The last train of the night groaned as it pulled into the station, its wheels screeching against rusted tracks. It was cold, unnaturally so, and the wind bit at the few souls who lingered on the platform. Eric stepped off the train, his face buried in the collar of his coat, a dull ache resting between his temples.
It was late—far too late for anyone to still be walking the streets. But something had called him here. Not work, not duty, but a feeling. A tug. His mother had always said he had “an instinct for darkness,” that he could feel things no one else could. He’d never believed her, not really. Yet tonight, as the station emptied and the hollow sound of his footsteps echoed through the underpass, he felt something.
Something watching him.
The tunnel stretched out before him, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting uneven shadows on the cold, cracked tiles. His pulse quickened, but he ignored it. He’d walked through this underpass a hundred times. It was just his mind playing tricks.
The scent hit him first. A metallic tang, sharp and bitter. Blood.
Eric’s steps faltered, but only for a moment. His phone was out of battery—of course it was. The old flip-phone hadn’t held a charge for more than a few hours in months. He cursed under his breath and pressed on, deciding that whatever his imagination was conjuring, he’d deal with it in the morning. His apartment was only two blocks away.
But then he saw it. In the dim light, just ahead. A body. Motionless.
He froze. The urge to turn around, to run, was overwhelming, but the same instinct that had drawn him into the underpass held him in place now. He edged closer.
A man lay there, his face twisted in fear, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath him, glistening in the faint light. His throat was slashed open, a jagged tear that looked rushed. Like someone had been interrupted mid-act.
Eric’s stomach churned, but he couldn’t look away. It was as though his feet were glued to the ground. The man’s mouth was open, lips barely parted, as if he’d been about to say something in his last moments.
Suddenly, a soft creak echoed through the underpass.
Eric whipped around, his breath caught in his throat. He was no longer alone. A figure stood at the entrance of the tunnel, shrouded in darkness. It was tall, unmoving, its silhouette distorted by the flickering lights.
For a moment, time seemed to stretch. The figure did not move. Neither did Eric.
Then, without warning, the light above him blinked out.
Panic surged through him. He spun back toward the body—gone. The pool of blood, the lifeless eyes, all of it vanished as if it had never been there.
He took a step back, and his foot hit something soft. He looked down.
His coat. The collar, wet and heavy. Blood-soaked.
Eric’s mind raced. This wasn’t happening. None of it was real. He wiped at his face, but his hands came away clean. He touched his coat again. Dry.
The lights flickered back to life.
The figure was gone.
Breathing hard, Eric took off in a sprint, his heart hammering in his chest. He ran through the underpass, past the place where the body had been, past the darkened streets. He ran until he reached his apartment building and shoved open the door. Inside, he locked every bolt, every chain, before sinking to the floor, gasping for air.
He couldn’t explain what he had seen. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.
But as he sat there, his back against the door, the world outside felt… wrong. The familiar creaks of the old building seemed louder. The shadows in the corners felt deeper. And that smell, the metallic tang of blood, still lingered in the air.
He checked his coat one more time. Dry.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, its second hand creeping toward midnight. Eric forced himself to stand, heading toward the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, to clear his head.
As he looked up, his reflection stared back at him.
It wasn’t him.
It looked like him, yes, but something in the eyes, the expression—it wasn’t his. It was hollow. Staring. And there, just under his chin, was a thin, jagged line, as if something had almost—
His reflection grinned.
The lights flickered.
And he remembered the night before his death.