|sent from: London, UK. destination: Los Angeles, California, USA|
“Tis the very witching time of night
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.”
He put the book down. Hamlet could be a drag, he thought, but there are moments that hit the mark.
He shivered as a cold gust of wind came into the carriage. What would the world be like if we still believed in witches and ghosts and hell? The woman sitting across from him muttered to herself. Perhaps she was learning lines as well.
He looked out the train window. In the gloom of the late-city evening he could only make out that they were passing one of London’s many cemeteries. He continued reading, lost in the text from half a millenia ago. The words on the page reached his ears as though someone were reading aloud from over his shoulder. He looked up, afraid. The woman was gone. Had she left the train? Had they stopped and he had simply been too engrossed to notice? No, he was certain they had not stopped. Outside the window all he could make out were more cemeteries. No lights except the orange glow of a distant city, just cemeteries and graveyards. Alarmed, he searched the train for a guard. No guard, and no passengers. He pulled the emergency stop, with no response. He pounded on the a window, but his only audience was long past caring.
The train bore down into the maw of the night, gravestone teeth grinding it home.