Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller

by Mark White

  The timely arrival of the buffet trolley clattering its way down the aisle succeeded in momentarily distracting him. When the trolley reached him, the young woman pushing it stopped and smiled.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Can I interest you in any snacks, sandwiches or refreshments?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’

  ‘Oh…erm…yes, why not? I’ll have a black coffee please, and…erm…do you have any bacon sandwiches?’

  ‘Brown or white bread?’

  ‘Brown, please.’

  ‘Roll or sliced?’

  ‘Erm…roll, I think.’ From the corner of one eye he noticed that the old lady who was sitting across the aisle was smiling at him. He returned the gesture. ‘So many choices,’ he said to her, holding his hands up and shrugging his shoulders as if to emphasise the point.

  ‘There certainly are,’ she replied, seemingly eager to strike up a conversation. ‘The last time I took the train I wasn’t offered so much as a cup of tea. Mind you, that was over thirty years ago.’

  ‘Thirty years? Seriously?’ Sam asked, handing over a five pound note to the trolley girl and receiving no change.

  ‘1982. My son and I travelled to York to see Charlie – that’s my grandson – graduate from University. It seems like only yesterday. It was a lot busier then, I can tell you.’

  ‘Yes, it does seem quiet.’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ said the trolley girl. ‘Darlington are playing York today in the Northern Football League semi-final. The staff have been notified that there’ll be a load of half-drunk lads getting on at the next station. Don’t worry though: they’ll only be on for one stop. Thirty or so minutes, then they’ll be off again.’

  ‘Looks like I spoke too soon,’ Sam said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Looks like it,’ replied the old lady, returning her attention to a pink woollen hat she was halfway through knitting.

  Sure enough, as the train pulled in to Darlington Station, Sam could see a mass of black and white scarves and replica team shirts filling up the platform. Thirty seconds later and a sea of men carrying rucksacks and six-packs came flooding into the carriage, violently hurling themselves at empty seats as if they were involved in a life-and-death game of musical chairs. Before long the carriage was standing-room only and the doors closed, forcing those trapped inside up against each other like tinned sardines. Sam buried his face into his book, eager to avoid making eye contact. It was going to be a long thirty minutes to York.

  It was only a matter of seconds before he was interrupted. ‘Oi, Shakespeare,’ came a voice from the chair opposite him. ‘What’s that shit yer readin’?’

  Sam looked up. Sitting opposite him was a young kid who couldn’t have been much older than Max. Sam’s eyes automatically went to the can of beer from which the boy was swigging. His first reaction – wasn’t it always the first reaction for an alcoholic? – was what he wouldn’t give to be able to have a can of beer himself right now. Once that reaction was duly kicked into touch, he then wondered who was responsible for the child, and why were they allowing him to drink alcohol when he was clearly underage.

  ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ he said, holding up the cover as if it would make a difference. ‘Ernest Hemingway.’

  ‘Never heard of ‘im,’ the boy replied. ‘Any good?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Where ya headin’?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘D’ya live there?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘D’ya like living there?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘I heard it was full of niggers,’ said the boy, smirking as his friends burst into laughter behind him.

  Worried about where the conversation was heading, Sam tried to placate the boy. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s it to you? How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘That’s fuckin’ ancient.’

  ‘Should you be drinking that at your age?’ Sam asked, nodding to the can of beer.

  The boy sneered and raised the can to his lips, downing its contents in one swift movement. ‘Who d’ya think you are…my fuckin’ dad? You’re not a copper are ya?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I fuckin’ hate coppers.’

  ‘Do you mind not using that language?’ Sam asked, pointing discreetly to the old lady across the aisle. ‘At least until you get to York.’

  ‘Why? What are you gonna do about it?’ The carriage fell silent as the gang waited to hear Sam’s response. Like a pack of hyenas, they smelled blood. The first kill of the day was in their sights.

  Sensing the change in atmosphere, Sam attempted to lighten the mood. ‘I’m not going to do anything about it. All I’m asking is for you to consider the other passengers.’

  Without taking his eyes away from Sam, the boy reached into a carrier bag and pulled out another beer. He had the upper hand and he knew it. Ordinarily that would be enough, but this time he had an audience. To back down now would mean losing face. He wasn’t about to do that.

  ‘Are you gay?’ asked the boy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you a fuckin’ queer? An ass-stokin’ fudge packer.’ More guffaws from the crowd.

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You look gay…with your gay-boy book and your gay-boy jacket.’

  Sam stared at the boy, wondering where his parents were…if indeed he had any. Within five minutes of meeting him, he had presented himself as being openly racist and homophobic. Along with his so-called friends, the boy epitomised everything that right-wing politicians and the older generation claimed was wrong with society: feral youth, lack of respect, drunken aggression and loutish behaviour.

  At that moment, however, his credentials as a poster boy for modern Britain were of no concern to Sam. He was frightened: frightened of being beaten up by an obnoxious kid and his mates, and frightened of what they might do to the old lady across the aisle. What unsettled him most, however, was the indisputable fact that his fate lay entirely in their hands. Whatever they decided to do, he was powerless to prevent it.

  ‘Look,’ he said, trying to diffuse the situation. ‘I don’t want any trouble, okay? I’m just reading my book and keeping myself to myself. Why don’t we leave it at that, eh?’

  ‘OOOHH!’ said the boy, impersonating Sam’s voice, ‘I don’t want any trouble, okay? Please leave me alone and let me read my gay-boy book. I promise I won’t make any noise. PLLEEAASSE…’

  ‘That’s enough!’ The crowd turned to face the old lady who, embarrassingly for Sam, had put down her knitting and decided that it was time to come to his defence. ‘Look at you,’ she said, glowering at them one-by-one. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, harassing innocent people like that. You should know better.’

  One of the gang started to say something, but the old lady wasn’t done. ‘And you,’ she said, pointing to the boy opposite Sam. ‘What’s a young, handsome lad like you doing drinking at this time of day? Who’s looking after you? Where’s your father?’

  Several sniggers were directed towards the boy, who blushed with embarrassment. For several seconds he sat paralysed in his seat, a chided bully unable to find the words to fight back. The sniggers quickly gathered in momentum, until eventually the jeering was almost entirely aimed at the boy. Tears began to form and he could feel himself starting to cry. He was being forced to taste his own medicine and he didn’t like it one iota.

  At last he could stand the humiliation no more. Like a wounded animal, he leapt to his feet and rounded on the old lady. ‘You fuckin’ bitch!’ he screamed, stunning his friends into silence. ‘Who do you fuckin’ think you are? I’ve got a good mind to smash your saggy fuckin’ face in, you wrinkly old cunt!’

  Screaming like a lunatic, he scrambled to push his way through the crowd to get to the woman. Fortunately for her, in spite of his frantic efforts there were too man
y people blocking his path. He was forced back into his seat by the older members of the gang, some of whom even apologised for his behaviour.

  But the boy’s swearing and animosity continued, aimed this time at the second most obvious target – Sam – and this time his friends weren’t going to stop him. In their eyes the old woman was off-limits, but Sam was fair game, and if the boy’s bruised ego could be massaged by allowing him to vent his anger on the unlucky chump sitting across the table from him then so be it. Sam knew what was coming, and like a doomed man facing a firing squad, he braced himself for the pain.

  Fortunately for him, his luck was about to change. Just as his punishment was about to be administered the carriage doors slid open and in walked the train guard. ‘Tickets please!’ he shouted, edging his way down the aisle.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Once again, it was the old woman who seized the initiative. ‘You need to help us. That young man over there,’ she said, pointing to the boy. ‘That young man verbally abused me and that gentleman sitting opposite him, and if somebody doesn’t stop him there’s going to be serious trouble. He tried to attack me and now he’s threatening to attack that man. It’s a good job you walked in when you did.’

  The guard looked at her and then turned to Sam. ‘Is this true?’ he asked. There were several half-hearted protestations of innocence from the boy’s friends, but the guard paid them no attention. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly on Sam.

  ‘Yes,’ Sam said, quietly but firmly. Then, louder this time: ‘He tried to attack her and he was about to assault me. You need to do something about him.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ screamed the boy. ‘He’s lyin’…both of them are. I wasn’t doin’ anything wrong. They were bein’ out of order to me! They’re the ones in the wrong here, not me!’

  The guard raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. ‘You expect me to believe the word of a drunken kid over that of two grown adults? Come on, son, I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘But it’s true!’ said the boy, his tone of voice uneven as the alcohol began to wear off and it suddenly dawned on him that he might be in serious trouble. He glanced around at his so-called friends, who all of a sudden seemed less inclined to stand by him. ‘I’m telling the truth, I swear. Aren’t I, lads?’

  A series of embarrassed frowns and shrugged shoulders told the guard everything he needed to know. ‘Come on,’ he said, beckoning the boy over. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. If you don’t do as I say I’ll have no hesitation in calling the police. Is that what you want?’

  The boy began to cry, and in spite of his earlier behaviour Sam almost felt sorry for him. ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘Please…don’t call the police.’

  ‘Come with me and I might not have to.’

  Without saying a word, the boy stood and shuffled his way over to the guard, who proceeded to usher him through the crowd towards the doors of the carriage. As they were about to leave, the guard turned and faced the others: ‘You see that there?’ he said, pointing to a small, glass dome protruding from the ceiling. That’s a security camera…a real one. If any of you lot so much as even think about stepping out of line, I’ll make sure the police are on hand to welcome you at York. Do you understand me?’

  The silence suggested they did.

  When the guard and boy had left, the atmosphere in the carriage remained calm and subdued, and after a while Sam felt his pulse begin to slow as he grew increasingly confident that he wasn’t about to be lynched. He glanced sheepishly across at the old woman, who had resumed her knitting as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

  A few minutes later the train driver’s voice erupted from the overhead speaker system, informing the passengers that they would shortly be arriving at York Station. The Darlington fans began to organise themselves, draining their beers and collecting their rucksacks. Not one of them acknowledged Sam; not that he wanted their attention. Unfortunately, he also needed to disembark at York to change onto the London train; he could have taken the direct service had he been prepared to wait another thirty minutes and pay another twenty-five pounds, but a shortage of both time and money had prevented him from doing so. He’d already decided to wait for the mob to leave first before sneaking out behind them, but nevertheless he was as nervous as hell.

  He only hoped that nobody noticed him as he crept out of the train behind them. Or even worse, that nobody was waiting for him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time Sam stepped down from the train onto platform five, the Darlington boys had already disappeared up a flight of steps that led to the exit gates. Scanning the platform to double-check that he wasn’t about to be jumped on, he swung his travel bag over his shoulder and made his way towards a different set of steps that would take him to platform eight. From there he would catch the train for the second and final leg of the journey to London.

  As the train pulled out of the station he stopped to wave goodbye to the old lady. After everything she’d done to help him he thought it only appropriate to give her an old-fashioned send-off. He looked through the window of Carriage D as it went by but she wasn’t there. Strange, he thought, dropping the smile he’d prepared for her and walking away.

  As he slowly ascended the steps, cursing his decision to pack so many unnecessary clothes and toiletries, it dawned on him how close he’d come to a serious beating. Had it not been for the timely intervention of the train guard, there was no doubt that the boy would have set about him. He didn’t know which was worse: the physical pain of being assaulted, or the embarrassment of the assailant being young enough to be his son. Either way, he knew he was lucky to have escaped unscathed.

  Surprisingly for a Saturday morning, the covered bridge that spanned the network of tracks below was eerily quiet. Sam could only assume it was as a result of him being the last person to disembark, but even so, it seemed strange for there to be nobody else around. Not thinking anything of it, he switched his bag onto the other shoulder and began crossing the bridge, bemoaning the inadequate light emanating from three flickering overhead strip-lights.

  As he neared half-way he heard a sharp, metallic sound coming from behind him, like a coin being dropped onto the ground. He turned to see what it was, but there was nothing there. He watched for a while longer, waiting to see if the sound he’d heard was just somebody dragging their suitcase up the stairs behind him, but nobody emerged.

  It was then, however, as he heard his name being whispered behind him, that he knew he wasn’t alone. He spun around, expecting to see the boy from the train with his gang, but again there was nobody there.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked, looking up as two of the strip-lights suddenly died. ‘Is there anybody there?’ Of course there isn’t you bloody idiot, he thought, trying to convince himself that he was alone. But somebody had called his name, he was sure of it. The wind…it’s just the wind.

  Despite the remaining strip-light’s best efforts, it was now almost impossible to see along the bridge. It was as if a mist had descended on him, impairing his sense of direction.

  He decided that the wisest course of action was to get off the bridge as soon as possible. If someone was playing tricks on him, he’d be far safer standing on a platform in full view of other passengers and station staff.

  He turned to leave, but as he did so he felt a sudden coldness against his skin, an icy breeze that passed through him like sharp, hardened steel. To make matters worse the third strip-light went out, plunging the bridge into absolute darkness. His mind unwillingly flashed back to the dark figure standing in the churchyard, and even though he knew he’d imagined it he allowed his subconscious to suggest that the figure was somewhere on that bridge with him now. Watching him. Coming for him. Only this time there would be no passing car to distract his attention. This time, there would be no running away.

  A train rushed by underneath, metal wheels screeching against metal tracks, drowning out any other soun
d. Sam allowed himself to draw breath but remained fixed to the spot, incapable of moving; hoping that the lights would come on and that someone – anyone – would emerge from the steps and pry him away from this terrifying alternate reality. He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. He saw his little sister grinning at him with jagged teeth. You said you’d bring me flowers, Sam. You promised. In his mind, both she and the dark figure were walking towards him now, their arms reaching out for him.

  ‘This isn’t happening!’ he shouted, stepping backwards against the side of the bridge. He slapped himself and took a deep breath, hoping to find that everything had gone back to normal; like a scary scene in a movie that turns out to be only a nightmare. But why didn’t this feel like a nightmare? Why did it feel so real? Maybe because it IS real, Sammy-boy. As real as your wife’s affair.

  He heard a voice call out to him. It belonged to the old woman from the train, although he couldn’t see her. ‘What’s the problem, Sammy-boy?’ she hissed, her mouth breathing into his ear. ‘You’re not scared are you?’ She began to sob. ‘Why did you leave me alone with those nasty boys? Why didn’t you protect me? You’re such a gutless COWARD!’ Her voice bellowed with rage into his ears and he felt two strong hands clamp down on his shoulders. They weren’t the hands of an old woman. They were big, powerful hands like flesh-clad iron claws, gripping him as if he were a chunk of meat in a vice, and every time he tried to move they tightened their grip, until the pain became so strong that he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  As he struggled to get back up to his feet, he opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to scream for help. However, as he did so he felt something thick and rubbery - like a fat, slippery eel – press at his lips before forcing its way down his throat to his gut, causing him to gag and gasp for air. He moved to his knees, his body convulsing as he tried to regurgitate whatever it was that had entered him. His throat stung, raw with dry-retching, and he couldn’t breathe. Eventually he rolled over onto the floor and stared vacantly up towards the ceiling; his eyes glazing over like those of a dead fish. All he could feel as he lay there was his heart pulsing against his ribcage, crowding out any competing sensation.