow flickers, confused. Train stops dead in the tunnel, emergency lights buzzing red. Doors stay shut. I smell copper, like pennies on the tongue.
I remember my nana’s old superstition: if you speak your name to the dark, it can’t sell you lies. So I say my name out loud—just the first one, the one my mom whispered when I was born. The tunnel inhales it, wind rushing past my ears. Hoodie guy shudders, cracks spider-webbing across his plastic skin. Purple shadow peels off my shoulder, sucked toward the ceiling like cigarette smoke in reverse.
Then—boom—lights blast white, train jerks forward so hard I nearly kiss the floor. Doors open at the next station and it’s normal again: drunk students, sleepy janitor, even the smell of burnt pretzels. I stumble out, legs jelly, and the doors shut behind me. Through the window I see hoodie guy standing inside, face still cracking, raising a hand—not waving, more like reminding. The train rolls away, taking him and my neon shadow with it.
I sit on the bench, heart slowing. My phone buzzes back to life: 2:17 a.m., full signal. App says the last train already left. Yet here I am, on the platform, watching a train that shouldn’t exist disappear into the tunnel.
Next morning I tell my roommate. She laughs, says I dreamed it. But when I check my shoulder in the mirror, there’s a faint purple bruise shaped like a handprint. Doesn’t hurt, just sits there, glowing under blacklight. Sometimes, when the subway lights flicker, I feel it pulse, like it’s waiting for the next last train.
So if you’re ever in Eastbridge and the clock creeps past two, maybe wait for a cab. Because the city’s got rules, and some of them ride the rails long after the maps shut down. And if a smooth-faced dude asks for a piece of you, remember your name and say it loud. The dark can’t sell what it can’t pronounce.