Shortcut
written by: James Hancock
I hate the subway at night, but the alternative means crossing the main road and adding an extra five minutes, and Dad said, ‘Be home before midnight.’ I’d left it too late. Time flies when you’re warm, safe, and happy.
An evening with Michael and his little sister, door to door, watching her bag of treats slowly fill, and fake smiling from the background at doorway strangers. A boring, slow-walking two hours. But that’s what good girlfriends do. Devil horns headband off, chocolates piled up, and a classic Halloween movie turned evening to night. And then it hits, cold and hard; time to go. I’m late again! Hurry!
Like it or not, I now have to take the subway. I should have let Michael walk me home straight after the movie. With his little sister finally out of the way, I’d opted for cuddles instead. Now he’s relaxed on his bed, listening to music, and I don’t want to be a burden. Relationships end because of unwanted hassle, right? That’s what I’d heard, and this was my first proper relationship. Michael’s last girlfriend was demanding, and he lost interest. Six weeks in, I was playing it carefully.
I feel stupid. If he loved me, if he cared, he’d want to see me safely to my door. Wouldn’t he? Like the boyfriends from old films. Especially on a night like tonight. I shouldn’t have insisted on going alone; I wish I’d said it… “Michael, can you walk me home?” I’m a pushover. I’m an idiot. After a quick goodbye kiss, I’m back out in the cold night. Rubber masked children returned to their homes hours ago, and now it is just me and spooky displays from front lawns and dark windows.
I battle with my inner bullies, telling me to stop being such a coward. It’s all in your head. It’s because you just watched something scary. Keep a brisk pace and you’ll be safely home in no time. Don’t cross the road, it’ll be fine; just look down and walk fast, take the shortcut, and stop wishing you’d said or done things differently. You’re here now, so deal with it! Down the steps and into the subway I go.
The subway lights are faint yellow, housed in stained plastic casing and tagged with black pen scrawl. The walls are graffiti over graffiti, and the tarmac floor is washed with urine and broken glass. The stench of piss hits hard and fills my nostrils with a bitter taste. This is an unpleasant place by day and worse by night; you often come face to face with a group of youths as you leave the steps, but it’s too late to turn back. Fortunately, the subway is quiet tonight, just me and the subtle echo of my footsteps.
I hurry, my sensible self still arguing a case for backing off and taking the road. No! I’m here now, and I’ll be done with it in thirty seconds. Grow up, you’ll be fine. Nothing is going to happen.
The cold sweat of fear on my back, I walk double pace and only glance over my shoulder once. I wish I hadn’t. There’s someone following me: a dark shape, hands in pockets, hood up, and walking with intent. Is he coming for me? No, don’t be silly, he’s just a man in a hurry. A man quickly looking from left to right and checking the coast is clear as he pulls a knife from his pocket. Not a fake Halloween knife, I see the glint of polished steel and imagine the razor edge; I know its purpose. A knife has one purpose. To cut!
Past caring what my inner bullies think of me, and past debating over it being a possible Halloween prank, I run. My heart races, thumping in my ears as adrenaline pushes me into fight or flight. I’m no fighter. Fear drives me up the steps at the other end, with the hooded figure chasing as I leave the dim glow of the subway and rush out into the half-light of the street. I keep running. Cold. Terrified. The street is quiet. Why is it so quiet?
I brave a glance behind me; he is there, at a distance, and slowing his advance as I approach a nearby bus stop. We’ve both seen him… the young man with a pale face, frilly shirt, and long black cape, quietly waiting for his lift home. My savior, a vampire, silhouetted in shadow on a ghostlike street. I run to him, gasping to get the words out. He’s somewhat startled, and probably sees me as a threat in the initial seconds of my sudden advance.
“Please,” is all I can muster as I struggle to catch my breath.
The hooded figure behind me stops, waiting and watching. I point at him, and the young man frowns and faces the hooded figure with a stern expression. He realises what is happening and can see the terror fixed upon my face.
Time moves slowly. I shudder as the cold sweat freezes against my back.
The young man reminds me of a twenty-year-old Hugh Grant, somewhat disheveled after an exhausting fancy dress party. His voice breaks the silence, deeper and less educated than Hugh’s, but with the right amount of authority. “Got a problem, mate?”
The hooded figure remains still. Facing us, he turns the knife in his hand, letting us see he has it, and makes a wide smile under the shadow of his hood.
“He started chasing me in the subway,” I say. My breathing has calmed, and my heart is no longer pounding. “I don’t…” I shake my head in disbelief, fighting back tears.
Young Hugh flashes me a glance, but keeps his attention on the threat. The threat which lowers the knife by his side, waiting, watching, deciding his next move.
I calm myself. I need to be strong. I won’t be a victim. I won’t be the helpless girl who needs rescuing. But I am. Oh, Michael, you should be the one protecting me.
“Where are you going?” Hugh asks in a hurry.
“Home. Sorry, err, Sycamore Drive.” My mind is in two places at once. The hooded figure is smiling at me. Staring and smiling.
Hugh speaks again, but I don’t hear his words. “Sorry?” I add.
“That’s nearby, right? Just off the end of the street,” he says, nodding towards the long road before us. “I’ll walk you.” With clenched fists, he glares at the hooded figure. “Fuck off!”
The hooded figure remains still, looking down at the knife held in a tight grip.
“He’s got a knife,” I whisper. “It’s not a toy, it’s a real…”
“…I know,” Hugh says. “Come on. Quick as we can.”
He takes my arm and we walk away from the bus stop at a fast pace.
“Thank you,” I say. “There’s a shortcut through the garages. It comes out near my house.” I veer across the road towards a nearby footpath; a footpath I have walked down a thousand times, and Hugh stays close by my side, following my lead.
The hooded figure crosses the road, pursuing us.
The street is dark, a lamp not working, and another giving the occasional orange flicker. My mind is racing. Has somebody done this? If you hit or shake a street lamp hard enough, it turns off. Is that true? And why is it so quiet tonight? Where are the other partygoers, returning from an evening with friends or staggering back from a night of Halloween pub karaoke?
The footpath leads to the garages, which join to the back of Sycamore Drive, and you can nearly see my house now. The calming effect of a familiar area.
“Sure, you don’t want to stay on the main street?” Hugh looks back at the hooded figure, keeping a distance, yet trailing us nonetheless. He is obvious, which is strangely a relief. Better to know where the danger is.
“No. This is quicker,” I say as we walk the path and break out into the garages.
The area is dark and barely lit by the flickering glow of hanging pumpkin lights from several nearby houses. I can see the shape of my house now: lights on, warm inside, cat asleep on the sofa, and Dad watching TV. I imagine that other world, safely waiting behind a locked front door. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry, I’m late. Sorry, I make you worry so much.’
I’ll be home in a few minutes. Out of the cold. I’ll laugh about the fright I just had, make a mental note not to put myself through it again, and do battle with whether it is best to tell my dad or leave it… Ouch!
A sharp pain in my thigh, followed by the sudden sensation of liquid ice spreading through my leg. Hugh pushes the palm of his hand over my mouth and gives a “Shush.”
“Don’t fight it,” warm breath whispers in my ear.
My legs turn to lead. I buckle, crumple, and hit the hard stone floor. Hugh looks down at me, and I up at him through watery eyes. Drips of yellow liquid fall from the needle of a now-empty syringe.
“Did anybody see you?” Hugh addresses the hooded figure as he steps from the shadows and joins us. He shakes his head.
Hugh glances at the knife and then at me. “Base of the neck. Cervical vertebrae.”
Whatever he injected kicks in as Hugh’s body stretches and twists in the minimal light, his voice sinking to a slow demonic growl. “A – short – cut.”
The hooded figure gives an understanding nod.
I scream, but there is no sound. Did I scream? The world becomes heavy, and everything pulls back, stretching far away into the darkness. Everything except for the two figures standing over me. Everything except for the silver flicker of a knife blade.
My last thoughts are a puddle; my heavy head fixed, staring at a pothole with muddy water and rain-soaked leaves inches from my face. I wish I were a better girlfriend. I wish I were a better daughter. The knife moves closer, and my eyes slowly close.
- Shortcut - October 29, 2025
- The Glimpse - July 9, 2025
- Being a Dad - February 4, 2025
