The Train Ride From Hell

It all started with a simple act of kindness, which, let me tell you, has been the bane of my existence more than once. I was heading home for winter break, crammed in a coach seat on the train, trying to ignore the cacophony of noise and the acrid smell of stale cigarettes.

I'd just gone to the conductor to upgrade to a sleeper car, my anxiety having spiked. As I walked back to gather my things, a wave of dread washed over me. I’m a psychology student, for crying out loud, and even I couldn’t analyze my way out of the pit that this train was about to throw me into. All because I decided to help an old lady.

I saw her, this little grandma, practically buried under shopping bags and struggling to keep hold of her grandson’s hand. I was immediately reminded of my own grandma, who passed away a few years back. So, I jumped in to help.

She was all smiles and sweet talk, calling me a "good soul" and contrasting me to the other "cold-hearted" people on the train. I helped her heave her stuff into the overhead bin and settled her next to me. Thinking I was just being a good person, I even looked out for her and her grandson the whole way.

But, that grandma, Mrs. Peterson, and her little demon of a grandson Timmy, started swiping my cash, my phone, even my freaking ID! I ended up getting dragged off the train by her creepy son, Ray, and held captive in the boonies until I died. I still see the trees in my mind, all those towering pines, and remember the fear when I was bound and could not escape.

I woke up this time, and I was not going down that path again. Hence the upgrade to the sleeper.

My hands were shaking as I got back to my seat, grabbing my stuff. The knot in my stomach tightened when I saw that my backpack had been yanked down from the overhead bin. I didn’t need to guess why.

Sure enough, there was Timmy, chowing down on a styrofoam cup of ramen, slurping noodles and spraying greasy broth everywhere. My backpack was a total mess. The guy sitting next to me looked at me like I had three heads.

Mrs. Peterson’s face split into a wrinkly grin. She patted my hand. “Oh, honey, it’s good you’re back! Timmy was hungry, so I grabbed your bag and got him some noodles.”

I yanked my hand away, her fawning act making me feel sick. It was that very pretense that had made other people think we were friends. “Why did you touch my bag? What if something got stolen?”

Her face fell, she got all huffy. “Well, your bag was up there, and no one was watching it, so I took it down to keep it safe. What a thankless brat. You got a mean streak, kid.”

She was pointing her tiny, frail finger at me, trying to act all scary. I knew she was playing a game, but I couldn't stick around. I grabbed my bag to get the heck outta there.

She gripped my arm, her gaze becoming hard and intense. There was something sunken and dead about her eyes, the same look she'd give me when her son was beating me. It gave me the chills.

“Where do you think you’re going? Taking all y...