You are Suzanne Matusek

[BASKETCASE]

You sit on the stained seats of a Fifth Tier subway car. The rickety old carriage hasn't been serviced by the Imperial authority in ages and as it clacks down the tracks you pray silently for the day you can afford an apartment outside the 34th Precinct. You are wearing a modest length dress that reaches midway down your shins. The pale white skin above your ankle is freshly shaved, giving only the minimum hint of almost virginal sexuality. A floral pattern is printed across your chest. You're single and hoping to find Mr. Right, but you know better than to ask for trouble on your evening commute.

The train car isn't packed, but all the seats are filled and a handful of men jostle against each other while hanging on to the cords meant for standing passengers. An old woman who stinks of piss sits alongside you to your left. Her lap is covered with plastic bags full of tin cans and dumpster dived treasures. As she twitches through a dream, you clutch your purse a little tighter.

A curly haired man sits half awake directly across the aisle from you. He must have gotten aboard the train at an earlier stop since unlike you, he was able to stick his luggage in his neighboring seat, sparing himself the stench of some homeless old hag. The man looks barely older than 20, but his white face is a little smudgy in the way that all the itinerant poor look in Corsucant. Hutt graffiti has been sprayed on all the walls inside the train car and the big puffy curls of the man's hair obscures some dirty word on the window behind him.

The train pulls into the next station with a wheeze and a mechanical voice crackles through an ancient speaker announcing the next stop, “Fulcrum Park.” As the momentum of the subway gradually fades, the man's neck snaps with the lurching stop. You watch him bat his eyes open, startled to now be awake. He looks around the train car through his bleary eyes, then suddenly realizes you are staring at him. He looks at you in the dumb way people do when they've just risen from a well needed nap. You smile coyly. He's cute, in his own way.

He rubs an eye with one hand while the other stays firmly atop his luggage. Blinking, he smiles sheepishly back. You don't want the man to get the wrong idea so you glance at your watch, as if the current time interests you more than him. He looks away, perhaps getting the message.

From the corner of your eye you watch the man adjust the luggage that sits beside him. The stop must have nudged it a bit, and the man is very intent on keeping it firmly in place. The luggage is a large wicker basket about three feet wide and two foot tall. A simple little metal latch and pocket lock keeps the lid on the top shut. After arranging the basket on his seat to his satisfaction, he again places the weight of his arm on it's lid.

Passengers get off at Fulcrum Park, but very few new ones take their place. The night has grown late and you are slowly moving past the terrible crime ridden neighborhoods of the 34th Precinct and nearing your own stop on the Westside. Crime syndicates rule the streets there, but at least the mafia bosses enforce some semblance of order. You wrinkle your nose at the urine soaked woman at your side. The curly haired man flashes a knowing smile at you, and you stifle a shared and secret laugh between the two of you.

The train bucks and weaves along the tracks as you pass through a tunnel and the lights within flicker out. You clutch your purse tighter and your fingers twist around the leather strap as well-warranted fear grips your heart. Punks and thieves often rob or grope young ladies during these quick blackout moments. The homeless woman doesn't stir, which keeps you more at ease, but you can feel eyes staring at you from across the aisle, peering through the inky dark, intermittently illuminated by bright flashes through the window of the train car as it passes emergency beacons along the rail.

There are two pairs of eyes drilling into you and they feel like pins sticking into your chest. A millisecond of light shines through the train window, reflecting onto the dull but leering eyes of the curly haired man. Within half a gasp, the man's face is once again hidden in the darkness, yet you can feel, you can see the devilish amber glow of a second pair of eyes burrowing into your soul. Through the narrow slits of woven twigs, you see the malevolent eyes within the wicker basket.

[BASKETCASE]

Your heels clack against the filthy unmopped tile floor of the train platform. You are walking briskly and not quite running, lest you give everyone the wrong idea. You clutch your purse tighter as you round the corner through the station and move past the rows of cigarette machines. The tunnel leading towards the stairwell out of the subway station is empty. From over your shoulder you can hear the train's ancient speaker chime out, “Daley Plaza” as the next stop.

Cold fear clutches your heart. That's your stop, but you got off one station early. Why?

That creep with the curly hair and his wicker basket had looked at you so queerly and you didn't feel comfortable getting off at Daley Plaza. If you did, he could possibly find out where you live… or worse, follow you home and that truly sent tingles down your spine. In retrospect, you curse yourself for not thinking this through more. That guy was probably harmless, and now you have no clue where you are. You pause for a moment with your hand on the guard rail that snakes through the subway tunnel. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just turn around and get on the next train from back at the platform. Yet here you stand, paralyzed and unwilling to turn your head to look behind you.

Tock...tock...tock…

You worked a late shift at the hospital tonight. You've been a nurse for only 2 years now and that doesn't give you nearly enough seniority to pick your shifts. Your father hated the idea of you working in such a crime ridden neighborhood, but you're young and need the work; a million girls would kill just for an opportunity at what you have. In the empty caverns of the subway, you hear slow footsteps approaching. Is it that man? Is he some pervert or thief? Did he get off after you? IS HE FOLLOWING YOU?

The panic is taking hold of your mind and you can't even muster the courage to see if it IS him. With clattering heels, you race through the empty tunnel. Pornographic movie posters and malt liquor ads are pasted like wallpaper along the tube-like tunnel’s expanse as your steps echo throughout. Your hair is fluttering into your face and the deafening sounds of your shoes have made you feel disoriented and single-minded in reaching the stairwell just ahead that leads to the safety of the public streets.

You feel a sense of glee and the irrational fear that overtook you completely subsides with relief when you finally reach the 20 or so stairs that lead upwards and out the stairwell. You pause for a moment, your hand on the guardrail again to catch your breath.  You realize how nonsensical the whole thing was and the fear washes off you like a summer shower.

Tock...tock...tock…

Footsteps! Behind you, and rapidly plodding towards you just as before! This time you manage to turn and look down the tunnel.  A man is walking towards you intently.  He is dressed in a grubby khaki jacket and a pair of old blue jeans.  His hair is a mess of unwashed brown curls and his face has the lurid look of a rapist from a cop drama. He lurches towards you, carrying a large wicker basket under one arm.

You scream and clammer up the stairs.  As you try to scramble upwards your shoes catch on the hem of your dress and you trip to the tile.  You cry out in pain as you land on the pointed edges of the stairs. Another more maniac cry escapes your lips as the man grips your naked ankle with his hand.  You kick, and kick again at his face. He groans and curses you, dropping his basket. As he bends to retrieve it you climb the stairs on hands and knees. You can feel the dirt and grime from the steps dirting your immaculate nails, but it doesn’t matter. You must reach the exit, you know it. A terrible aura of evil emanates from this man, but an even more horrible wave of killing air throbs from his basket.

[BASKETCASE]

Triumphantly you reach the top, but the man has recovered at the bottom of the stairwell and is beginning to resume the chase.  Rather than the turnstile exit you expected, you find yourself at a T intersection. Left or right, which is it your mind asks with abandon.

Left it screams, and you move towards the left.

“HELP! HELP ME!” you scream, hoping to catch the ear of a station attendant or just a good samaritan. You run, and run, racing down the intersection’s tunnel and finally reach its terminus. A yellow stain reads, “Men's” and another reads, “Womens,” each with an arrow pointing into bathroom stalls.  You turn and gaze down the length of the intersection’s tunnel and see that the man and his basket have reached the top of the stairs.

Tock...tock...tock…

He is coming for you.

Perhaps it was habit, but you dive into the women’s bathroom. The black and white checkered tiled floor is unmopped and stinks of urine more than even the homeless woman you sat alongside on the train just moments ago. Pantingly, you place your hands against the lip of the bathroom sink and try to catch your breath. You look into the cracked mirror and your face is a mask of terror. You need to get it together, you need to be quiet, you need to find your wits if you want to get out of here alive.  

Tock...tock...tock…

He is growing nearer.

You spin around and look at the three bathroom stall doors. The first door is closed.

“Hello?” you whisper with fear tinging your voice. “Is there anyone else here?”

No answer.

You rattle the door but it's locked. “Shit!” you mutter to yourself. You turn to the mirror and face the empty sink. Taking your purse, you empty its contents into the basin and finger through all the random junk that pours out, hoping to find a weapon.

Lipstick tube, compact, wallet, four subway tokens, a coupon for Burger Delight, a cigarette lighter, a pack of gum and a nail file. Nothing!

You turn around again, but this time bend low and look under the two foot high space between the floor and the stall door. Again to your frustration, there is no one inside. You look into the second stall and see nothing but a toilet with an old turd sitting at the bottom of the bowl and a puddle of piss on the floor.  Instinctively you wrinkle your nose and move to the third stall.

Tock...tock...tock…

You push the third door open and it creaks slightly, setting you more on edge.  The stall is cleaner than the second so you walk inside and close the door. Sitting on the toilet seat, you cover your mouth with your hand and try to remain as silent as you can. Suddenly, a brilliant idea comes to mind. You raise your feet above the bottom of the stall door and rest them on the top of the toilet seat.  You hug your knees atop the commode, waiting for your chance to escape.

[BASKETCASE]

You sit with knees firmly gripped by your fingers as you are perched atop the foul smelling commode in the bathroom of a subway station. The endless light of the fluorescent bulbs hum through the overhead fixture, but it's yellow glow is diffused by a thousand dead insects trapped within the plastic sheath.  When you first fled into the bathroom, you had had the clever idea to hide within one of the locked stalls, but raise your feet so that creep with the basket wouldn't see you. You can feel your sweaty palm damping the hem of your dress as you clutch your legs tightly.

Tock...tock...tock…
Creaaaaak….

You can feel your heart almost leaping out of your chest, yet somehow you have the sense to stifle the scream at your lips when the man's footsteps stop outside the door to the women's restroom, then pushes open the swinging door. From within your hiding place, you can feel the man's malevolent presence, and wonder if he can sense you too. His rubber soled sneakers audibly pause just past the entrance.

The wicker reeds of the basket crackle as the man sets the basket on the ground. You can spy his sneakers pacing around the bathroom searching for you. A small part of your brain thought perhaps you were crazy to have fled and screamed so suddenly, but with the man now alone with you in the bathroom, it's clear his intentions are evil. Has he come to kill you? To rape you? Your mind is going through the possibilities and your body is quivering so hard with fear you're finding it difficult to keep your balance on the toilet seat.

You can see the man pause, his feet pointed at the sink basin. Is he looking at the mirror? What is wrong with this guy?

rattle...rattle...rattle

From behind the bathroom stall door you can hear plastic jostling against plastic in the sink, and you remember that in your panic you emptied your purse there before cornering yourself in this miserable hiding spot. You can hear his hand continue to rummage through your junk.

“Hmm…” his voice echoes in the lonely bathroom.

You hear the snap of your pocketbook which he must have found amongst the other items.

“Susan…” his voice intones, like a glutton reading off the items on a dinner menu.

“Susan...Matusek?” he repeats almost questioningly. Perhaps he was unsure about the pronunciation. He knows your name now, and while this changes nothing, it sends an icy prick into your heart.

“Where are you, my dear Susan?” he asks with the friendly air of a kindergarten teacher.

You squelch the scream itching to escape your throat, but you're breathing heavily. Can he hear you? Thinking about it is just making you hyperventilate more.

RADDARADDARADDA!

Your teeth clench tightly. The man is loudly rattling the first locked stall door.

“SUSAN.” his voice calls out more sternly.

His footsteps whisper against the sticky tile floor as he walks past the second stall, which is unlocked and open. You can see the dirty white vinyl of his sneakers below your door.

RADDARADDARADDA!

You scream.

Your stall door stops rattling and you can feel the man on the other side. His presence is like a choking black smoke oozing through the cracks of the door hinge.

His voice happily chimes out with faux sweetness. “There you are Susan!”

His hand remains on the handle of the door and he rattles it softly. You can almost feel his breath and know that he is stooped over, speaking just inches from the door itself.

“We were worried about you. Don’t you think it's a little RUDE to run off like that?” he asks with malicious disapproval.

“G...g...go away!  Or I’ll scream!” you beg, not knowing what else to say.

“You already did that, Susan.” he coolly replies.

From the other side of the door, you can hear shuffling and then see his palms on the floor. The man begins to slide under the two foot high opening between the floor and the bottom of the door.  In seconds, his shoulders, arms and head have entered the stall. His eyes leer maniacally and lustfully at you. He reaches up awkwardly from the floor and tries to grab your ankle, but instinctively you kick at his foot, then at his face. The point of your heel jabs at his skull and he yelps, shielding his face with his arms as his legs pull him back from whence he came in total retreat.  As he flees below the door, you kick again and again, punishing him in his attempt to reach you.

The man rises to his feet and pants, “YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU!?”

BRAKAAAAH!
RADDARADDARADDA

BRAKAAAAH!
RADDARADDARADDA

BRAKAAAAH!
RADDARADDARADDA

The man kicks furiously at the door, rattling it against the stall frame.  You quickly jump off from the toilet and press your body against the door, bracing it.

“GODDAMNIT SUSAN!” he screams, almost childlike, as the door doesn’t budge.

You can hear him throwing a tantrum on the other side of the door, pounding his fists against the sink basin, stomping his feet and shouting. He seems irate, and your fear is melting off your heart with the adrenaline of fighting off his attack. You feel a modicum of smugness as he lets out a frustrated and almost womanly harumpt!

With a sniveling voice, he remarks with finality. “You did this to yourself Susan. I wanted you, but I guess I’ll just have to let my brother have his fun instead.”

“Brother?” you think with suspicious wonder.

You can hear the man fumble with the lock on his wicker basket and flop the lid open. What the hell is the fool doing?

Your blood runs cold. You cannot believe, you cannot comprehend the otherworldly, the monstrous sound coming from the basket. Its a scraping, squirming sound that can only be described as vile. You can hear what sounds like a carcass of meat being dragged across the tile. It pauses at the side of the first stall, then continues growing closer.

“Graaaowwrrr…” an abominable voice groans out lowly from the floor of the first stall.

That scraping sound continues to draw closer. Whatever *it* is, its crawling from beneath the walls of the three bathroom stalls. It reaches the second stall and you can smell the thing. It has the scent of dead rats left out to rot in the back alley of a ghetto. It reeks like a jar of toenail clippings collected by some oddball hermit. Your eyesight becomes cloudy and narrow, as if every sense within your body is becoming acute, churning on overdrive to take in the last final experiences possible before you die a miserable death.

A hideous, malformed arm reaches below from the second stall into yours. You scream with lung-splitting terror. The stinking toilet, the yellowed light fixture, the sickly green walls of the bathroom, everything has disappeared as your vision tunnels in and can only see the loathsome creature propel itself from beneath the stall.  You do not even feel the trickle of warm urine rolling down your leg as the creature reaches out with its left arm and grasps your shin.  Its nails dig into your pale flesh. They dig deeply, leaving blackish-red wells of blood, but you feel nothing but numbness.

“Mroaaaawwhhhhhr….” it moans from the revolting mouth filled with needle-like teeth.

You scream again but this time nothing comes out. Your mouth is open, mutely, impotently trying to bring forth a cry, but only a briefly gurgling boils out your throat as its right hand sinks its talons into your belly. Your insides squish wetly between its fingers but the room is growing shadowed and dark. The last sound in your ears is the slushy sound of tube-like organs being pulled out by the creature's paw.  In one quick motion, the tumor-like monstrosity pulls its mass atop your body.  It wails, sinking its teeth into your neck.

The End.