While short poems and quick stories are typical of me, I've lately been taking the time to work on longer projects and truly perfect them. Such is this not-very-short story, which I took a certainly not-very-short two and a half years to edit to be the way I wanted it to be. I don't name many of my characters, especially not in my short stories, but in this one, I had to make an exception for my main character, whose name was inspired by the title of the story (not the other way around, strangely). Also, most of this story came out of me between my creative hours of 11 PM and 4 AM. Do with that information what you will. Nonetheless, enjoy this mini-thriller that's been occupying plenty of data space since December 2022.
The city isn’t as scary as people make it seem. A lot of the time, the city, in people’s eyes, is a huge, scary place, filled with rude people and fast-moving paces that you can’t keep up with, even if you’ve lived there your whole life. I’ve lived here my whole life. And every single day is the same. Which makes it less scary.
Every single day, I wake up at seven o’clock in the morning and leave for work at seven forty-five sharp. I walk to the subway station and wait at the same gate for my train. And I step on and sit in seat number four hundred and five. And every single day, in seat five hundred and one, she’s there, too.
Every single day, she’ll have on the same violet dress with white polka-dots. Every day, her black hair will be tied into two pigtails at the bottom corners of her head, fastened in place with white ribbons. A pair of red-rimmed cat-eye glasses will surround her brown eyes. Every day, she’ll wear those red ballet flats over top of her beige tights and white knee-high socks, fiddling with her hair, with an old antique rope watch around her wrist. Her other hand clutched a blue purse. Every day, her shoes look polished and brand new, even after being worn in the city, after stepping in about twenty-one wads of gum on the floor of the subway station, after getting stepped on by people wearing heavy camo boots or sneakers that ran around in dirt. Every day, they’re on her feet, shining like cylindrical rubies on her feet at eight o’clock in the morning. Every single morning. And I’ll stare at her shoes, and back at her childish, yet matured face, and we’ll make eye contact for a second and smile at each other, the way friendly people do.
She takes the train at the same time as I do, gets off when I do. And in the evening, while I get on the train home, she gets off. She’ll usually smile and wave at me, and I’ll smile and wave back, and we’ll continue on our own ways, only to see each other the very next morning.
So I stepped on the train today and sat down in my usual seat. And I looked to her seat and raised my hand to wave at her and readied my face to smile at her. But she wasn’t there.
No big deal, I thought to myself. She must be sick.
But every single day, she was here. For the last twenty-five years, she was here. Did I really want to believe that for the last twenty-five years, she hadn’t gotten sick once? No, she definitely did. I remember about six years ago I caught a glimpse of her wiping her nose on a handkerchief.
But she came anyway. So she was sick, but she was here. People don’t just disappear like that. Something must have happened. I have to find out what.
I wasn’t going to work today. I was going to look for her.
What stop did she get off on? She would already be on the train by the time I got on in the morning. And she got off when I got on to go home. So she would get on at the stop before mine in the morning, get off at my office stop… but get off at the stop after mine at night?
Something wasn’t right. My office was at least 30 miles east of my home. The stop before the one near my home had to be around 20 miles west. That meant she could live in any area within those 50 miles. I had to check every stop within that 50 mile gap between her night stop and my day stop.
There had to have been a more efficient way. I couldn’t sit here checking 50 miles of busy city streets for a single person.
I thought and thought and thought. The train was about to stop at the next station. I had to do something.
Just then, the woman next to me sat up. She reached over for the pole to grab onto but missed, causing her to fall forward right onto the directory board as the train came to a sudden halt. The items in her pocketbook clattered to the ground and she sighed in exasperation.
The directory board.
Ignoring her, I stood up and stared at it. I found my home stop, then my office stop, then the first stop before mine. I traced the distance between my home stop and my office stop. There were only two stops in between. I guess I never noticed. So that meant that before I got on the train at my office stop, she must get on at one of those two stops. Which meant she took a different train during the time I’m at work. That means she could be living practically anywhere between the west stop and my office stop. Not just the stations; she could have been taking a bus or cab or something to drive to her place.
Back to square one.
I decided to start by checking the stops between my home stop and my office stop. There were only two; it shouldn’t be that hard. But what was I looking for?
I closed my eyes and sat back down in my seat. Think, I told myself. What would you be looking for?
Yesterday, she was here. She was wearing the same outfit, same hairdo, holding the same purse and wearing the same old wristwatch. The wristwatch was an antique. My mother had one similar to it. The purse was new, shiny and polished.
It had a tag on it. She had forgotten to remove the tag from the purse.
What did the tag say? I remember the number on it was two hundred something. Expensive purse. Designer for sure.
What store, what store? What store between here and there sells designer purses? I stood up, grabbed a pole for support, and stared at the bottom of the directory board, where all the shops and attractions were listed.
Nelson’s. Nelson’s Designer Outfitters.
I scanned the bottom of the board again, right between the section for my home stop and the section for my office stop. That was the only local designer store there. And the purse didn’t have a logo on it. That meant it was sold at a local shop.
I had to get down at Nelson’s.
The train came to a halt, and I grabbed my things and ran as soon as the doors opened. I called a taxi and asked the driver, an old, wiry dude, to drive me to Nelson’s Designer Outfitters.
“That’s a long ways out, boy,” he responded. “Lotta traffic.”
I pulled three hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet and shoved them in his face. “This enough?”
He smiled with his blackened teeth. “Get in.”
There was, in fact, a lot of traffic. But there’s nothing in the city that money can’t get you.
Eventually, we came to Nelson’s Designer Outfitters. I thanked the driver and hurried inside. Like some sort of miracle, the exact same purse was on display as soon as I stepped into the store. Not only the purse. The dress, the tights, the knee-high socks, and the ribbons were all on display. There was a row of the same polka-dot dress on hangers. Those tights were being sold on sale. The socks were part of a set. The ribbons were in a box at the front of the store labeled “Complementary”.
I called over an attendant. “Excuse me? A little while ago, a girl bought this purse, that dress, a pair of those tights, and two ribbons.”
She laughed and turned back around.
“No! Wait, hang on. She came in wearing that dress, those tights, the white socks from that set, and those ribbons in her hair. And she bought this purse. She must’ve come back within the last month or so.”
Her face grew serious. “Sir, if this is some kind of joke, I’m calling the police.”
“You don’t understand. Please, just—”
“I’m calling security. You’re a stalker.”
“Stop!” I said the word a little louder than I meant to. The store quickly fell quiet, and the attendant was looking at me with the most frightened face I’d ever seen.
“I’m not a stalker. I’ll explain everything. You have to help me. Just… is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
She paused. “Come with me.”
She walked me to the furthest part of the store, all the way to the back and into the storage room.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“There’s a girl missing,” I responded. “I see her every day on my train, every single day of my life, and today she’s not here.”
“So?”
“You’re crazy.” She laughed to herself. “But, if you really care that much, call the cops.”
I left the store and went back out onto the street. The city was busy, crowded, and too loud for me to be able to think. I shouted and threw my bag onto the sidewalk.
That’s when I saw it.
The store, right across the street from Nelson’s. A seller of antiques.
The Finder. It was called The Finder.
Curious, I ran to the store and pushed the door open. A little bell rang as soon as I stepped inside. A woman in her mid-thirties stood behind a counter, looking through an old-fashioned microscope at a bracelet of some sort.
“Ah,” she whispered as she saw me step inside. “Welcome to my shop.”
She had an accent that was different from anyone I’ve ever heard speak. It wasn’t British, but some kind of European. The woman’s blonde hair was tied back into a sleek bun, and her face was clean and proper. Her brown skirt and tan blouse were well-ironed and her beige blazer looked brand new. The only thing that was off about her was her shoes. She wasn’t wearing heels, or flats—she was wearing knee-high, oak-colored boots. It turned her outfit and demeanor from professional to old-fashioned.
“I’m just here to look around,” I said, scanning the walls of the shop for some sort of clue.
“Name, please?” She stepped to her right and pulled out a set of papers from under the counter. “For sales’ purposes.”
“I’m not buying anything, thanks. Just here to… get some inspiration.”
“Well, there’s nothing quite like my shop. You’ll find it very inspiring.”
“Lots of people say that.”
“Oh, but my shop is different. Why do you think it’s called The Finder?”
I paused. “Are you a collector?”
She smiled, then glanced around the shop, as if she was admiring her own products. “Every single thing I sell has a story. You’ll find I have a rather sharp memory, as do most collectors… well, the good ones, anyway. Point to something, and I can name when, where, and how I got it.”
Feeling a sense of subtle nervousness, I decided to challenge the woman. I walked to the far end of the shop and found a necklace. But I didn’t just point to the necklace. I pointed to a single wooden bead on the necklace, the one that was different from the other ones. The bead that was obviously added to the necklace after it was made. It was attached to the necklace with a piece of brown twine. I guessed that this was the woman’s weird way to sell the bead without having to sell… just a single bead. Or maybe the necklace had some sort of sentimental value to it. Either way, it’s what I pointed to.
“Tell me about this bead.”
She took a deep breath. “It used to be a button. Carved of walnut wood. Found it on the ground a few blocks from here, about ten years ago. It had fallen off a man’s coat. The man was wearing a polo shirt and designer slacks with thrifted sneakers, and his cologne was expired. I could smell it.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Do you think I am lying?”
I didn’t think she was lying. Coming up with a story like that takes a few minutes of planning, at least. She told this story like she was reciting an anecdote from her childhood. But I wanted to give myself the benefit of the doubt.
“How do I know you’re not?”
“Give me a minute to think.”
She smiled a rather unfriendly grin. “Suit yourself.” She walked over to her table and continued working on the object that looked like a bracelet, staring through the magnifying glass, using her thin, nimble fingers to delicately push things around. In the meantime, I stared at the trinket box, scanning it for items.
My eyes fell on a small silver chain. It was wrapped around itself, dull and rather old-looking. I picked it up and showed it to the shopkeeper.
“This one.” I placed it in her hand.
She examined it, letting the chain slide between her fingers and wrap freely around her hand. “You chose the wrong one, boy. Had I not remembered its story, I would have gifted it to you, and you would’ve been quite a bit richer. Alas, I do remember where it is from.”
“Tell me, then.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I won’t believe you.”
“I don’t know if you are good at keeping secrets.”
“That’s right, you don’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”
She smirked. “This was on a clearance rack at Henry’s Fine Jewels. I took it when I was twelve years old. I thought it was pretty. The salesman saw me take it and said nothing. Lord knows what it was doing on the clearance rack. It’s made of platinum, encrusted with diamonds. Starting bid would be at around one thousand and two hundred dollars.”
“It’s not encrusted with diamonds.”
“Do you doubt me?” She pushed the bracelet in her magnifying glass aside, and placed the chain in its place. She shifted the glass toward my eye, and from the blurry image, I could see that it was, in fact, covered in tiny pieces of white diamond that were woven into the chain links. But my attention wasn’t on the chain at all. It was on the bracelet, the one she’d pushed aside. After getting a better look at it, I saw that it wasn’t a bracelet at all. It was a watch. A blue rope antique watch, that looked slightly more aged than everything else in the shop.
“Tell me about the watch you’ve been working on.”
Her smile faded. “But this? This is my own watch. Not for sale.”
“Neither was the chain. Tell me about this watch.”
Her mouth contorted into a forced smile under a nasty snarl, but she spoke anyway. “This is an old family heirloom. About four generations old. My father was supposed to give it to my brother. But I have no brothers. So it was given to me.”
“Is that all you know?”
“The base is cotton and leather. The watch is titanium, the glass was made in my great-grandfather’s factory. The battery’s broken, and I’m fixing it.”
“You’re lying.”
“You continue to doubt me, boy.”
“I know you’re lying. A watch that old doesn’t run on a battery. It runs on a mechanical gear system. And watch batteries don’t break. They burn out, and then you stop using them. If you’re going to lie, at least do it right.”
She paused. “Then where did I get it from?”
“You stole that watch from Scarlet.”
Her face went from fakely happy to concerned. “Scarlet? I don’t know any Scarlet.”
The name came to me instantaneously. I saw it on her white sock one day—the brand name. Bea’s Custom Couture, a company that customized clothing. Right above the name of the company was Scarlet, embroidered in black, fancy script. That was her name. Scarlet.
“Scarlet,” I repeated. “The girl who bought her outfit from the store across the street. That’s her watch. You kidnapped her.”
“Lots of watches like this have been made.”
“So you were lying.”
She paused, the fake smile disappearing from her face. “Yes, I was lying.”
“Where is she?”
She frowned. “That’s a hefty accusation, don’t you think, boy?”
“So you didn’t kidnap her?”
The frown on her face disappeared. There was a newfound confidence in her eyes, a sort of twinkle that children have in their eyes when they’re about to get what they want. “I’m a collector, boy. I am not a thief, and I am not a kidnapper.”
“You stole that chain.”
“Not stealing when other people know it and haven’t turned you in.”
I paused. She said the salesman saw her. He didn’t turn her in. If he didn’t turn her in, would it still be a crime?
Then again, it wasn’t like she needed to steal it. She didn’t sell it for the money; she kept it with her. She stole it because she thought it was pretty. That’s stealing.
“I need your help finding the girl.”
“What makes you think I could help you?”
“You’re a collector, aren’t you? You find things. Missing persons, for example.”
“Is the girl in any sort of danger?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she have any family?”
“I don’t know.”
“If I find her, what will she give me?”
“I have money. Lots of it.”
“That would be good… if it was you I was looking for.” She smirked.
I scrunched my brows. “You want someone to pay you for saving their life?”
“You said you didn’t know if she was in danger.”
“She could be.”
“It’s not my problem. I provide a service, you provide payment. I’m a shopkeeper. That’s how it works.”
“She could be dying.”
“You have to pay a doctor to save your life too, boy.”
I scowled. “You’re no doctor.”
She smiled. “Then she is none of my business.”
“That’s immoral.”
“Is it?” She walked around the counter, and stood face to face with me. “Who are you, boy, to decide what is moral and what is not? My morals are different from yours. Does that make you any less of a bad person?”
“I’m not a bad person.”
“It takes more observation to determine if someone is a good or bad person.”
I was exasperated. “Will you help me or not?”
“What if I don’t?”
“I know a store manager at Henry’s Fine Jewels who would love to know where his expensive chain went about twenty years ago.”
Her smile got wider. “See? You are a bad person.”
I ignored the comment. “You must’ve seen the girl walk into the store across the street.”
“I have.”
“Has she ever come into your shop?”
She paused, like she was thinking of a very old memory. “Once.”
“Was it to buy that watch?” I pointed at the blue antique.
“No, it was to get her shoes fixed. She saw the watch and told me she had one that looked just like it, and showed it to me.”
“Where’d you get the watch?”
“It was left behind by a previous customer. I promise.”
“Who was that customer?”
“I don’t know. But they told the cab driver very loudly to take them to the Northside.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go first.”
We both left the shop and hurriedly called a taxi. When the shopkeeper asked him to take us to Northside, he frowned.
“Miss, the Northside neighborhood’s been under construction for the last three months.”
I pulled out another three hundred dollars from my wallet. “Take us there.”
He grinned, took the cash, and motioned for us to sit in the backseat. The shopkeeper went inside first, then I did. He drove us through the city, past a number of bus stations, until he stopped the cab right in front of a neighborhood with lots of unfinished buildings, framework, and construction workers scattered throughout. We ran out of the car and started scanning the neighborhood.
“What exactly are we looking for?” The shopkeeper dusted off her coffee-colored skirt.
“A shoe store,” I responded. “A jewelry store. Anything that looks like something she bought her outfit from. You sell accessories, you should be good at this.” I ran ahead further into the town. I could hear her large work boots stomping behind me.
“The whole place is under construction,” she scoffed. “We’re not finding anything here.”
“Only some of the buildings have been completely torn down. There’ll be remnants of—”
“Why do you want to find this girl?”
“She’s in trouble, what do you mean, ‘why’?” I continued to walk down the unfinished roads, scanning each and every single building. She followed closely behind me.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s on the subway every single day, and today she wasn’t. Every day for the last twenty-five years, she was there, and now she isn’t.”
“She could just be sick, or out of town.”
“You expect me to believe that after going on the subway every single day, without fail, for almost three decades, that she just wouldn’t show?”
“Who is she to you?” The shopkeeper grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. “A stranger? Say she is in trouble. Why help her? What do you gain?”
I stared blankly at her face. “I gain nothing. But that’s not why you help people. That’s not why you do the right thing.”
I expected her to smirk and shake her head, silently ridiculing my stupidity. But instead, she nodded her head slowly and smiled. Not a sarcastic smile, just a genuine, gleeful smile.
I sighed. She was right. What was I thinking, coming all this way here? Maybe she was alright. Maybe it was just today she wasn’t on the subway, and I was here, like an idiot, looking for her in a neighborhood that was under construction instead of carrying on with my day.
I turned back around and continued walking through the town, searching for any sign of the woman, or any sort of store that sold shoes like hers. I looked for Bea’s Custom Couture, another Nelson’s, a jewelry store… nothing.
The breeze around me grew arid and hot. My lungs burned a little as I took a deep breath.
“She’s not here,” I said. “There’s nothing here.” I closed my eyes and sighed again. Not only did I waste my time coming here, I also wasted the shopkeeper’s time.
“You can go back now,” I said. “Find the cab. He couldn’t have gotten too far.”
No response. I turned around. The woman was gone. Not just her… everything was gone. The buildings, the cranes, the safety cones. I was no longer in the Northside town.
I was in a cemetery.
“Lady?” I called out. There was no response.
I looked around. The dry air began growing cold and it slowly became dark.
I shivered and continued through the cemetery. Maybe the lady saw the grave of a loved one and stopped to pay her respects? I wasn’t sure, but I did want to find her, thank her for her help, and be on my way.
As much as I enjoyed my job as a spy in the overworld, there was no good reason to continue to search for this girl, seeing as she was dead anyway.
But she was dangerous. We couldn’t have her running around, talking too much. She always talked too much. That’s what led us here in the first place.
Her grave. I needed to find her grave.
I began walking faster, passing rows and rows of old stones, covered with moss and plant growth. Scarlet. Damn it, I knew her name was Scarlet. How could I have forgotten? It’s been 25 years since the little wretch ratted me out to the Soviets. Two and a half decades since I stood trial in an unfair court, since they led me to the execution stand, since the night I escaped jail, my face covered by a mask, just to set fire to her house with her inside, because there was no way she lived while I died. There was no way I was coming down here if I didn’t drag her by the ankles with me.
I should have known she was onto me the second she stepped on the train. She wore only the clothes I bought her for our fifth wedding anniversary, every single day. Those damn red shoes, glorious lord, the ones I wanted to surprise her with but she found them first.
And then she threatened to tell the government about me. “Boo hoo,” I had said. “What could you possibly do to me?” I remember the way she sobbed at the sound of my voice. “According to my government, I’m already dead.” It wasn’t technically a lie. If a spy was caught, they were better off dead. We were trained to die, first things first. Except I didn’t follow protocol. I wanted her to pay the price I was going to pay. Scandalous, I know, but in the end, I didn’t break any rules.
I was going to tell her who I was, too, if it weren’t for the fact that she found out first. And sent me here. Little smart wretch.
She was doing the same damn thing now. If someone found out, I’d be sent to the World Below. I had to find Scarlet before she could get to him.
The poor shopkeeper, I thought, the little woman who figured herself a genius. She didn’t recognize me, either, as the helpful young man who supported her decision to spy for the Soviets against the US. I know it wasn’t in my job description to assist a traitor of the US, but it made the cover so much more believable.
I stopped walking. The shopkeeper was sitting in front of a grave. Her face was buried in her hands and she was shaking violently.
I approached her and gingerly placed a hand on her shoulder. “Miss?”
She turned around, and screamed so loudly and so grotesquely that I had to take a step back. The new dead ones are always the most moody.
“It’s my name,” she sobbed. “My name. I’m—”
“Dead.” I stretched out a hand to help her to her feet. She didn’t move.
“You,” she whispered. “You are the one who brought me here. I was disloyal to both of my countries because you told me it was a good idea.”
“I did nothing but talk.”
“You are a terrible person.”
I chuckled. “Now, woman, who are you to decide what is good and what is not?”
Her face was frozen in permanent agony. I didn’t dislike her, but by God, it was satisfying to hear my own voice sound like her words. Repeat what everyone else says, the first rule of being a spy. The easiest way to gain trust is to tell them what they have already said. It shows you pay attention to them.
A crackling sound came from the grave behind her. She tried to stand up, but found she was stuck to the ground. The look of agony on her face turned to panic as she frantically tried standing and running, to no avail. I stood in front of her, smiling. I’d never gotten the chance to see Dragging happen before.
She shouted in pain as thin, winding gray fingers wrapped around her body and face. They crept up from out of her tombstone and punctured her skin repeatedly like wasps.
She mumbled nonsensically with a mouth full of blood, pointing a wiry finger at me. Just before I could make out what she was saying, she was dragged under, faint tearing and fleshy sounds following as the ground settled, her tomb no longer present.
It was satisfying to watch such an annoying creature get what she deserved, but it wasn’t very just. After all, she didn’t do anything wrong. Being a spy and serving your country isn’t wrong.
“But who are you, to decide what is right and what is wrong?”
I turned around. There she was.
“Poor thing.” Scarlet glanced at the ground behind me, where the shopkeeper was being ripped apart by the Creature. “It was a cute little sentence when you said it. I did like it.”
“You had her Dragged.”
“She was the one who told me about you. Up there. She told me that she figured out that you were a spy. She stole, lied, cheated. And then she tried to help you find me, because she thought she would correct her wrongs.” Scarlet threw her head back and laughed. “She had herself dragged. The only problem is she realized too late that she was dead.”
I backed away. “I’ve killed you before. I can do it again.”
She stepped forward with every step I took back. “Oh, but what could you possibly do to me?”
I stopped when I bumped into a hard rock behind me. My grave. I’d never seen it before in the 25 years that I’ve been dead.
She shoved me, hard, and I hit my head against the tomb. It began cracking; emerging from it were long, windy fingers, prodding and poking at my skin. My eyes gazed in horror at her, smirking in triumph. The last words I heard before the Creature, a being with a face a lot like mine, swallowed me, were the muffled words of Scarlet.
“I’m already dead.”
