Ramsey Aickman Portable -

Mr. Pargeter felt his chest tighten. He had never seen her before, and yet his heart performed a strange, arrhythmic lurch , as if recognizing a tune he had never heard.

A young woman. Pale. Wearing a cream-colored dress that seemed to be made of the same damp lichen as the wall. She was not looking at the train. She was looking at him. ramsey aickman

But last Tuesday, something did.

He has stopped going to work now. He spends his days walking the tracks, looking for the tunnel. The button has grown warm. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he sees the young woman standing in his kitchen, her lichen-dress dripping onto the linoleum, her smile already forming the words: A young woman

Thursday: the door was still there. Friday: it was ajar. A sliver of darkness, nothing more. But Mr. Pargeter found himself pressing his forehead to the cold window, trying to see inside. The woman across the aisle cleared her throat. He sat back, embarrassed. She was not looking at the train

The next morning, he called in sick. Then he walked to the station. Not to take the train—to find the wall.

He got off at Meadowvale. Walked past the identical houses. Let himself in. Poured a glass of tap water. Sat in the dark.