Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The Long Night

Hunter sat in the dining room under the light, pouring rum continuously from Shaw's bottle. The clock struck two in the morning as he tried to intoxicate himself in an attempt to pass the night without being aware of the surroundings. Although he did not want to admit it, for it would only exacerbate it, Hunter could feel his anxious mind growing even more restless every second out of fear. Whether it was the presence of his guilt or the propinquity of something unexplained, Hunter tried his best not to ponder on that thought.

After finishing the rum, he sat in deafening silence, unable to sleep. He looked at the door, for the idea of taking off immediately had knocked on his mind many times in the past few minutes, but ultimately, Hunter preferred the shelter of the lodge to spending a night finding his way through the jungle. The light hanging above his head occasionally flickered, skirting the hair-raising thought of having to spend the next few hours in darkness. Finally, unable to stay put, Hunter started pacing around the house, ultimately stepping into Shaw's room.

The chamber was much like the rest in the lodge, plain and unassuming, although slightly more spacious. The bed stood a few steps away from the window, with Shaw's shotgun leaning on one of the legs. There was also a small cupboard near the door and a small table beside the bed, the rest of the space being occupied by the bathroom. In the bright light, Hunter noticed the pool of blood splattered across the floor, which sent a tingle down his senses. Trying his best to ignore it, he decided to search through the cupboard in hopes of finding anything useful, but all there was in the racks were some cheap, old decorations and hunting stock. Concurring that there was nothing of substance in the shelves, Hunter paced around the room thinking about the place where Shaw would keep his money.

It was a while until the ruffled bed sheets caught his eyes, inviting him to look under the mattress. It was a poor man's safe and Hunter always kept whatever little possessions he had under the sheets for that seemed to be the most inconspicuous place he could afford. Being careful not to get blood onto himself for he had just changed his clothes, Hunter carefully rolled over the mattress and started searching for a pouch or wallet. However, even after finely combing for a reasonable amount of time, Hunter could not find anything except a few dead bedbugs and sheets of dust.

"Hmpf!" Hunter sighed as he closed his eyes momentarily trying to get some sleep.

Seconds later, however, he turned his head, slowly pulling back his eyelids to catch the view of a small book resting on the edge of the bedside table which he noticed had the same brown cover as the book Shaw was reading in the morning. Hunter reached for it lazily, feeling a sudden burst of relaxation as he grabbed the book for he knew it was the best thing that would help him sleep.

All his life, he had struggled to finish a book, falling sleep halfway into his read. Granted he did not do much reading since the days at the orphanage, when he would doze off in the middle of the class lectures only to be awoken by the ringing of the bell and a sharp blow to his back. Either way, sifting through the pages of the book was Hunter's best option to catch some sleep as he turned the cover to see the words, "The man with the brown suitcase" inscribed in large black letters. However, the book did not seem to have the name of an author or any other information. Nevertheless Hunter ignored this oddity and turned the page to the beginning of the narrative.

"The train's whistle dislodged Mr. Thompson's concentration from the serene trees swaying in the distance. The berth had been empty when he had walked in, and for the past half-hour, he was the only occupant. As he reached for his baggage from the compartment above, the empty bench filled his mind with a glimmer of hope of having the entire cabin to himself. He pulled down his mid-sized brown suitcase; it had been his only piece of luggage on his travels for years, as Mr. Thompson loathed having to carry an estate of things when traveling.

A neat man in both mind and body, his hair was tidily cut and brushed with a part on the left side, and although a full beard covered the entire bottom of his face, not a single hair appeared out of place. The grooming was immaculate, and so were his clothes. His green tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers gave off a man's appearance well integrated into civilized society, while the gold-rimmed glasses over his eyes hinted at the seriousness of his nature. He could be a professor or a man of seemingly important social standing with ties to nobility or both; one could never tell which was important given what was about to transpire.

Mr. Thompson put his suitcase atop the cream seat in front of him. He liked to keep his belongings where he could see them, which would not have been possible if someone was sitting on that bench. Relaxed, he laid back once again, looking outside the window towards the horizon. The swaying trees seemed to wave goodbye to the sun in the distance, which was about to go down. It was only a few moments before the train would take off into the picturesque countryside, and Mr. Thompson could enjoy a long serene night.

However, a few moments later, the sound of footsteps just outside the cabin once again made Mr. Thompson's attention turned towards the door. A second later, he could hear someone grasping the doorknob from the outside. It turned to make a squeaking noise as Mr. Thompson's keen gaze stretched to the door like an arrow waiting to be released from its bow. The knob turned halfway, and Mr. Thompson looked at his suitcase for a split second.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and he saw a muddy brown brogue enter the room. There was a pause, and then the rest of the visitor entered. It was a man about six feet tall, his face seemingly swollen from fatigue. The skin under his eyes was dark and hung loose, and although his brown coat was relatively clean and neatly pressed, his shoes were a completely different story. His hair was ruffled, but his face was cleanly shaven; it was a confusing look, for the man appeared to be punctilious and slapdash simultaneously.

Mr. Thompson noticed the man did not carry any luggage, for he could not see any bags around, and while Mr. Thompson paid careful attention to the stranger, the man himself seemed aloof and unaware of his presence. He walked three steps and stopped in front of the cream seat where Mr. Thompson had put his suitcase. The man looked at it and turned his head towards Mr. Thompson for the first time. Catching his glance, Mr. Thompson quickly picked up his case and put it back in the compartment above, just at the end of the bed. The man dropped down, his body making a soft thudding noise against the seat covers.

A while later, the train started to shudder, and after a few seconds, the scenery outside slowly began to move back as no longer was Mr. Thompson, the lone occupant in the room. It would be a long journey that Mr. Thompson expected to complete by himself, but now he had a companion.

Suddenly, in the back of his mind, a small voice spoke to Mr. Thompson, "This changes everything. What we have here is a great opportunity." The thought sent a sensation down his body as his eyes glistened behind the polished lens of the gold-rimmed glasses.

Almost involuntarily, a big smile splashed across his face.

"Mind if I lie down? I am not feeling very well." The man asked Mr. Thompson.

It was the first time he had spoken since their first encounter ten minutes ago. His voice was coarse yet gentle. Mr. Thompson looked closely at him. The man seemed in despair, lost in a cauldron of his own thoughts. His eyes looked weary, and it seemed as though the eyelids would snap shut at any moment.

"Of course. Make yourself comfortable," Mr. Thompson replied with a smile.

The man nodded and lay down on the seat.

"There is a bed on top," Mr. Thompson said.

"I'm fine here. Just for a few moments, if you don't mind," The man replied wearily.

"Not at all." Mr. Thompson said.

The man lay straight on the seat like a dead body placed in a casket. His feet pointed towards the door. The mud on his shoes could be clearly seen. The man closed his eyes, and Mr. Thompson smilingly glanced at the brown bag above his seat. He then calmly gazed outside; the sun had gone down, and the night was slowly wrapping everything in its blanket.

Two lamps lit on either side of the compartment as Mr. Thompson laid back on his seat, looking at the man.

"Finally, tonight. But what will it be? The gun or the blade?" He chuckled as he pondered upon his choice.

Mr. Thompson glanced at his watch, which showed it was half-past seven. He noticed that the man in front of him hadn't move for an hour. If it weren't for the seesawing of his chest, one could very well mistake him for a corpse. As the night grew deeper, the train cruised through the moonless night towards its destination as Mr. Thompson readied himself.

A few moments later, the man opened his eyes; his face seemed blank, as though he had no idea where he was. Then a moment later, the same gloom and despair settled back.

He slowly got up and looked out the window.

"What time is it?" he asked Mr. Thompson.

"Half-past seven," replied Mr. Thompson.

The man looked astonished. "I didn't realize. It… it's been quite a while," said he.

"Yes. But I believe there is still a long way to go." Said Mr. Thompson.

Sometime later, the steward came to take the order for dinner. Mr. Thompson ordered sausages and mashed potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding. The man ordered shepherd's pie.

After the steward left, the man asked, "Where are you headed to, Mr…."

"Elliot Harding." Mr. Thompson replied.

The man held out his hand forward and said, "I am John Burl."

Mr. Thompson shook his hand and asked, "So, where are you going, Mr Burl?"

"Abbotsford." John Burl replied.

"I am headed to Abbotsford as well," said Mr. Thompson. "Meeting a friend," he added.

"Oh?" Said John Burl.

"What about you?" Mr. Thompson asked.

"Home. I am going home," said John Burl.

Mr. Thompson smiled. He knew the ticket in his right coat pocket read the destination as Watford, which was two hours away from Abbotsford.

But it didn't matter. At the moment, Elliot Thompson was heading where John Burl was heading. And before John Burl could get to where he was going, Mr. Thompson would be done with him. Mr. Thompson's heart started beating faster as he looked at John Burl.

Mr. Thompson whispered to himself, "finally. Not bad for the first time."

The steward came in with dinner. Mr. Thompson finished his portion, for he knew the sausages served in this train were delightful. After all, he had traveled many times on this train on this route. Mr. Thompson, sometimes traveled as someone else. But today, this was his chance. Something he was waiting for a long time to do. He looked at John Burl, who had barely touched his dinner. The despondent look on his face was clearly visible.

Mr. Thompson asked, "What do you do, Mr Burl?"

"Whatever I can find." John Burl said.

"I see," said Mr. Thompson.

"What about you, Mr Thompson?"

"I am a psychiatrist," said Mr. Thompson.

Indeed Mr. Thompson was a psychiatrist, the man in the green tweed jacket with the gold-rimmed glasses. After all, he was whatever he needed to be. But telling people, he was a psychiatrist was beneficial. It opened people up to him. After all, he looked the part, and ultimately people wanted someone to listen. People wanted to be listened to; they wanted to share their secrets, which were suffocating them and Mr. Thompson, the psychiatrist, seemed like the perfect person to tell it to. He seemed like a person who was understanding and empathetic, which made people lower their defenses. Such was the power appearances held in the civilized society.

"A psychiatrist? Huh." John Burl remarked. "So you have seen a lot of crazy people in your life?" John Burl asked.

"I would not call them crazy," Mr. Thompson said.

"Why not? Someone tells you they have seen a dead person walking, or they can talk to spirits, or they believe there is a monster outside their door waiting to eat them. Aren't they crazy? Lunatic?" John Burl said.

Mr. Thompson noticed John Burl became flustered. His breathing grew heavy, and his face became red. Seemed like he wanted to say something but was not able to.

"The human mind is fascinating beyond our comprehension. To call those who do not fit our description of normality crazy or lunatic seems a bit of an oversimplification," Mr. Thompson said calmly.

John Burl inched closer and said, "so, you believe in ghosts?"

"I have never encountered one." Mr Thompson said.

"But if you did, would you believe in it?" asked John Burl.

"Well, then I suppose I won't have much of a choice then," said Mr Thompson.

"Hahahaha," John Burl laughed. He glanced at the window and was seemingly lost in his presumptive thoughts. Then he suddenly sprang from his seat. "Did you see that? Please tell me you saw that. Please," he said frantically.

Mr Thompson quickly looked at the window where John Burl was pointing. There was but the reflection of two faces.

"What?" Mr. Thompson asked.

John Burl said nothing. He quietly went back to his seat and let out a sigh. For quite some time, John Burl remained silent.

Mr. Thompson knew it was futile to poke him, so he finished his dinner. After the steward came and took away the dishes, Mr. Thompson glanced at his watch once again.

"Half-past eight. Plenty of time to get this lunatic." He said to himself.

Mr Thompson took off his coat and sat back down.

Finally, after a long time, John Burl moved. He shuddered and looked all around him.

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Mr. Thompson had dimmed the lamp on his side of the seat, which John Burl lit without saying anything. He then looked straight at Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open, seemingly about to burst. The despair in his eyes had now turned to fear. He quietly said, "You think I am crazy, don't you?"

Mr. Thompson said nothing.

"Why wouldn't you? You are a doctor. You have seen this before. Countless times. But let me tell you, if you had endured even a fraction of what I have for the past sixteen years, you wouldn't think so."

Mr. Thompson continued to say nothing.

"Sixteen years! I don't know how I have survived this long. How I have not jumped from the roof of my house or sliced open my hand with a knife. I don't know. Hahahaha," John Burl started laughing.

If Mr. Thompson didn't know better, he would probably reach for the gun in his suitcase. But he just calmly placed his hand on John Burl's shoulder and said, "I know you are not insane. If you tell me what happened, perhaps I can help you."

John Burl stared blankly for a moment. Then he slowly sat back and said, "I was only thirty years old. A hot-headed man who would do whatever he pleased without giving it a second thought.

"Why wouldn't I? After all, my father was the richest man in Abbotsford, and I was his only son. I always had whatever I wanted, whoever I wanted." John Burl paused. He then said, "I saw her at my Uncle's house. A distant relative of theirs. She was truly an angel from the heavens. I couldn't look away no matter what. With every meeting, I just found myself drawn towards her like a moth to a flame. I knew my father would never approve of us, I might even lose my inheritance if this kept going, but I was too hot-blooded for my own good. I knew I wanted her no matter what. So, I promised her I would marry her. A promise I knew I could never keep. But she loved me too much. Ultimately when the time came, I couldn't go against my father. I had countless affairs, but I never loved anyone like I loved her. But when I was forced to choose between her and my father's estate, I chose the latter, for I was a coward. My betrayal drove her to insanity, and she…she killed herself." John Burl's eyes teared up.

"A few days before her suicide, she came to me and said, "You may have abandoned me. But I will stay with you till your last breath. I'll never leave your side." If only I knew what those words really meant." John Burl paused again, staring at the door as if someone were standing there.

"After her death, I soon inherited my father's wealth. I married into the family my father had chosen for me. Everything seemed to be going well until one night, I saw someone standing beside my bed. At first, I had thought it was a burglar. But as my eyes cleared, I clearly saw her face. Her pale face smeared in blood. She was smiling. She bowed down and said, "I will never abandon you. Not till your last breath." Every day since then, every day I have seen her. She just stands beside me. She doesn't hurt me; she doesn't say anything. She just stands there with blood smeared across her face. Soon enough, I started to drink and gambled away the inheritance for which I had betrayed her. My wife left me, and within a mere five years, I was a man with nothing. Ever since then, this has been my life wandering from place to place, town to town. Anyplace where she wouldn't follow me. But I don't think that'll ever be possible. She's here right now. Right there beside the door. I can see her clear as day." John Burl pointed at the door. Mr. Thompson looked to see him pointing at thin air.

John Burl scoffed. "Nothing, I know. It's my cross to bear."

"You should come to Watford and see me," Mr. Thompson said.

John Burl scoffed again. "Why so you can write me a prescription for a couple of pills that will do nothing?" said he.

"No. So you can tell me how you truly feel. For a long time, you have been repressing everything inside. You need someone to talk to. Perhaps it will make you feel better," Mr. Thompson said.

"You think I am a lunatic, don't you? Be honest. I won't mind. Because it doesn't matter anymore," said John Burl.

"Honestly, I don't know," Mr. Thompson replied. Indeed he didn't know.

The only thought running through his mind was how he was going to kill this lunatic. It was great, indeed. Poetic even. His first murder would be a guy who was better off dead anyway. After all, Mr. Thompson was just a guy who wanted to kill. Was it that preposterous?

Mr. Thompson didn't think so. After all, Mr. Thompson firmly believed, "To call those who do not fit our description of normality crazy or lunatic seems a bit of an oversimplification." He laughed in his mind.

John Burl laughed at Mr. Thompson's reply. "You don't know? I guess that's fair." He said.

Mr. Thompson looked at him and asked, "So will you come to see me at Watford? I could give you my card."

John Burl chuckled. "For some reason, I don't think that will be necessary." He got up. "I want to get some sleep while I still can. You don't mind, do you?" John Burl asked.

Mr. Thompson nodded. Climbing the steps to the bed in the compartment above, he turned his back towards Mr. Thompson and laid down. Mr. Thompson looked at his watch, which showed half-past nine.

A thick layer of fog had settled on the window making everything outside invisible.

"The gun it is then. One bullet in the head. That will do it. Clean and simple." Mr. Thompson chuckled as he, too, made his way to the bed.

John Burl still lied the same way with his back facing away from the wall.

Mr. Thompson lay down patiently, waiting, looking at his brown suitcase. He turned out the lights, and the whole compartment fell into a well of darkness. A sudden thud woke Mr. Thompson up. He didn't realize when he had fallen asleep.

"Damn." He said.

Next moment he quickly glanced at his watch. The glowing dial showed it was fifteen minutes to three. It had been almost six hours.

"Oh shucks," he said to himself.

He quickly woke up and turned the light on. Half of the room lit up. He looked towards John Burl's compartment. To his astonishment, John Burl wasn't there. Mr. Thompson sprang from his bed and came down.

The sound of the train pierced the silence of the night as it roared through. Mr. Thompson turned the lights in John Burl's compartment. It was then he noticed that the carriage door was open. John Burl had gotten out. Frantically, Mr. Thompson looked outside. He saw a figure standing near the carriage door; it was John Burl.

Mr. Thompson called out, "Mr Burl. Step aside. You'll fall down."

After a moment, John Burl turned around, looking at him. The light from inside the berth fell upon his face. It was pale, like a dead man. Mr. Thompson was shaken for a second before he realized what was about to happen.

"Don't jump, Mr. Burl. Please don't jump. I can help you!"

"No one can." John Burl replied. "I can't take this anymore. No matter what, she won't leave me alone." John Burl said.

Mr. Thompson knew he had to act now. There was no way he would let that lunatic kill himself. No! If anybody was going to kill that man, it would be he, Mr. Thompson. He had been waiting for this moment for years. Now that he was there in an empty carriage in the dead of night with a gun in his hand, he could not just let it go.

"Mr. Burl, don't do it." Mr. Thompson said as he quickly tried to reach for his bag. As he opened the chain, pulled out his gun, and pointed towards where John Burl was standing, he suddenly heard a shriek.

Mr. Thompson quickly ran towards the carriage door only to find it empty. John Burl had plunged before he could pull the trigger. Mr. Thompson struck his thigh in anger and dropped down onto the floor. "Crazy fool," he said.

Suddenly there were footsteps behind him. He quickly turned around and saw someone standing beside the window inside the room. It seemed like a woman. Her face was pale, and Mr. Thompson could clearly see blood smeared all across her face. He quickly rushed into the room towards the window, only to find his reflection staring back at him. Mr. Thompson stepped back and fell on the seat. The woman was laughing, perhaps laughing at him, he thought.

"She got to him before me," said Mr. Thompson to himself.

The following day at the break of dawn, the train stopped at Abbotsford. The steward came to the carriage to take the order for breakfast only to find it empty. A man got down from the train. He wore a light grey jacket and brown pants. His face was clean-shaven, and his head was bald. He had a brown suitcase in his left hand and a cloth pouch in his right. A gold-rimmed spectacle stuck out from the bag.

"Next time, surely." The man said to himself.

He tossed the bag into the dumpster next to the platform and stood beside it.

After a few minutes, the train left. The man smiled and walked towards the ticket counter and asked, "when's the next train to Watford?"

The clerk said, "it just left. The next one's at five o'clock in the afternoon."

"Great. One ticket, please," said the man.

"Name please, sir," The clerk asked.

"Mr. Henry Clarkson", the man replied.

"What the fuck? That's it?!" Hunter said out loud as the book suddenly ended halfway through, with the rest of the pages being blank.

He threw away the book on the floor and realizing that he was no closer to getting any sleep, Hunter sat upright on the bed and let out a tired sigh. Within moments, his mind diverted back to the story; a man disguising as someone else in hopes to kill unsuspecting people. Hunter scoffed at the coincidental implication between him and the main character, but was unable to keep his thoughts from veering back into what he had done earlier that night.

Suddenly, Hunter found faint traces of fear budding in the back of his mind as he felt something was amiss. Moments later, the light went out, drowning the entire room in darkness and sending Hunter into a frenzy. He tried to jump out of his bed but his limbs seemed glued to the sheets unable to move. The air in the room felt much denser as a familiar scent filled Hunter's senses along with the sound of footsteps slowly approach in his direction.

"Who's there?" Hunter called out, trying to reach for the shotgun.

"Don't you remember me?" A feminine voice spoke gently.

"I'm warning you! I have a gun."

"Hahahaha. What good will that do?" the voice started laughing.

"It'll help me blow your brains out," Hunter said sternly.

"You seem confused? I'm helping you." The gentle voice suddenly turned into a growl as the flash of a disfigured face glimpsed in front of Hunter causing his heart to spring into his mouth.

In the split second Hunter looked at the visitor in the room, he realized it was Genevieve only to become confused a moment later. He remembered the features clearly; from the cold blue eyes to burning dark blonde hair, but every time he tried to construct every part into a face, his memory started to disintegrate. Hunter said to himself that he was seeing things due to drinking too much, but his senses hinted otherwise. His anxiousness turned into terror as he continued to struggle to get out of the bed only to feel like a chained animal restrained to a cage.

"Hel…" Hunter tried to scream, but the sound wouldn't leave his mouth, instead trapping itself within his throat and choking him from the inside. A long time passed like this as Hunter started to sway due to his feeling light-headed. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut as he felt himself reclining back and his head smashing into something hard.

The sound of the rooster woke Hunter up from his slumber as he tried to find his bearings. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was six in the morning and as soon as he stepped out of the bed, the blood soaking into the hem of his pants reminded him of the previous night. In a moment of sheer panic, Hunter sprang back and ran out of the room. He remembered that he had been searching for Shaw's money but after realizing that he could still sense the presence of something, Hunter quickly gathered his belongings and hurried out of the house. As he made his way onto the dirt road, he heard someone calling out to him from the direction of the house but despite all the fearful temptation, Hunter continued to walk through the forest, not daring to turn back.

After walking for half an hour, Hunter could see railway tracks in the distance as he felt shortness of breath from moving too quickly. Panting, he walked up to the counter to find the booking clerk asleep at his desk.

"Hey! Hey!" Hunter woke him up.

"Y... yeah. What do you need?" The clerk asked, half awake.

"When's the next train?"

The clerk looked at his watch and said, "Half an hour. Where do you want to go?"

"Where does it go?" Hunter asked.

"All the way to London."

"One ticket to London then," said Hunter as he turned around to make sure nobody was following him for even though he was the only man on platform, he could not shake the unnerving feeling.

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