A Phantom Train Ride

The leaves were starting to display their fall colors, and the morning air was cool and refreshing when Rachel and Chris stepped outside their Tudor-style house in Boston. Seconds later, Alana and Jordan pulled up to the curb in their dark-blue minivan, and they all headed toward the Fall Arts Festival. They had all met during their college days and reconnected at an Alumni celebration over the summer.

They were browsing the handmade jewelry and fine artwork in the booths until Rachel noticed a tent offering psychic readings.

"Please baby, let's get a reading," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

"It's silly and superstitious. But, anything for you darling," Chris said, kissing her on the cheek.

"Come on dear," Alana said, pulling Jordan toward the tent.

"It's not a good idea," Jordan said, following her.

Rachel and Alana sat in the two high chairs at the large table covered with a black cloth while Chris and Jordan stood behind them. The tarot card reader, Clare, sat in a matching chair opposite them and started laying out the cards. When she flipped over the last card that symbolized the future outcome, Rachel sucked in her breath at the black-robed skeleton holding a scythe with the title death below it. Although she knew there weren't any bad cards in the tarot, it still came as a surprise.

For the first time during the reading, Clare hesitated. She pulled a clarifying card from the top of the deck and flipped it over on top of the death card. The depiction of lightning striking a tower from which two people fell made both Alana's and Rachel's eyes grow wide.

"I avoid startling and scaring patrons," Clare said, "However I feel obligated to warn you of a catastrophe that just flashed into my mind. Whatever happens, keep a level head."

"What hocus pocus," Chris whispered, as they exited the tent.

"Shhh! Don't be rude," Rachel said, adjusting her eyeglasses.

Jordan pulled his work beeper from his jacket pocket when it started to buzz. He was off from work but always carried the device with him. After calling the hospital chief, he informed his wife and friends that his doctor's hands were needed to perform life-saving measures for the victims of a plane crash.

"We'll get a cab home. You go ahead," Chris said.

No matter how hard Jordan tried and willed Alana's heart to start beating, she died before the ambulance reached the crash site. A drunk driver sped through a red light and smashed into the passenger side of the van. He stumbled away from her lifeless body in a daze and started to wander aimlessly.

The loud blaring of the train's horn as it passed through a town startled Jordan awake. He recognized that he was in a passenger train car, but couldn't remember how he'd ended up there. He looked out the window next to him and saw the Atlantic Ocean. He searched his pockets for a ticket but only found a pager with the name Boston Memorial Hospital and his wallet. He recalled getting an emergency page and rushing toward the hospital, however, everything after that was a blur.

He left his seat and walked up to the couple a few rows up.

"Excuse me," Jordan said, but the passengers disappeared. Was he having a disturbing dream? The lights flickered on then dimmed as the train entered a tunnel. It was then that he noticed her long, golden blonde hair, and the bloody gash where her head had hit the windshield. As the accident came rushing back, he grabbed the seat to prevent himself from falling.

"Why couldn't you save me?" Alana said, appearing inches from him.

"Honey, don't," Chris said, moving away from her extended hand.

"You'll never leave here. You're mine," she said, dropping her hand to her side.

He wished he was having a nightmare, but the movement of the train was too real.

"Damn psychic," he said, pounding his fist into the back of a seat. He had always despised pagan spirituality and didn't know why he'd joined his friends in the tarot reader's tent. He was sure he was being punished for listening to the reading.

He needed to get off the train. However, a gut feeling told him it wouldn't be stopping anytime soon, if ever. He walked from the car to the next one. It was empty as were the next several ones. He didn't even know if there was an engine car with a driver. He began to feel like he was walking through the same passenger car again and again. When his legs started to tire, from walking, he sat in one of the seats and dropped his head into his hands. Had he also died? He was no longer sure he was alive.

He checked the time on his watch, but it had stopped at 1:00 p.m. His head turned toward the window when the brakes started to screech. However, there was nothing but a pitch black void beyond it. As if, the train never exited the tunnel. He strode over to the door when the train stopped, but the door remained closed and locked. He grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and smashed it against the door's window. A web of cracks spread across the glass. When he hit the glass again, it shattered out of the frame, and the shards were sucked out into the dark void. It no longer mattered that the door was locked because there was no station to get off at.

The shock from the defibrillator jolted Jordan's heart, and it started to beat. Minutes later, his eyes fluttered open, and he saw Alana's angry ghost at the foot of the emergency room bed. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and knew he'd been shot. Before he could blink, she was choking him.

"I want you with me, dear," she hissed into his ear.

He tried to push her away but his arms passed right through her. The monitors in his room started to beep louder. Nurses rushed into the room and began checking the monitors. However, they couldn't find the cause of his breathing difficulty.

He saw a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel and started to move toward it. Then he was taking a deep breath and his eyes opened. Looking around he saw that he was back in the hospital room, and Alana's ghost was gone. For how long he didn't know.

The police arrived to take a report from him. However, he didn't remember getting shot. Witnesses said he'd stumbled down the stairs to the subway just as a young man opened fire on the people waiting on the platform. Jordan and ten others had taken bullets, but he was still able to knock the gun from the perpetrator's hand before collapsing.

After a week in the hospital, he was discharged. When he reached his house, he poured himself some whiskey, sat down at the baby grand piano, and began playing Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata". He'd played the piano until he had started college. Now, it was his dream again to become a composer. He played into the early morning hours and decided to give up his demanding medical career. Life was too short to spend chasing after prestige and reputation while true passion waited until it was too late.