by John Brhel
would just have to make him more of his favorite dolls.
• 174 •
• XVIII •
LAST TRAIN HOmE
Karin Station wasn’t the kind of place where you’d want
to find yourself alone at night, but Harold Wilkes had
been celebrating a new business deal with his colleagues over drinks at Nietzsche’s Bar, and had completely lost track of the time. Located just blocks from one of the city’s more
blighted areas, the station wasn’t high up on Buffalo’s list of priorities, and it showed. Trash littered the floors. Faded advertisements were peeling off the walls. The smell of stale urine was overpowering. But Harold had no other realistic
options. A taxi to the suburbs would cost a fortune (if he could even get hold of one at that hour) and the nearest bus station was miles from his home. It was either the train or find a hotel room.
Harold hurried down the steps that led into the dimly
lit station, his footsteps echoing throughout the hollow
space. He was caught off guard when he heard another set
of footsteps, and turned to see a tall man in a long, dark coat, not twenty yards behind. Harold instinctively checked his jacket pocket for his phone and wallet, and picked up
his pace, hoping the man was just another guy like him,
trying to get out of the grimy city and get home. Briskly, he made his way to the second set of stairs that led down to the southbound platform.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
When Harold reached the bottom of the stairs, there
was no one else on the platform. Not a one. He kept on
his way and again glanced back over his shoulder, noting
that the man was still trailing. Harold spotted the digital arrival-time clock up ahead. Only one entry remained:
NEXT TRAIN: 12:05 (Final Train). He checked his watch. It was midnight.
The man called out to him, “You’ve got fiiiiiiive
minutes!”
• 176 •
LAST TRAIN HOmE
Harold’s body clenched and his heart burned. He
buried his hand in his pockets, as he tended to when nervous, and felt his keys, some loose change, and a ballpoint pen.
Nothing he could effectively use as a weapon, if the man was as crazy as he sounded.
He continued on, hoping he had simply come across
one of the city’s reasonably harmless drunks or mentally
ill. The subway cars and platforms were usually so crowded that no one got too worked up about a single vagrant. But
Harold was alone on the platform and this man had heckled
him.
Harold was a skittish man, and briefly considered
leaving the station and calling his wife, Patty, to have her drive into the city to pick him up. But he wasn’t about to wake her up and explain to her that he was afraid of some
bum.
“The time is nigh!!” the man called out again. He was
now just ten paces behind Harold. Harold winced as the
man’s sickening croak echoed throughout the deserted
station. He had little time to assess the level of danger as the man’s voice was overcome by an abrupt, heavy rumbling. It
was the train, and it was a few minutes early! Harold looked to see two circles of light shining from inside the tunnel, and felt relieved that this harrowing situation would soon be behind him. He had been so caught up in his worry,
however, that it took him a moment to realize that the
train was coming from the wrong direction—it was the
northbound train.
“Dammit,” muttered Harold, as the train screeched
to a stop on the other side of the platform. It was well-
lit inside, and under the flickering, yellow lights he could see a few drowsy-looking people seated within. He envied
them, their safety and relative comfort aboard the train.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
He looked down the southbound tunnel—nothing but
a yawning, black hole; two minutes remained before his
train was due. Two minutes too many. He hurried across
the platform, toward the northbound train. Patty would
give him hell for having to pick him up all the way out in Eggertsville, he thought, but a night or two in the doghouse was worth it at this point.
“That’s not your train!” the man shrieked.
Harold was shaken by his harsh tone. Harold was now
only a few yards from the train, and confident he was
making the right choice, when he heard a voice over the
loudspeaker: “Stand back. Doors closing. Doors closing.”
He was too late. The doors shut just as he reached the
edge of the platform. In desperation, he pounded on the
plexiglass window. “Let me in!” In seconds the train had
accelerated, leaving him on the platform, alone again with the strange man.
It was 12:04. Harold knew he would have to avoid the
man for just one more minute. Just one minute until his
train would take him to safety. To Woodlawn. To Patty.
The man crept closer and Harold tried to maintain his
distance, keeping to the northbound side of the platform.
He gasped when the stranger walked beneath one of the
overhead lights, revealing his sickly pallor. The man paused at the bottom of the stairs, as if to prevent any exit back to the street.
There were footsteps at the other end of the platform
and Harold felt a sense of relief to see a police officer in the distance.
“Officer!” he cried out, catching the man’s attention.
“This guy’s following me!”
“What guy?” yelled the officer, pausing.
Harold pointed at the man. “Him!”
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The officer waved him off and walked up a flight of
stairs to the main level of the station. “Goddamn drunks…”
“What?!” Harold couldn’t believe the officer had
ignored him.
“What do you want?!” said Harold to the man, but the
stranger only smiled back, patiently waiting.
Harold considered making a break for the far set of
stairs, and begging for the officer’s protection, when the station again filled with the loud rumble of an approaching train. Harold’s train whooshed out of the tunnel, billowing the dark man’s long coat in its wake.
Harold ran on a diagonal, away from his stalker and
then alongside the train, keeping up with one of the doors, ready to jump in and escape his desperate predicament.
When the train finally came to a stop, he dashed inside.
The car was empty, but he could see there were a few other people in the next car; he wasn’t alone. When he looked
back outside, the man was still standing on the platform.
To Harold’s relief, he wasn’t attempting to enter the train.
The doors closed and Harold grabbed one of the steel
poles in a white-knuckle grip. He hung his head and exhaled deeply, his anxiety mitigating, as the train accelerated away from the station.
• • •
The man in the long coat watched from the platform as the
train entered the tunnel, carrying with it Harold Wilkes,
aged 42. Three minutes later it derailed, killing Harold
and everyone else on board, as he had known it would. His
work complete, he left the station and returned to the street above. He had another appointment out in the country
before sunrise.
• 180 •
• XIX •
A CASkET
>
FOR mY mOTHER
A CASkET FOR
(Previously published in
mY mOTHER
At The Cemetery Gates: Year One)
Craig Donnelly was finally back at his parents’ house and
settling in, having just returned from a two-year stint
as an English teacher in China. His bedroom was just as he had left it after college. He sat down at his desk and turned on his old computer. When he opened his web browser he
was surprised to find that he was still signed into Facebook.
The village where Craig taught didn’t have Wi-Fi, and
even when he could get online his regular email client, and the social media sites he frequented, were blocked by the
government. He had dozens of private messages waiting for
him. Some were from friends who were wondering where he
had gone, others from family messaging him in hopes that
he might log on at some point in his travels. Craig didn’t bother reading more than a few of the messages, as he was
more interested in getting a sense of what was happening in the present.
He scrolled down his timeline, passing over news
stories, celebrity gossip, advertisements, and political
hodgepodge—nothing of any interest to a man who had been
abroad for years. What gave him pause was a GoFundMe
post from his old friend Tim Burns. The funding request
was titled: ‘A Casket for My Mother.’ The summary simply
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
read, ‘Help me pay for a casket for my recently deceased
mother.’
Craig was shocked to discover that Tim’s mom had
passed and that his own parents hadn’t mentioned it when
they picked him up from the airport that morning. Their
families had been close growing up and throughout high
school, and had only lost touch when both boys went to
separate universities. But Craig had stayed in contact with Tim via social media in the intervening years, and certainly felt for his friend when he read of his mother’s death.
He shared Tim’s GoFundMe post and wrote him a
message: “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. ”
Minutes later, Craig received a message from Tim
thanking him for his kind words. Craig told his old friend about his teaching gig in China, that he had only come
home that morning and didn’t know Tim’s mother had
died until he opened his computer.
“She was a nice woman, and I only have good memories
of her from when we were young. She treated me like I was
her own kid,” wrote Craig. “I’m sorry we haven’t kept in
touch the past couple years. I was in a really rural part of China and there was no real access to the internet.”
“Thanks, Craig. I hope you get a chance to stop by and
see us. I miss hanging out with you,” replied Tim.
“Well, I don’t have much going on this afternoon. If
you’re free, I’d love to stop by.”
Tim told Craig to stop over whenever he had the time.
Later that day, Craig pulled into Tim’s driveway and saw
that his friend was out trimming the hedges. Craig hopped
out of the car and the pair greeted each other warmly,
hugging and laughing. They chatted for the next half hour
• 182 •
A CASkET FOR mY mOTHER
about what each had been up to, what they had in mind for
their immediate futures, and how Tim had been dealing
with his loss.
An odd combination of smells (citrus and vinegar)
wafted around Craig as they talked and laughed about old
memories. He didn’t think much of the strange smells, at
the time, and fished out his checkbook. “Hey, let me write you a check toward the casket.”
At first Tim resisted, but he didn’t put up much of a
fight when Craig insisted. Craig searched his pockets for
a pen. When he realized he had forgotten to bring a pen,
Tim said he’d go grab one, and ran up the porch steps and
into the house.
While Craig waited, he took out his phone and saw that
he had a private message from his and Tim’s mutual friend, Adam. “Dude, I saw that you shared Tim’s GoFundMe page. Have you actually read it? I think he’s running a scam. ”
Confused, Craig opened the GoFundMe page. The
request had been active for 33 days and $0 had been raised.
He thought it odd that no one had donated. He read the
description: “My mother has suddenly passed and I can’t afford a proper casket for her burial. Please help me purchase a casket for my mother. There are many great perks for the different tiers. She was a wonderful woman and mother. ”
It all seemed like a normal crowdfunding request, until
he scrolled down to the perks.
1. Donate $5 and you will have my mother’s eternal thanks.
2. Donate $10 and you will receive a flower from my
mother’s grave, plus previous tier.
3. Donate $20 and you will receive a piece of my mother’s burial linen, plus previous tiers.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
4. Donate $40 and you will receive a lock of my mother’s hair, plus previous tiers.
Craig found the page slightly morbid, but it wasn’t
entirely out of character for Tim to be unaware of social
norms and etiquette; he had always been a somewhat strange character. Still, it didn’t make sense why neither Adam nor any of his other friends had pledged.
He messaged Adam: “Yeah, it’s a bit weird, but why hasn’t anyone donated yet? ” Craig was waiting for Adam’s response when Tim called out to him from behind the screen door.
“I found a pen, man. Come on in!”
He went up and into the house, feeling bad that
nobody had given Tim any money toward his mother’s
funerary casket. When he stepped through the door he was
taken aback by an odd sight. Dozens of air fresheners were stuck to the walls and even the ceiling. Lemon-scented
chemicals assaulted Craig’s nose and he almost had to step back outside to get some air.
But he pushed forward, following Tim into the parlor,
which looked exactly as it had when they were kids. Even the TV had yet to be upgraded to a flat screen. Tim handed him a pen and Craig began writing out a check for $100.
“So, is your mom still at the morgue? That’s gotta be
expensive in itself,” said Craig, making small talk. “I can’t imagine insurance would pay much toward that.”
“No! ” said Tim, snickering.
Craig looked up at his friend, bewildered by his
reaction. “Then, where is she?”
Tim turned and called upstairs: “Mother! Craig’s here.
He’d like to see you.” The room was silent as both pairs of ears listened for a response as if it would naturally come.
• 184 •
A CASkET FOR mY mOTHER
“Mother?! ”
Craig shook his head as if to clear it from his sudden
confusion.
“Just a minute, man,” said Tim before running upstairs.
Craig felt uneasy, now surer than ever of his friend’s poor mental state. He listened intently as Tim stomped up the
two separate flights of stairs and into the room above. He heard some shuffling, grunting, and then something heavy
being dragged across the floor. Soon there was a bump, bump, bump as the mass was pulled down the stairs, followed by a
loud thud in the landing.
Craig was shaken from his daze and ran from the
house, just as Tim was turning the corner in the landing
with whatever he was about to bring down the lower set of
stairs and into the parlor.
While Craig sped back home he pulled out his phone,
wondering if he should call the police on his old friend,
or try and forget the whole thing and never talk to him
again. He saw that Adam had responded to his previous
message.
“Dude, she died over a year ago… I was at her funeral. I told him he should just get her cremated, but he insisted she wanted to be buried. They charged him an arm and a leg for that crappy plywood box they stuck her in.
We pitched in what we could. ”
When Craig got home he blocked Tim on Facebook,
on his phone, and on every other mode of communication
he could think of. He needed some time to process what
had occurred.
• • •
Days later, Craig received a small, unmarked package in
the mail. Inside lay a withered white lily, a piece of soiled
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
linen, a lock of hair, and a thank-you note—signed by Tim’s mother, with her eternal gratitude.
• 186 •
• XX •
ECHO’S REFLECTION
(Previously published in Marvelry’s Curiosity Shop)
Echo Dollinger was on her way to achieving every life goal she had set for herself. She was an associate professor of philosophy at an esteemed public university, with numerous high-profile papers to her name. The previous year, she had written a book on phenomenology and Marcel Proust that
had charted on a number of bestseller lists, cementing her status as a rising star in academia. She also had a wonderful fiancé, a man named Robert Simmons.
Echo had met Robert at a local art gallery three years
prior, and they had been dating ever since. He was a
successful broker at Farrell Dench and the embodiment
of her girlhood dreams: smart, handsome, and successful.
They were engaged and looking forward to their life
together, including the prospect of children.
It was a brisk February morning when Echo and Robert
walked Clinton St. in Binghampton. They were on the