By: Ann Zhao

It is 2:34 A.M. A teenage girl enters an empty New York City subway and finds a seat, setting her tote bag down next to her. She pulls out a book and begins reading. The doors slide shut, and silence settles over the train as it pulls along its tracks.

Soon, the train halts at its next stop. The doors open, and a man whose face is hidden behind a hoodie step inside. His hands are buried in his pockets, and he avoids the girl’s eye contact. He sits directly across from her. Unfazed, the girl continues reading her book.

A few minutes pass by. The girl partially closes her book and sneaks a glance up at the man.

Her blood runs cold.

His bloodshot eyes are open so wide it seems like his eyelids are due to rip at the seams at any given moment. A glint of mania reflects off the shine of his eyeball. His dry, cracked lips part into an open grin that displays empty gaps among his missing, yellow teeth. Although his gaze is intense, the girl can’t exactly place her finger on what he is focused on, almost as if his eyes were each staring in different directions.

Pure, primal fear swells like an inflated balloon hidden deep within her core. She jerks her head back down towards her book, hiding behind it as if it were a shield. Her heart pounds inside her chest as she attempts to take deep breaths to calm herself.

The train lulls to a stop. The doors open. An old woman wobbles inside the train and sits down in the seat right next to the girl.

The previous fear built up inside the girl fades as a feeling of comfort and security from the woman’s presence washes over her.

Still the tiniest bit on edge, the girl wonders if the woman also sees the man and his facial expression. Out of her peripheral vision, she peeks at the woman. Her eyes widen— something isn’t right.

Frozen in fear, the girl stares at the old lady’s wide grin from the corner of her eye. Her body faces forward while her head is twisted at a gruesome angle to face the girl.

Abruptly, the old woman’s lips begin to chant. They chant the girl’s name. Her voice is raspy and barely audible.

Simultaneously, from the seat across from her, the girl can also hear the man beginning to repeat her name. It was as if they were taunting her.

The girl is paralyzed, unable to move. Her mouth feels dry as her hands turn into fists that clench a handful of her skirt. Tears form in her eyes out of fear.

The train doors open. It is the girl’s stop. She urges her legs to carry her up and out of the train, but she cannot move. A teardrop trickles down her face. The train doors slide shut, and the train continues along its tracks.

As the train moves along, there is nothing but the sound of the subway’s metal wheels moving along the tracks and the heavy breathing of the girl, who is drowning in another psychotic episode.