Chapter 1: The Body in the Restroom

Uncle Ben had promised this would be a quiet ride home. He always said Amtrak was safer than the Greyhound, but today, even he looked uneasy. The rumble of the old Amtrak echoed under our feet as the train clattered west, the sun setting behind a ragged line of cottonwoods and painting streaks of gold across the windows. The car smelled like stale coffee and steel rails. I remember Uncle Ben teaching me to play chess on a trip just like this—his laugh booming, promising we’d make it home in one piece. Now, a commotion snapped me back to the present—a shout, a sharp cry—cutting through the steady drone of wheels and low chatter, making heads lift from paperbacks and iPads.

We pushed through the tight, faded blue-carpeted corridor, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and found a body, cut clean in half, sprawled in the restroom like a horror movie prop. The door hung open just wide enough to reveal the nightmare: a torso slumped against the wall, legs sprawled grotesquely apart, the cut so smooth it looked unreal. The air was thick with the copper stench of blood and harsh cleaning chemicals. Someone behind us gasped. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and I fought the urge to turn and run.

Uncle Ben grabbed my wrist and hustled me back toward our seats, his face white as a sheet. He squeezed so hard it hurt, dragging me along the rocking carriage. The Uncle Ben I remembered—grinning at horror movies, cracking jokes at family barbecues—was gone, replaced by a silent, haunted man.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Uncle Ben shut me up with a sharp gesture. His finger pressed hard to his lips, eyes wide and burning with fear. I swallowed my words, the terror settling into my chest like cold lead. Around us, passengers stole nervous glances, pretending nothing was wrong, but the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

A few minutes later, the carriage jolted violently, forcing the train to a halt in the middle of nowhere—just endless fields and a lonely highway off in the distance. The stop sent a battered suitcase skidding down the aisle, brakes screeching as the cars shuddered to a standstill. Out the window, the world was nothing but wind-tossed grass and a single, flickering rest stop sign far off along the highway. No houses, no help—just the vast, empty Midwest.

Uncle Ben leaned in close, his voice barely more than a rasp: "Something's on this train."

Sweat beaded at his temple, catching the cold blue light. Every eye in the car felt like it was boring into us, though no one dared to speak or move.

"Remember," he whispered, locking eyes with me like he used to when warning me about strangers at the bus stop, "a person's face never really changes..."

His words made my skin crawl. I scanned the carriage, suddenly sure that every stranger was watching me back, their faces just a little too blank, a little too calm.