The night was unusually cold for early autumn in New York. Ethan sat in the dimly lit subway car, his reflection
staring back at him from the darkened window like a stranger. The fluorescent lights above flickered, buzzing in
the kind of way that made silence seem louder. It was past midnight, and the city above was quieter than usual,
though Ethan knew New York never truly slept. The streets still pulsed, the neon lights still glared, but down here
underground, it felt like the world had stopped spinning.
He rubbed his temples. Another long day at work. Another evening wasted in the cycle of exhaustion. He thought
about the unopened emails, the unpaid bills, and the girlfriend who had left months ago, taking with her
the last illusion of stability he had. He wasn't sure when life had turned into an endless commute between
deadlines and loneliness.
The screech of the subway jolted him back. Across from him, the door opened with a metallic groan, and a girl
stepped inside. Ethan's heart skipped. She wasn't just beautiful—she was striking, like someone who didn't belong
in this place at all. Her auburn hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, her blue eyes gleamed even under the
sickly subway light, and she moved with a calmness that contrasted the decay around them. She didn't look at him,
not directly, but when she sat two seats away, he swore he felt a gravitational pull.
He tried not to stare. But something about her presence unsettled him. It wasn't just attraction—there was
something more, something that made the hairs on his neck rise. He wanted to speak, to ask her name, but his
throat was dry, and his courage had abandoned him.
The subway car rattled into another tunnel, one darker than the rest. For a moment, the lights went out.
In that instant of pure blackness, Ethan heard it—a whisper, low and rasping, like breath against his ear:
"You shouldn't be here."
His heart thudded. When the lights flickered back on, he gasped. At the far end of the car, an old man was
seated. Ethan was certain that seat had been empty moments ago. The man's skin was ashen, his suit decades
out of style, his eyes locked on Ethan with an intensity that froze his veins.
The girl didn't move. She sat, serene, as if none of this was strange.
The train screeched again, stopping at a station. The doors opened. But no one left, no one entered. The platform
was empty. Yet when Ethan looked back, the old man was suddenly closer, only a few seats away now. His lips curled
into something like a smile.
Ethan turned quickly to the girl for some explanation, some sign that she saw what he saw. But the seat beside her
was empty. She was gone. Vanished without sound, without trace. Only a single red ribbon remained, lying across the
seat where she had been.
His hands trembled as he reached for it. The fabric was cold, unnaturally so, like it had been left in ice. He clutched
it instinctively, as though it were the only real thing left in this nightmare.
The train lurched forward. The old man leaned closer, and this time, he spoke. His voice was cracked and hollow:
"Don't follow her."
The words chilled Ethan to the bone. His mouth opened to reply, but nothing came out.
The PA system above crackled suddenly with static. A distorted voice muttered, "Next stop… Hollow Street."
Ethan frowned. He knew this subway line by heart. There was no such stop.
The ribbon pulsed in his hand, faintly, like a heartbeat. And when the train screeched to a halt again, the station
outside was unlike any he had ever seen. Bathing in an eerie red light, the walls were covered in dripping words,
painted—or was it blood?—spelling one command: LEAVE.
The doors hissed open.
Ethan rose to his feet, unable to control his trembling legs. His phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket. He pulled it out.
An unknown number. A single message: "Welcome to the other side."
Ethan's pulse thundered as he stepped out onto the platform. Behind him, the subway doors closed, and through
the window, he saw the old man's eyes burning brighter than before—watching him.