BrotherJim
Gold Member
- Joined
- Feb 9, 2015
- Messages
- 4,219
Metal Monday Traveler
In the fall of 1953, a man stepped off the 4:10 train into the town of Elbridge wearing a narrow tie, scuffed shoes, and a distant expression, as if remembering a place he had not yet visited. He carried no luggage. Only a thin knife on a polished chain, dangling from his fingers: a Christy Traveler, its brass button gleaming. He rented a room at the Marlowe Hotel, Room 6. When asked his name, the man with dull eyes and a strange accent replied, “Just passing through.”
Each dusk he left the hotel and paused at strange intervals to carve small, precise marks into telephone poles, benches, even the trunks of trees. No one knew what the marks meant. They only knew the wind, once sharp and lively, now moved as if it were holding its breath. That the cicadas fell silent. That dogs whimpered when he passed. The marks multiplied.
By the third night, rooms began to empty. Guests left muttering about flickering lights and voices whispering behind wallpaper seams, about dreams that left no images but woke them weeping. The maid said she’d found the traveler’s room with the imprint of a body on an undisturbed bed. Someone tried to follow the man. The grocer’s son. They say he screamed before vanishing into the vacant lot behind the old cannery, where nothing ever grows. All they found was a ring of scorched earth, still warm to the touch.
By morning, investigators found the man was gone. Room 6 was locked from the inside. The only trace left behind was the Christy Traveler knife, resting in plain sight, blade extended, its metal faintly humming. And somewhere behind the walls, if you listened carefully, something whispered: Push the button, traveler. Walk the circle again.
The townsfolk, terrified but orderly, did what small towns do: they said nothing, buried the stories, and waited for the world to forget. But it never did. Children still dare each other to enter places the traveler left behind.
In the fall of 1959, a man stepped into Elbridge, looking exactly like the traveler. Only younger. He wore the same coat, bore the same knife, and checked into the same kind of room at the Marlowe Hotel. When asked his name, he simply said, “Just passing through.”
Some say he’ll keep passing through. Just long enough to be forgotten. But could it be, maybe he's not the one traveling? Maybe it's the town that moves. Inch by inch, toward him.
In the fall of 1953, a man stepped off the 4:10 train into the town of Elbridge wearing a narrow tie, scuffed shoes, and a distant expression, as if remembering a place he had not yet visited. He carried no luggage. Only a thin knife on a polished chain, dangling from his fingers: a Christy Traveler, its brass button gleaming. He rented a room at the Marlowe Hotel, Room 6. When asked his name, the man with dull eyes and a strange accent replied, “Just passing through.”
Each dusk he left the hotel and paused at strange intervals to carve small, precise marks into telephone poles, benches, even the trunks of trees. No one knew what the marks meant. They only knew the wind, once sharp and lively, now moved as if it were holding its breath. That the cicadas fell silent. That dogs whimpered when he passed. The marks multiplied.
By the third night, rooms began to empty. Guests left muttering about flickering lights and voices whispering behind wallpaper seams, about dreams that left no images but woke them weeping. The maid said she’d found the traveler’s room with the imprint of a body on an undisturbed bed. Someone tried to follow the man. The grocer’s son. They say he screamed before vanishing into the vacant lot behind the old cannery, where nothing ever grows. All they found was a ring of scorched earth, still warm to the touch.
By morning, investigators found the man was gone. Room 6 was locked from the inside. The only trace left behind was the Christy Traveler knife, resting in plain sight, blade extended, its metal faintly humming. And somewhere behind the walls, if you listened carefully, something whispered: Push the button, traveler. Walk the circle again.
The townsfolk, terrified but orderly, did what small towns do: they said nothing, buried the stories, and waited for the world to forget. But it never did. Children still dare each other to enter places the traveler left behind.
In the fall of 1959, a man stepped into Elbridge, looking exactly like the traveler. Only younger. He wore the same coat, bore the same knife, and checked into the same kind of room at the Marlowe Hotel. When asked his name, he simply said, “Just passing through.”
Some say he’ll keep passing through. Just long enough to be forgotten. But could it be, maybe he's not the one traveling? Maybe it's the town that moves. Inch by inch, toward him.
