NEW ART + AUDIO: Tales of High Strangeness
Unravel the mystery of the enigmatic girl as she converses with the lingering echoes of London Underground's unseen inhabitants.
Hey there, everyone!
I'm thrilled to share with you the first (almost) finished chapter of my supernatural book series, Tales of High Strangeness. This project has been a labour of love for me, dating back to my late teens and early twenties when I first conceived it as a TV series (likely inspired by a recent Buffy binge). I even had the audacity to send some copies to the BBC for review—philistines sent it back, didn’t they?
Jealous, I reckon.
But setbacks aside, I've persevered, transforming the series into a novel format and delving deeper into the lore that underpins it. It's been a fascinating journey, stepping away from the medieval and poetic style I'm accustomed to, though I must admit, ye olde habits do dieth hard!
I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the world of Tales of High Strangeness; let me know what you think. Stay tuned for more updates and chapters!
UPDATE: I have no added an audio track of the chapter, one I think adds a certain je ne sais qoui.
Imagine your average Joe.
For the sake of this story, let’s call him Joe.
“It was a pretty mutual thing, if I'm honest. I mean, I'm over it. Just wish I had that closure, y’know; wish I had that chance to say: ‘Actually, babe, I'M breaking up with YOU!’”
Joe hadn't yet received the closure he felt was richly owed him; in an attempt to mimic it, he had taken to detailing how ‘over’ his ex-girlfriend he was to random passengers on the tube.
Any daily commuter will tell you this is a big no-no, but the madman did it anyway.
“I mean, I was saying months beforehand—months and months beforehand—that we had some problems. Did I get all up on my high horse? No, no, I didn't. Because I have something called emotional maturity. I want to try and fix things, patch them up, y’know. But not her. She just chucks stuff out the moment it breaks.”
And on and on he’d go.
These outbursts had one of three outcomes.
The first and most common scenario involved the passenger sitting silently, barely acknowledging that they were being spoken to.
The second would be the passenger actively leaving, switching seats, or sometimes matter-of-factly asking Joe to leave them alone.
But by far, the most dangerous outcome would be number three, where the passenger takes an interest and talks back.
“She's a pharma rep—sells cosmetics and supplements. She says she does it because she ‘cares about people'. She doesn't care, though; she doesn't care. Ten teeny packets of their shitty detox shakes for thirty quid a month. Does that sound caring to you? Does that sound like it is born of compassion, huh? Nine-gram packets, with like four grams of actual powder, and most of it is just dried whey shit—”
It should be noted that Joe had maintained religiously, up until his breakup, that these protein shakes were ‘really helping’.
“—she doesn't care, is the point. If she cared, she wouldn't have hulled my heart like a mango, thrown in some stem ginger and her shitty detox powder, and fucking blitzed it like one of her stupid morning smoothies.”
“I thought you said it was mutual?” The lady asked—and to clarify, she asked entirely sincerely. This did not sit well with Joe, who mistook this inoffensive question from an unbiased stranger as a personal attack on his character.
“It WAS mutual,” he answered stone-faced. “Maybe it was a little more mutual on her side than mine. I mean, she did mutually keep the flat, and she did mutually keep all of our Ikea furniture, which we mutually assembled—together. I had to mutually move back in with my dad and his new family and have been mutually sleeping on a sofa bed in the conservatory for the last six months. So yes, it was very fucking mutual. Thanks for asking.”
The conversation had taken an awkward turn, and perhaps understandably, the stranger chose not to pursue it further and promptly left when they reached Camden.
“Do you—" Joe stuttered after her. “Do you want my number—”
But she didn’t stop. She must not have heard him.
I hope she didn’t hear me...
The three or four people sitting nearby certainly had, though. But that particular social discomfort would just have to be endured until they had all moved on. Which they did, thankfully, after two or three stops. This left Joe sitting alone on the Northern Line, slowly heading up to Belsize Park, where his dad lived.
However sad it might be, Joe's heartbreak was not the sole tragedy on that vestibule. In Joe's mind, his scuppered love life was the be-all and end-all of every fibre of every single being in existence. So, one might forgive him for not noticing what was happening immediately.
Joe was a sad character in many ways. He’d never warmed to city life, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise, but he always felt that he should. When Joe was eight, his dad left for the city, opening a chain of middling-quality commercial pubs in North London named ‘Brayles’, leaving Joe and his mum in their small cottage on the edge of Glastonbury.
He hated his dad for that, doubly when he married his new wife and started his new family. Joe had three little brothers now, but they didn’t like him very much. He was just that strange old man that started living on their sofa one day.
Joe’s mum, in response to all this, started growing her own weed, gave up her job as an A-level art teacher and started selling her homemade dreamcatchers at festivals.
All in an effort to ‘de-stress.’
But it only ever seemed to do the opposite, and if Joe were ever brave enough to point that out, his mum would all but put her fingers in her ears and decry his worries as the beckonings of an ‘energy vampire’ come to stifle her ‘awakening’.
As the years went on, things only got more suffocating back home. On Joe’s seventeenth birthday, after a particularly unpleasant verbal altercation with his mum’s latest crusty, ket-addled boyfriend, he bought a ludicrously expensive train ticket to Paddington, fell on his father’s mercy and begged him for a place to stay. Bringing nothing with him but a duffle bag of hastily packed clothes and a cheap ukulele—he fancied himself a busker at the time, one of those hipster prodigies constantly popping up in Covent Garden. He’d bought the beanie and the uke; the only thing left was learning to play, but the fancy hadn’t lingered long enough for that.
Distracting himself, instead, with the newfound thrills and excitement of his very own hip metropolitan life, complete with a two-hour commute to a job he didn’t care about, a very clinical relationship with a pharma-rep from Canary Wharf, around ten grands worth of credit card debt and an anxiety disorder, which he had painstakingly diagnosed himself. Joe would sometimes get anxious, you understand, so profoundly so in his view that there wasn’t any other conceivable explanation other than some vague, unmanageable emotional disorder.
And having a full-blown disorder sounded a hell of a lot more legitimate than just ‘feeling anxious sometimes’.
At first, Joe assumed the anxiety came from the long, arduous commute between his girlfriend’s flat down south and his dad’s house up north, so he and she secured a flat together, purposefully equidistant from each other. Surprisingly, however, property in London, especially around the centre, is quite expensive.
Most shocking of all, Joe’s anxiety did not get better. But he persevered, accumulating more and more debt on his credit card.
Worth it—he would think with fragile optimism—when in the service of true love.
Seven years passed him by, working, scrimping, stressing, day in and day out. Feeling little more than a fiscal conduit, where money was put in one end and credit came out the other, neither lingering long. It felt like whatever meagre wealth he might amass would pass him by into the ether. Powering those great cogs beneath the city—the ones that keep it all going despite the dwindling momentum of its inhabitants.
But still worth it—he would tell himself assuredly—in the service of true love!
But then things with his girlfriend turned sour.
And before long, he was back at his dad’s doorway, begging for a place to stay.
Again.
This heralded a marked change in Joe's disposition.
He would call it sadness, but it was more akin to anger. He just never let it show that way, but it was there, all the same: a quiet, brooding contempt, an unearned sense of superiority.
It was this charming vichyssoise of character flaws, above all else, that ended his last relationship and, if left unchecked, would undoubtedly end a couple more. But for now, he sat alone, his earphones in, listening to dreary maudlin tunes, thinking what an excellent music video his life would make.
It was just after midnight; he’d just finished a ten-hour shift at the Nightingale Rooms for the Elderley in Clapham. He didn’t mind the work. He'd done it now for seven years: get there, do the job, go home. He liked the simplicity of it.
But the commute could die in a hole.
Forty-three minutes there, fifty-five minutes back. Ninety-eight minutes, on average, every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and every other Friday and Saturday. The same train journey every morning, every evening.
The same, the same, the same.
Today, he’d worn home his pale, ragged scrubs, sprucing them up with a Black Sabbath t-shirt that belonged to his dad. He hadn’t heard much Black Sabbath; but he liked their vibe. He had a wiry, patchy beard, the first he’d ever tried to grow—and it wasn’t going particularly well. He wore thick-framed glasses and scuffed-up trainers, so old and ragged that he could neither remember nor decipher their brand. However, the most striking thing he wore that day was invisible to most eyes. Some wear it for a single second; others wear it all their lives, and most never wear it at all.
‘It’, in this sense, is a rather curious combination of idleness and chance, vibrating at a very particular frequency. The probability of such a thing is so minor that few ever have the opportunity. But if one does, there’s a chance—just a chance—that one may see something.
In this instance, it was an elderly man holding an old lamp—a very old lamp—one that still used oil and wick. The lights flickered as he approached, choosing a seat opposite Joe and settling down with a long, beleaguered sigh, alerting the young man to his arrival. Joe took out one earphone and caught the old man’s eye. He wore rough-and-ready dark green overalls with scuffed black work boots. His sleeves were rolled up, and a handkerchief was tied loosely around his neck. His hands and face were covered in soot, but beneath that, he looked to be in his late fifties, though worn, wrinkled and weary. He set his lamp down and folded his arms.
“You okay, buddy?” Joe asked, but the old man did not answer. “Cool lamp.”
“Prefer these,” he said. “Good for the job.”
“Ah, you work on the tube?”
“Did,” he nodded. “I walk the lines after dark when the trains have gone to sleep, keeping them clear of vagrants and animals.”
“People try and sleep in the tunnels?”
“Used to,” he coughed. Most of them clear off by morning. Some don’t, mind. They don't hear the train coming, I suppose. It’s easily done.”
The tube came to a stop: Chalk Farm. A girl walked onto the train, pretty enough to turn Joe's head. She was draped in a loose-knit jumper, dark grey, almost black, with a long wavy asymmetrical skirt that dragged on the floor on one side and sat mid-thigh on the other, showing the black tights beneath, laddered beyond utility, tucking into heavy, black docs. Her hair was a shoulder-length wash of blacks and purples, culminating in a vibrant streak of indigo through her fringe. Her skin was porcelain smooth, pale and covered in a very light wash of freckles. There was a lot of metal in her face. Three piercings on one ear, the other wasn't visible. She had one in her septum, two in her lips, one on her left eyebrow and another below her bottom lip that moved as she walked; Joe could see her playing with the bar with her tongue. Stranger still was the tattoo on her left eye, like a hieroglyph. The Eye of Horus, maybe— but this one seemed different—jagged—crude, even. It looked more sliced with a razor than drawn with a needle.
Distracted by the girl's arrival, Joe had lost track of the old man and his odd lamp, who, he assumed, had gotten off at the last stop. The new girl came and sat where the old man had sat, directly opposite Joe. She laid a long mahogany box along her lap before pulling her phone from her waistband and busying her thumbs with a message.
Probably her boyfriend, Joe thought sullenly as he examined the box closer. It looked old, intricately joined and locked with a solid brass clasp. Joe wondered what instrument she played—and it dawned on him quickly that this was a perfect icebreaker.
“What do you play?” Joe asked with his best smile.
“Hm?” She mumbled, clueless. “Oh, right. Ha. Nah, it’s not what you think.”
And she returned to her phone, and that was that.
Joe tried several times to catch her gaze again, as they were the only two on the carriage. It would be the perfect scenario to meet ‘the one’, but Joe was not feeling his bravest nor his most assertive. The only conversations he knew how to start were about his ex-girlfriend and their ‘mutual breakup’, and he had already chased away a few potential ‘ones’ with that particular brand of flirting. So he left it. Choosing instead to let the silence do the talking.
Maybe I should smile at her... but the girl refused to look his way.
Maybe I should cough and then smile... but clearing his throat did not produce a better result. And just when he thought the moment had passed, the girl turned and asked: “What’s your stop?”
Joe sensed a trace of insistence but could well have imagined it.
“Belsize,” he answered and tried to smile, but she looked away before he could.
In Joe's mind, this was the final straw. This girl had fobbed off his advances for too long, and then she—very rudely, in his opinion, asked— no—DEMANDED to know his stop.
Such impropriety would not stand. He was going to give her a piece of his mind.
“Why do you ask?” he smiled politely, affecting a slightly more renounced accent than was usual for him, something he had literally never done before. But the question bore fruit. She looked up and met his eyes. They seemed to linger too long. Joe nervously scratched at his stubble but did not avert his gaze.
Are we... falling in love? He wondered. Is this what love is?
Why does it feel so awkward?
Joe caught a strange glint in the girl’s eyes, a flash of purple on black, and suddenly, he couldn’t get away. He felt lost in her stare, nearing some intangible precipice, a nebulous expanse waiting for him on the other side—but cut short by the re-arrival of the old man holding his little lamp. The girl looked up, breaking the spell, as she scooted over, allowing the old man to sit where he had before. He rested his lamp on the seat next to him and let out a long, beleaguered sigh. The girl looked from the old man to Joe and furrowed her brow.
“I thought you'd got off, buddy,” Joe laughed, overtly trying to make it look like he was one of those guys who’s friends with everybody. He wasn't. He was barely friends with anybody, but this new girl didn’t have to know that.
At this point, Joe noticed the odd look the girl was giving him. His mind tried to convert her look of bemusement to a look of awe, maybe, or admiration, perhaps. It was difficult, but by God, he was trying. He smiled to gain her attention, if nothing else, but it soon drifted back to the old man. Her face softened as she tucked her phone into her bag, resting her hand idly atop her wooden box.
“Hey, Frank,” she said, her voice softer now. “I see you still have your lamp.”
“Prefer these,” he said. “Good for the job.”
Joe had wanted to say something—something inane along the lines of: ‘Oh, you two know each other?’ But a stronger urge kept him silent. Contenting himself to watch, not realising his mouth was open.
Is this a drug bust? He fretted internally.
But she didn’t look like a police officer... and the old man didn’t look like a drug dealer—SHE looked more like a drug dealer.
Fuck. Is this some county lines shit or something?
It should be noted that Joe is rather naive about a lot of things. Part of him thought he was the victim of a practical joke or the sole audience member of some elaborate late-night flash mob.
But stronger than any of his shallow frets was a distinct feeling that he should not be there, that he was trespassing somehow, yet he felt powerless to do anything about it.
“Do you know who I am, Frank?” the girl asked softly. Frank did not respond; instead, he looked straight ahead of him—not at, but rather through Joe.
“Frank,” she said again.
No response.
“Frank,” a third, but the softness dropped this time, and the stern knit of her brow returned. The old man looked her up and down and slowly shook his head.
“I don't want to,” he said; Joe could have sworn he saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes.
“I know, I know,” she nodded, the softness returning. “But you should. It's time we got going, Frank.”
“I can’t,” he said with a gruff sniff, turning away from her and retrieving his lamp. “Duty calls. I walk the lines after dark when the trains have gone to sleep.”
“Don't walk away from me, Frank,” the girl warned, her softness ebbing away. “Put that lamp down, or you’ll force me to get mine.”
Her fingers twitched defensively to the clasp of her mahogany box.
“I keep them clear of vagrants and animals; most clear off by morning,” he said in a dismal monotone, as a dank, sulfurous stench rippled through the vestibule, making the air grow humid, damp and thick with static, as though a storm cloud was drifting overhead.
“But some don’t... do they?” The girl asked.
The old man shook his head.
“They don't hear the train,” he said slowly. His bottom lip quivered, and the lights flickered with it.
“It’s easily done, Frank,” the girl said all but inaudibly. “It’s easily done.”
There was a silence then, nothing but the electrical crackle in the air as the train rumbled to Belsize.
“Come on, Frank,” she said after a moment. “It’s time to go.”
Frank looked up at her, and the dim glow of his lamp began to shine, seeming to swallow the light surrounding it. For a moment, there was darkness and silence—not even the rumble and hiss of the train could be heard.
“God damn it, Frank!” the girl called out, going back to her seat and opening the mahogany box.
“What’s happening?” Joe asked timorously. But his question went unanswered as this purple-eyed stranger opened her box and withdrew what seemed to be a twitching, withered, humanlike arm, skeletally thin, with grey, rigid flesh holding tight to the bone. It was just the forearm, with bony fingers and several colourful trinkets cinched around the wrist. She held it aloft like a torch, the hand acting as its flame. It looked fresh from some Hollywood set, but Joe had the grim feeling that it was real, judging by the musty smell and the churning in his gut.
“Frank, I won’t ask you again; I need you to move on.”
The disembodied arm twitched its bony fingers.
The train suddenly rocked from side to side, making the girl lose her footing as she tumbled and caught herself on the overhead rails.
“No! No, I’m not having that, Frank! Now you’re just being rude!”
With this, she flicked her wrist, igniting the skeletal hand. The palm erupted into a ghostly blue flame, extinguishing all other lights on the train.
Joe retreated into his seat as much as he could, hugging his knees to his chest.
“I warned you, Frank, I did,” she cried out to the empty train. “You cause a lot of harm by lingering here, Frank; I know it doesn’t seem it to you. I get it; what do you owe the world, hm?—when it was the world that took you down so cruelly? It’s not fair, is it?”
“It’s not,” the old man agreed.
"But, you know what else isn't fair, Frank?"
Her softness returned, prompting the old man to pause and listen.
"It's not fair that a kind old soul, who never harmed anyone, should spend eternity wallowing on the northern line, endlessly reliving his most tragic memory while slowly forgetting all others. That just doesn't seem right to me, Frank."
The spirit appeared struck, the lights flickered, and he vanished.
"Frank?" The girl called out to the empty air. "Frank, are you there?"
She sighed, wiping away a frustrated tear.
Silence lingered for a moment.
Joe was readying a sigh of relief when Frank's visage appeared before him—as though from nowhere—sitting where he had sat before. He looked up with tear-stained eyes and said: “I don't want to go. Tell her—tell her I don't want to go.”
Joe felt an overwhelming sense that he should do as he was asked.
“He—he says he doesn’t want to go.”
“Don't bring him into this, Frank,” she said as though talking to a child. “This is between us.”
How she spoke to the train made Joe think that she couldn’t see the old man, that Frank had only appeared to him.
“If they hadn't slept down here,” he grunted through clenched teeth. The lights flickered, but the blue fire of the skeletal hand roared and held the old man’s visage in place. “If I hadn't tried—”
“He—he says ‘if they hadn’t slept down there’—in the tunnels, I think he means,” Joe repeated.
“You can see him?” She asked; she seemed surprised. “Where is he?”
Joe glanced nervously at the seat before him, and the girl’s eyes followed in turn.
“Frank,” she gave delicately. “Why can’t I see you, Frank? Are you hiding from me?”
“It’s not fair,” the old man repeated again and again as a haunting mantra, “it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it's not, it's not, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not.”
Joe’s eyes misted with tears, overwhelmed by the sight of such a broken, beaten old soul.
“He—he says it’s not fair,” Joe stammered, his words catching on the lump in his throat.
“Does he seem in a poor way?” The girl asked delicately, hushed, as though secret. Joe nodded in answer.
“He must be getting tired,” she said mutedly, more to herself than anything. “He must be in a lot of pain. Is he still there?”
Joe nodded.
“Still chanting that it’s not fair?”
Joe nodded again.
'“Classic,” the girl sighed and continued, tightening the focus of her otherworldly torch, making the old man flitter in and out of sight.
“Where are you, Frank? Why won’t you talk to me? I know it’s not fair. It rarely is to tell you the truth. But aren’t you sick of being angry? You must be tired.”
“No. I’ve always been a night owl, light sleeper too; I walk the tunnels after dark,” the old man slurred, lurching to his feet. The wick of his lamp erupted with a grey flame; it should have burned as bright as the blue, if not brighter. But the flame gave no light; the air seemed grey and colourless around them, shifting and breaking like white noise.
“There you are, Frank. It's good to see you again. It's time to rest, I think,” the girl whispered, her words almost a lullaby.
“I can’t,” the old man scrunched up his face, trying to will himself away—to disappear. But he lingered on the spot, crackling in and out of focus, caught in the cold light of the mummified torch.
“You can,” she said softly. “You must. I can help you, Frank, if you let me.”
“I can't,” he hissed, his groans like the roll of a train car.
The air thickened once more, making Joe's skin pimple and his hair stand on end. The desperate seething of the old man was coupled with the sound of a steam engine, the high whistle and the constant shunter of the engine. And then, an ungodly scream—a desperate scream—cries and pleas of: 'Stop, stop, please, stop!’ But the whistle of the steam train all but drowned them out. Joe closed his eyes and prayed that this nightmare would end. Still, the noise grew louder, a cacophony of screams and shrill whistles, punctuated with the grisly echoes of shattering glass and the grim vision of a little broken lamp, its meagre flame sputtering once, then twice, before a calm darkness ushered in.
When Joe opened his eyes, the overhead lights were back. The train was as expected, the familiar noises and smells flooding back, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.
The girl sat opposite him, idly scrolling through her phone.
“He's gone,” Joe mumbled. The girl looked up and smiled blankly. “Who—”
“Who?” she asked, as though nothing at all had happened. Joe could well believe he was the sort of person to have a manic delusional episode to break up the monotony on his routines. But he saw the tremor in his hands, and felt the cold shock in his bones, and he knew--for certain--that he saw what he saw.
“Don't bullshit me,” Joe said, with an unusual authority, one he rarely possessed.
The stranger rolled her eyes, looking up fleetingly to say: "The best remedy is to pretend you never saw it," she returned to her phone. "Your brain will rationalise it in time, that's what the brain is for."
"Who was that?" Joe asked, pointing a shaky finger to the old man's empty seat.
"Do you really want to go down this road?" She asked softly, meeting his stare with those nebulous eyes.
Joe nodded, slowly, unsure if he was telling the truth.
But the girl seemed to believe him.
"That was Frank," she gave sheepishly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"He's dead?"
“For seventy-three years now,” she turned her phone off and tucked it into her waistband. “He walked the lines after dark—perhaps he told you—he saw some kids camping in the tunnels and knew the trains would be running again soon. So, he pursued them—to warn them. They got out safe. He didn't. He didn't hear it, he said, until it was right there, whistling—screaming at him to move. But the tunnel was narrow, and there was nowhere to go. He pleaded for it to stop, but he knew it wouldn’t—knew it couldn’t. But he pleaded anyway.” The girl drew back a tear. “Poor Frank.”
“Where did he go?”
“Oh, pass,” she laughed with a sniff, delicately drying her eyes to preserve her makeup. “I don’t know. But that little knot of energy he got caught up in has been dispersed and will gradually get to where it needs to go. And that’s good news, at least.”
Her answer raised many more questions than it answered, and Joe hadn’t the mental capacity to ask a single one in any detail. So, he settled on a classic.
“Huh?”
With a wistful sigh, the girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, choosing her following words very carefully.
“Frank could play—piano, I mean.” She mimed playing briefly and squinted, as though these memories were a struggle to recall. “He liked to show off at Christmas when the whole family was over; he rarely played besides that. He had a good voice, too. He liked growing his own veg, and paid for an allotment that cost more than his rent, thirteen shillings a week, if you can believe it— and he kept birds. Four budgies and a parakeet, even though the landlord had forbidden it. He loved those birds with all his heart, and he worried for them up until the end, around two minutes ago.”
Joe didn’t know how to respond.
“All of that good stuff was knotted—trapped—down here with all the bad stuff, lost on the northern line, day in and day out, slowly suffocated by Frank’s growing enmity and despair. But not anymore. All that dammed-up energy has been released, free to flow to where it will.”
“Oh. Right.” Joe nodded, cluelessly. “Makes sense.”
The girl squinted.
“No,” she laughed. “Not really. But it’s the truth, or as much of the truth as I know, anyway.”
“What—or who—are you?”
“Who am I? Carly Pierce," she said matter-of-factly, giving his hand a fleeting shake. “And what am I?” she gestured to Frank’s empty seat. “I’m what stops things like Frank. It's weird that you saw him,” she mumbled curiously. It's even weirder that he talked back.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “really weird.”
“First time?” she pressed gently.
Joe gave an idle nod.
“Very... weird,” she concluded.
“Right,” Joe sniffed and realised he’d been crying. He sheepishly wiped the tears from his cheeks and cleared away what he thought were the last remnants of this trauma.
He wanted to ask something else but couldn't find the words, so he just sat there, mute, like an idiot.
“Are you going to be alright?” she asked consolingly. Joe took a second to respond, lifting his eyes to meet hers and grinning too much.
“Yeah. Yes. Of course. Super weird, though,” he tried to act nonchalant.
“Oh yeah, hundred percent,” she laughed, laying a soft hand on his shoulder. “You get used to it. If that helps.”
“I think it helps,” Joe said uncertainly. “I'm taking it in my stride... I think.”
“You’re doing great so far,” she grinned and met his gaze. “Minimal tears and only a little bit of screaming.”
Her eyes were captivating. as though they could whisk him to sleep.
Say something…
“Your eyes…” he began dreamily.
“Oh, these old things?” she smiled bashfully. “What about them?”
“They’re—” Joe couldn’t think of a word that wouldn’t sound creepy. “Purple.”
“Thank you, I think. I got them from my dad,” her smile broke for a moment as her eyes fell to her fingers, gently drumming on the lid of her mahogany box. “Along with a few other things.”
“This t-shirt’s my dad’s,” Joe said simply.
“Yeah?” She raised her eyebrows. “That’s nice. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah!” He said a little too eagerly. “Yeah, I'm just going through a breakup—I mean, it was mutual, but still—”
He didn't have the energy or focus to finish the sentence and instead stared vacantly into the middle distance.
“Right,” she trailed off awkwardly, returning to her phone.
There goes another potential ‘one’.
Despite that, though, Joe felt oddly euphoric, even a little sleepy. Dangerous, he knew; he’d fallen asleep on the tube before and woken up with a cigarette butt up his nose, his shoes on the wrong feet, and his wallet missing.
Jokes on them, though—I don’t have any money.
The train came to a slow stop. He stared straight ahead, unblinking.
The doors closed, and the train continued forward.
“Wasn’t that your stop?” Carly asked, trying to meet his eye. Joe looked as the last tube signs that read 'Belsize Park' rolled past.
“Oh,” he realised. “Shit.”
“It’s not your day,” the girl sighed apologetically. “If it helps, many exciting stories start with missing your usual stop.”
“I’ll just circle back at Hampstead—no, scratch that, I’ll walk,” Joe lurched awkwardly to his feet. “Fresh air. Good.”
“Fresh air good, my friend,” she teased with a rallying smile. “Fresh air, very, very good.”
The vestibule lurched to one side and hissed as it began screeching to a slow stop.
Hampstead.
“Where are you heading?” Joe asked, aware he had little time left with this girl.
I’ll probably never see her again.
“I don’t have a stop, per se,” she scrunched up her face. “It’s a lot—what just happened, I mean, with Frank and the skeleton arm and everything, so I’m waiting for you to leave, really. Just making sure you’re okay. ”
Joe stepped off the train.
“You are okay, right?” Carly asked just as the doors slid closed.
Joe gave a brave thumbs up as his answer, and the girl nodded her approval.
“So weird,” she mouthed to him as she disappeared beyond the tunnel.
Joe turned and began his slow wander home, donning his earphones but never settling on a song. Nothing felt suitable, so he scrolled endlessly, skip after skip, waiting for the perfect accompaniment.
But he was back at his dad’s doorway before it materialised.
In times of emotional crisis, Joe’s usual remedy, effective or not, was an ill-advised phone call with his ex, who would answer more often than not, especially after three or four attempts.
She always admired persistence.
But not tonight, for whatever reason.
His phone stayed in his pocket, and his mind drifted far from the obsessive, nagging thoughts that usually accompanied his nights.
And what’s the hope anyway? That she shags you—because you saw a ghost?
He thought it unlikely.
But still, you saw a ghost, he recalled blearily as he fell into a deep, well-earned sleep—a living, breathing.... ghost.
I am a fantasy author, illustrator and aspiring poet. If you’d like to help support my projects, you can find my fantasy work here.
My first book ‘The Farmer and the Fald’ is available here.
Also, a big thank you to my faithful three supporters across Patreon and PayPal.