The Stare

The unwritten rule on the NYC subways is simple; For god sakes- Don’t make eye contact with those on the train! While everyone else was trying their NY best to ignore one another- There was one passenger that was dressed to the nines, and seemed adamant about breaking that rule. He glanced over and tried to make eye contact with each person on the train. Noticing his validation seeking intentions, I rolled my eyes and ignored him. I had no patience for such a bushy tailed tourist at this hour. ANY HOUR. As I sat across from this creep, there was a persistent breeze that caressed my bushy forearms and hair, but this was the big apple. I ignored and override all things with a ‘I’ve seen-this, done-- that’ attitude- Even if it didn't sit right in my gut.

That night, like every night- I worked late, closed the restaurant, had a few beers, and scarfed down some steak frites at L’express. I looked at my watch, and ugh… it’s 1:30am. I was so exhausted and thought about taking a cab.. until I looked into my wallet, and was reminded of my place in the Big Apple. Convenience wasn’t financially feasible, and I had to settle for a subway ride back home. I was not looking forward to the clockwork orange/night of the living dead/freak show that was how late night NYC subway scene always was. As I headed to Chelsea Sixth Avenue station, I passed by a brightly lit Bodega, with awful graffiti all over its half closed gate, and the NY Lotto mascot man next to it with his smile, blackened with a sharpie. ‘Hey-you never know’, he always said in commercials.. I bought one, in hopes of getting out of this hellhole.

I begrudgingly took my exhausted body down multiple levels of stairs to the downtown/Brooklyn side of the train station. With just a few steps onto platform level, the relaxing buzz I had from the midnight tipple was smacked out of my senses, with the intense odor from the city's underbelly. I prayed that my train would come immediately, so that I wouldn’t suffocate. The platform was long. Almost a city block, and there were rusty pillars with graffiti every 20feet or so on either side, to keep the skyscrapers above from crashing down on us. They were all oozing, with mystery underground ‘juices’ that formed puddles.

Rats, the size of chihuahuas, ran around freely in and out of the garbage cans, on the tracks and on the platform, like they owned the place. It’s always so loud in there, even at that hour; someone was always screaming, crying, giggling to themselves, all while several genres of music were being blasted from a boom box. It’s sensory overload. We all ignored one another, and gazed into the tunnel to see if there were any signs of a train coming our way.. After about 25minutes, FINALLY-! But, it was the A train, which normally runs on the Eighth avenue line. “Making all local stops.. stand clear of the closing door please” said the conductor. It’s going to be a long ride back home, but at least I got to take a seat.

Briefly surveying the train cart I was on, it was your typical after hours scene- filled with the usual characters; drunk lightweights passed out and sleeping side ways, taking up a good portion of seating real estate. The rowdy bunch of punks playing their music loud, practicing their break dancing. There were a couple that argued passionately in another language, and many service industry types like me, with bloodshot eyes, that were just trying to get home. Then, there was that nosy creep, so desperate to make eye contact. I had my headphones on, to drown out the distractions all around me, all while being mindful not to fall asleep. The last thing I needed was to miss my stop, or end up getting robbed, or worse. This time of the night- you’re really on your own.

These late night trains would frequently stop in between stations, due to track work or waiting for the train ahead to move. It was a rarity to have the ride be seamless and on schedule. I noticed some subway riders were cursing about the lag, but I was more preoccupied to not fall asleep. Last time I did that, I ended up in Coney Island. Without any update from the train conductor, and stuck in a dark tunnel somewhere between Washington Square and Bleeker, we all shook our heads, disgruntledly acquiescing the erratic ride back to Brooklyn.

Out of sheer boredom, I gazed out of the window and tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness that surrounded our train. All I saw were danky concrete pillars and graffiti that were dimly illuminated by the train traffic lights. I had no idea what they all were supposed to signify. I was more impressed that someone was so focused on their art, that they snuck into this subterranean world with trains zipping by, in such tight quarters. It was downright suicidal to be out there. While I gazed to decipher the graffiti, I felt another breeze hitting the back of my neck. Strange, since the train was at a standstill, and all windows and doors were closed. From my peripheral, I vaguely could see a rachid, twitching man- who was leaning over to seated straphangers, and growling- “What the FUCK are you lookin’ at?!” I shook my head thinking that the well dressed googly eyes across from me, was about to get a NYC attitude adjustment. Then again, the gutteral, cantankerous voice was no longer directed at others; It came from directly behind me. My neck felt like they were on fire, and I instinctively turned around.

Of all the times I’ve avoided eye contact on the train- from the guy talking and drooling on himself, to the bible thumper trying to save all of the ‘damned souls’on the train. I always kept my head down for what isn’t my business. That night however, I locked eyes…With a horribly disfigured man, blistered, impaled with shrapnel, and glass. He smoldered, and skin peeled grotesquely. He glared, with his coagulated eyes, and screamed- “The hell are you looking at?!” I was violently knocked backwards, and everything turned dark.

The provoking cool breeze that caressed me earlier suddenly turned into smoky vapors that burned and curled my arm hairs.There was a tremendous amount of shaking, loud explosions, glass shattering, wooden floors splintering, and the pungent smell of melting plastic. Then there were blood curdling screams from every direction. I desperately tried to move, to yell out, to do anything, but it was as if I had completely been pinned down by an immovable force. It also was becoming harder to inhale or exhale. I began to hyperventilate, and sweat profusely from the spiking temperatures. So many scenarios went through my head; “Are we under attack? Was there a bomb? .. Wait, am I.. Am I Dead?”

“Hey, can you hear me? Are you alive?” From the darkness, somebody tugged my paralyzed body out towards the light. I was repeatedly shaken awake and told to evacuate immediately from the train. When I was finally able to adjust my eyes to see, the one that was helping me out of this volatile situation was that sharply dressed googly eyes, who sat across from me. He eventually dragged me out to the platform, and had me rest by the wall. The last I saw of him was when he bravely went back into the twisted, burning metal carriage. As soon as he entered, the train disintegrated. I shook, in horror. I remained motionless and completely transfixed until from the far left of the tunnel tracks, a new train came roaring in. I braced for impact with the derailed carriage that I just escaped from…The one, that was on fire.

The coney island bound train arrived at the station, with its brakes squealing to a gentle halt. The pneumatic doors opened, with the interior lights from the subway car flooding the gloomy platform floors. A few people got out of the train, briefly glanced over my direction and ignored me, despite my hand being outstretched towards them for help. I was overwhelmed with confusion, terror, and exhaustion. I eventually collapsed into a deep sleep.

There was heavy, persistent tapping on my shoulder. “Hey, Sir. You can’t sleep here. C’mon, let’s go.” When I jolted awake, I was met by a pair of New York’s finest. I was disoriented at first, but I eventually complied with their insistence to show my identification, and answer whether I was assaulted, or if I was under the influence of narcotic substances. After they deemed me to not be a menace to society, they had me leave the train station. My body felt like it was trampled in a stampede, and my head was pounding worse than any hangover I’ve experienced. What. Was.. all of That?

Have I experienced some sort of a fever dream? Also, how did I get past Prospect park? I was easily past a few dozen blocks away from my apartment. However, I was not going to chance going below ground again, for another mind bending subway experience, thank you very much! With the dawn skies gradually illuminating the streets, I wobbled uptown, on fifth avenue. Along the way, I felt the gentle cool breeze that caressed the hair on the back of my neck again. As I shuddered and yelped in panic, I finally noticed that I was walking alongside the Greenwood Cemetery. Then, I saw two familiar figures standing alongside rows of weathered tombstones. The dapper one was waving, and the other one- hunched over and just glared in my direction. In pure survival mode, I bolted running past the Cemetery, and frantically sprinted all the way to Prospect avenue. I beelined for the large rooftop with a cross that was visible from fifth avenue.

I sat by the front steps of Saint Matthew Church, shivering. As the morning Sun came up from the Manhattan side, I was greeted by the Priest, who opened the gate, and allowed me inside. “Bad night?..Are you here for confession, my son?” I began to sob uncontrollably and explained what I've endured all night, below ground.

The kind Priest nodded silently, as I recounted what I could remember, then he eventually shared with me about the Malbone street wreck that occurred a century ago in the area. A lot of Brooklynites perished that day. More would have certainly died, if it wasn’t for a few brave souls on the train, who heroically sacrificed themselves to bring the injured to safety. The Priest also mentioned that some of these heroes were laid to rest by the cemetery across Prospect expressway. My jaw dropped. “At.. At the Greenwood?” Was it why I felt the caressing breeze when I passed by there? More importantly- What does IT want from me?

Father J had an answer for that too. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of unexplainable incidents that involve train riders, and the unsettled spirits that perished from that accident. I’ve consoled two others before you.” I began to panic, if I had somehow become some Ghost magnet of sorts. What the hell did I do? I was just minding my own business on that train, like always!

“Did you look at him?” I froze, replaying that scene, that horrific state that burning ghoul was in. The Priest asked again; “Did he demand you to look at him?” I silently nodded, shivering as traumatic memories began flooding back to me. The Priest stood from his chair, and proceeded back to the church entrance. He encouraged me to follow him. “Seems the departed are feeling under appreciated, and lost. Let us go give thanks to them.” I recoiled at the idea. I’ve seen too many horror flicks to be convinced that a simple gratitude would keep the underworld away from me. “Come, more will be revealed.” - The holy man insisted.

Along the way, Father J and I gathered flowers, bar snacks, and booze. I was unsure whether we were going to have an early morning picnic, or an exorcism, but at this point, I was desperate for all of this Amityville shit to all go away. We’ve arrived, back at the cemetery, and the Priest beelined for the particular section of the sacred resting place; The same row of Tombstones I saw those two earlier.. The all too familiar breeze began to encircle us, and sent shivers down my spine. “We are here. These are the victims of that horrid tragedy that really took a liking to you.” I did not want to ask, but with my voice trembling, I inquired the good Father on why he knew exactly where to go, and who.. THEY are? “Simple. They’ve been next to you the entire time. They guided us here.”

After I was able to get past the state of shock, the Priest opened the bottled beers, bags of Pretzels and the salted nuts. “Come. Let us celebrate these brave heroes that have saved so many of us, while sacrificing their own selves. May they know that they would never be forgotten, and that we honor them, by being of service to others in need.” I was no morning drinker, but I was also not going to be a square now. Especially, if I didn’t want to piss off these disgruntled spirits. After a toast, we took a swig of the lukewarm brew, and nibbled on a few stale snacks from the deli. “It’s your turn now, son- Would you say a few words for them?” This all seemed ridiculous- I mean, I have never been spiritual, and I haven’t gone to a church since I was a kid.. And this particular morning. What the hell am I supposed to say to dead people? The Priest gently encouraged, “-Something, anything from the heart. Talk to them, to put them in peace.”

I gulped some more warm beer for courage, and I stuttered; "Um..I.I..I don’t know wwwhat to say, but um.. I’m sorry that shit happened, and got you fellas killed.” While I paused, Father gently raised both eyebrows upwards as if to say- ‘Go on- say more.’ I cannot remember everything I’ve said, but I did apologize for ignoring them, and judging them. For being terrified of them.

So, I had to ask; “Why me? What do y’all want from me?” The priest gazed out, staring behind me, blinking, and twitching. Then, after a pause- Father J shared that Spirits sense the living ones with the ability to vicariously experience their ordeals. The unrested souls are trapped since their death, and desperately seek those that could re-connect them to their bodies. “You, my son, have the ability. Just as I have. With this vision, you can help so many of these lost ones get home.”

I shook my head vigorously. Nonononono! I have a job already, and I don’t need to be some vessel for the undead. I’m not signing up for this! The Priest chuckled, and I felt something tug at my right ear lobe. “You never had a choice, son. You always had this ability, you just refused to acknowledge this side of you for so long.” As I swatted away invisible pranksters around me- who still frightened me, Father J added- “How often did you try keeping to yourself, shunned away every interaction, and yet you inevitably got sought after, -usually by those who were the erratic, and desperate individuals, were they not?” I was puzzled with what this drunk Priest was saying, but something became frighteningly clear. “Wait, those loud crazy types that I always avoided eye contact with on the train.. They were all, Dead?” The Priest shrugged and chuckled. “I could help you hone this ability, to really make a difference.. For them, and for you.”

This was all too much to take in at once. I asked Father J if I could take some time to think about it. The Priest warmly smiled and gently nodded; “-Why of course, my son. Take all of the time you need. These two souls you’ve guided back, and the ones you will save in the future- all thank you!” Honestly, I didn’t know whether to be thrilled, or crushed by this reality. As I walked back to the fifth avenue entrance of the Cemetery, Father J was yelling from a distance towards me; “Hey- by the way, I’m not a drunk Priest!” I was bewildered.. Did he read my mind?

I finally got home, crashed for a few hours, cleaned up to get ready for my PM shift back in the city. From the surreal experience from the night before- I was still a bit jumpy, but I did gain some clarity and courage. I took the Manhattan bound train from Jay street, but the subway dispatcher mentioned over the static filled speakers that due to signal issues, the R train will run on the A line. “Next stop, …Express to the World trade Center. Stand clear of the closing doors please..” Suddenly, I felt the ceiling light of the train carriage flicker. I could feel the breeze on my bruised arms and neck, -similar to the night before, but this time- it came from all directions. Out of the crowd of introverted NYers, glued to their phones, I began to notice individuals in torn suits, and uniforms, covered in greyish-white dust. They sat quietly in the seats, looking for me. My heart sank. I knew what occurred to them. Instead of my old tendency to avoid eye contact, I gazed back at these fallen NYers, reassuringly. Then I felt a cold gush of air that completely engulfed me, and everything turned dark again.