Thank You, Lord, For Sending Me the F Train

McIntyre didn't take the subway home. Like all the other higher-ups, he took one of the black cars that waited outside the building like a herd of idling buffalo. While they whisked the important people to exotic locations like Scarsdale or Darien, Palmer had to take the F train—God's rattling underground dumpster—home to a studio apartment in an unnamed corner of Brooklyn.

Palmer was well-positioned for the extraordinary. Exceptional schooling. Wonderful grades. A name-brand business school. But once Palmer got into the real world, he found the crushing reality that he was, just like almost everyone else, extra ordinary. And so, he stood in the vestibule of the F train, back turned to the huddled masses in the car, watching his disgruntled reflection melt through the windows of the train doors.

As the train left the 2nd Avenue Station, a homeless man walked through the car, spouting the same monologue Palmer had heard almost daily from dozens of people who used the MTA as their pulpit.

"Sorry to interrupt..."

"My family is struggling..."

"God bless..."

As the man got closer, Palmer subconsciously curled closer to the door and held his breath as if the stench of the man would somehow seep into his lungs and cause communicable poverty. McIntyre was probably in Riverdale by now, sipping on whatever foreign wine his driver kept stocked in the back of the car.

The train came to a halt, sending Palmer bouncing into the door. The homeless man, trying to gain purchase, grabbed Palmer's arm to steady himself. Palmer glared, and the man looked up at him with a pale face filled with concern and fright. 

Under his breath and shaking, he said, "Beware the Gründleboch."

Palmer shook his arm loose, confused and annoyed, and turned back to the window, his coat sleeve now lousy with hobo sludge. He made to wipe it off but stopped just short of touching the liquid. Instead, he looked at the smudge with disdain and figured he’d wash it off when he got home or simply throw the coat away. What the hell was a Gründleboch, anyway? He turned the word quickly over in his mind but realized it to be the ravings of a drunk and weathered mind.

The homeless man shuffled down the car, and the train shifted, connecting with the third rail, which sent a spark of blue light illuminating the tunnel. In that flash, Palmer noticed that the tunnel wall in front of him and next to the train had crumbled away, revealing a dark void beyond. He leaned closer to get a better look through the murky darkness.

The New York City underground had been ripped up, drilled through, and built upon so many times that cathedral-like caverns and unmapped labyrinths twisted below the city. Hallways spun into themselves. Chasms dropped hundreds of feet toward the bedrock below. And foundations from long-forgotten buildings created chambers where all things could hide. It made Palmer shiver to think about how the city below was just as expansive as the city above.

Palmer had taken the F train countless times, but he had never noticed the opening in the tunnel wall between 2nd Avenue and Delancey Street.

A second, brighter flash from the third rail lit the space again, and this time, Palmer saw something far in the distance. What looked like a man was running toward him, his clothing torn and flowing like ribbons behind him.

But just as suddenly as the light came, it dissipated into nothing. Just darkness. Palmer looked over his fellow passengers to see if anyone saw what he'd just seen. Nothing. Everyone had their faces in their phones, books, and magazines. 

The train tilted again, followed by another flash. There was no mistaking the man running toward the train this time, but he was closer now. Behind him, giving chase was something. Something not human. Palmer struggled to make out this creature in the fleeting burst of light, all he could see were horns, and fur, and eyes that seemed to hold the light for a few seconds after the flash.

"Jesus Christ..." Palmer stammered. Instinctively, he stepped back from the door and shook his head. He cursed the second Manhattan he’d had consumed over lunch. Then he heard a scream. A pleading, pained scream, like the desperation of a man trying to force all remnants of hope into one animalistic sound. Curious but cautious, he leaned again into the darkness, hoping to see what this thing was.

A final connection with the third rail sent sparks and light cascading through the tunnel and down into the abyss. This time, the picture was too clear. The man was only a dozen feet in front of Palmer, his hand outstretched, pleading for someone to save him from his pursuer. Behind him, the beast's mouth dripped with saliva, and his great, meaty arms swung above his horned head.

And then blackness. Blackness followed by the sound of heavy liquid hitting the side of the train. Palmer's head kicked back at the sound of the wet thud. He reached down and through his jacket, making sure whatever it was he'd heard and seen hadn't injured him. He wiped the sweat off his brow, took his first breath in what seemed like minutes, and looked around the car once more. No one had seen a thing. Palmer thought you could bring the reanimated corpse of Don Knotts into the New York Subway System, and no one would bat an eye.

Palmer took one more look out the window but saw nothing but his own reflection. He needed sleep. Or caffeine. Or a new job. 

The train began moving once again, and Palmer turned his back to the window. He may have hallucinated it all, but he sure as shit didn't feel like staring out the windows anymore.

Sound travels slower in stressful situations. It takes more time for each synapse to ignite as tones make their way through a brain that's under duress. Such was the case as the train moved into the lights of the Delancey Street Station, and Palmer heard a scream that appeared to be miles away.

But he saw the woman across from him with her mouth open, and then the noise fully hit him. Everyone on the train stared and pointed in his direction. Parents were shielding their children's eyes. People on the platform looked on in horror. Slowly, he turned around and saw the unmistakable sight of translucent blood mixed with sinewy chunks of skin pouring slowly down the outside of the subway window lit so splendidly by the fluorescent lights of the Delancey Street Subway Station.