Trying to Reach You

The ringing in your ears is so subtle, so persistent, so rhythmic that you must be imagining it. But as you wake, your body sprawled carelessly on a triple-seat subway bench, the ringing is the only thing that seems real. You don’t live in a big city. You don’t take the subway. You have a ringing in your ears. These are truths.

You pull yourself to a sitting position as your mind scrambles to recall how you got here. Your left forearm burns, and you force your eyes to focus on the marks scratched into your skin in fresh ink.

—trying to reach you—

Faded red lines gouge the surrounding flesh, scratches that obscure the rest of the tattoo. You recoil in horror, pressing your back against the cold window, and try to rub the words away with weary fingers.

You don’t have tattoos. This was a truth.

The flickering flash of dull white fluorescents casts the subway car in a somber hue. There is no pattern to the lights, but the ringing in your ears carries on a tempo. Your thoughts come in jumbled fragments, punctuating the high-pitched buzz with incomplete exclamations.

—don’t know how I—

—need to find out—

—ever stop ringing—

Your vision blurs at the edges. The car fades out of focus, taking on a rounded shape, sharp edges softening to the sight. Atop the door to your right, the exit sign pulses red. The letters have been replaced by the number 1800. The numerals flash in time with the ringing in your ears.

The windows are lies. Beyond them rests something less than darkness, more than death. You cannot open the doors that would lead to the subway platform in simpler times. You cannot pull the emergency lever in its glass case. These are truths.

You stumble to your feet, bare soles flinching at the cold linoleum, and walk to the exit sign. This door leads forward to the next car. You look up at the 1800, then down at your right arm. The same numerals are now etched into the skin near your wrist. You scratch at them until the bleeding starts.

The door opens at a touch, beckoning you into the next car. This one is occupied. The graying old woman sits curled up in her seat, knees hugged to chest. Her bare arms are smothered with dried ink. You cannot make out the words, but you think you know what they are.

“Where am I?” you ask.

The woman scoffs, as if the question is perfectly wrong for the situation.

“He’s trying to reach you,” she says. Then she rocks back and forth, muttering under her breath. Her left hand, adorned with a diamond ring, is nearly all black from the ink. As you watch, her ring finger sprouts a few new letters. The woman looks at her hand and howls wordlessly at the ceiling.

Something stomps through the car behind you.

The steps move in time to the ringing in your ears. You grab the woman’s arms, ready to bring her with you to safety, if such a thing exists. She refuses to budge, instead choosing to wail into her crossed arms. You were always a compassionate person, but you can only save yourself. You run the length of the car to the next door. A red 555 crowns the frame.

The door at the opposite end hisses open. You only see a hulking black shape, something like a man, towering over the weeping woman. Then you move through the door into the next car, your right wrist burning with the pain of a new tattoo.

You know what it says before you look. 555.

Once more, a solitary occupant waits in this car. The young man bangs on the platform exit doors with weak fists. Beyond the cuff of his left sleeve, a sliver of a sentence curls along the base of his palm. When he sees you, he composes himself, fingers trembling as he stands upright by the empty windows.

“Don’t let him speak,” the man says. “You cannot let him speak.”

“Have you heard him speak?” I ask.

The man shakes his head. “But I will,” he says.

He resumes his assault on the platform doors, ignoring you as you pass through the car. The ringing in your ears climbs to a muddy crescendo just as the stomps begin again, edging closer.

“He’s gonna get you,” the man cries, his bruised fists slamming against the doors in a rhythm of rigor mortis. His futile blows imitate the approaching steps with eerie precision.

“He won’t,” you say confidently. This is a lie.

You barely notice the 3232 etched onto the sign above the next doorway. As you reach for the door, the dark figure enters from the opposite end of the car. You hesitate a moment too long, entranced by the sleek black suit, the perfect alabaster hands, and the glossy dark pool of absence that comprises his head. The young man sprints past you, straining for the exit. When the dark figure reaches for him, he collapses into a blubbering mess, his fingernails scratching furiously at his right sleeve.

“He gets us all in the end,” he says, looking up at you with tear-filled eyes. You nod in reluctant agreement as you go through the door.

The next car is identical to the three you’ve already seen. Above the doorway at the end is the number 1800. The seats are empty.

You sprint through the aisle, flinching at the pain of the tattoo as it swirls into place on your wrist. The next car is 555. Then, 3232. Then back to the beginning. The old woman and the young man are nowhere to be seen.

You think to search your pockets, a decision you should have made long ago. You find only a single plastic card. It’s your driver’s license.

The ringing in your ears has reached a crushing dynamic, accented by the stomps that grow ever closer. You’re tired of running. You have no reason to escape. These are truths.

The door opens to reveal the dark figure. His head swirls with static blackness that reflects the contents of the car, centered around your terrified face. You cannot move as he approaches, reaching out with one of those stark white hands, more polymer than flesh.

THIS TIME, he says, his voice rattling inside your skull, YOU WILL ANSWER.

His not-face shifts to a muted green. You reach up to touch it. It feels like glass. You’ve been here before, making a different choice, but that time is no longer here. This is a truth.

The figure speaks.

WE’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU REGARDING YOUR CAR’S EXTENDED WARRANTY.