"My Friend Went Train-Hopping and Never Came Back, What Came Back Wasn't My Friend" by TheDarkCat97[]
So, after seeing an overwhelming amount of posts over the last year or so, regarding first timers, train-hopping (or traveling), I figured I'd write this. Train-hopping is a very romantic idea, You know, "Fuck everything! Fuck any obligations! Fuck the world! Fuck where were going, let's just get on a train and see where life takes us!"
Right?... Well.... first of all, I'm not here to be the killer of anyone's dreams or aspirations. But, I've never been in the mood to travel by train, so, you're probably not gonna get some advice from me. But, if you go on YouTube and see what these people do, then yeah, they're the guys you'd want to go to.
Don't get me wrong, it's not really that hard. But at the same time, you have to have some common sense and be able to use whatever equipment you got.
For example, a lot of you are, probably, thrill-seekers looking to throw caution to the wind, or a bunch of middle-class kids that don't know what they're doing. You do realize, the type of people that hop trains are face-tatted, nothing to live for, alcoholic drug addicts, looking for dumb kids to get a new pack or whatever? Ever see a bunch of degenerate looking folk with several dogs and a forty asking for their change outside of Seven-Eleven? The people you decide to blatantly ignore? That's the people you now have to sleep under a bridge with if you train-hop; somehow get thrown into the drunken night without getting robbed, or worse, the shit kicked of. Or, if we're being truthful; killed.
I'm not trying to scare anyone, but the whole "traveling" community in America is not the most accepting community out there (to put it lightly). Quite frankly, it's the complete opposite. Don't get me wrong, there's many awesome people within it, but for the most part it's a cesspool of dumb decisions. You might think to yourself, is this really what you want to do with your life? I'll tell you first hand, the majority of people will consider you, if you start train-hopping, as a second rate citizen. Even fast food workers would agree. And I don't think I'm gonna take that chance any time soon, and hopefully, you'd agree with me on that. It's the only way I can put it in distinction, and once you start leaving everything behind, you'll start getting heat from a shit ton of people. Yeah, it's, practically, God's way of giving you a wedgie.
Take my friend, Chris, as a prime example; he's been train-hopping his entire life, going from place-to-place, practically thrill-seeking just for the fun of it. To him, train-hopping is a passion, an obsession, he can't go a day without traveling around the world, seeing sites and wonders Mother Earth has in store for him. As for me, I never liked to train-hop, I'd just go ghost hunting with the rest of my college friends. Usually, Chris would post images on his Facebook page, and I'd see the places he had gone to via locomotive. I'd comment him back, but he'd just get to enthralled on his expeditions that, for some stupid reason, he'd go and do what hoboes tend to do. Draw a bunch of symbols that says stuff like:
- A triangle with hands, signifying that the homeowner has a gun.
- A horizontal zigzag, signifying a barking dog.
- A circle with two parallel arrows, meaning "Get out fast," as hoboes are not welcome in the area.
- A cat, signifying that a kind lady lives here.
Chris was into the whole hobo idea, he's been what they call a "Road Kid", a young hobo who apprentices himself to an older hobo in order to learn the ways of the road. He's been always on the road a lot, and likes to use trains to get to places, and to come home from his travels. Days went by and things died down since he's been sick with the flu. It was allergy season and he came back from Atlanta, Georgia, coughing and sniffling. I bought him some medicine and as days went on, his health starts to come back and asked me if I'd want to go train-hopping with him. I'm usually the one who bails him out of prison because of his actions, specifically, "Trespassing on public property".
I refused, as usual, and he went on his merry way to hop aboard a train. Then he went with his equipment, and a couple of snacks and refreshments for the trip to Nevada. I waited for days on the front porch with my best buds. I waited hours for Chris to come back from his trip. I waited until the sun was cracking through the trees, and then I waited until that night, sitting on my porch step, feigning off sleep deprivation to see my friend come back. Hell, I even waited at my job at the local Burger King as a cashier.
Chris did come back, but not until next year.
Fog had rolled in at that point, and it was getting darker, the night painting the sky a navy blue. Tracking over last year proved futile, and I started to get worried that I'd need to leave and find more provisions to last me a couple of months. I couldn't leave Chris up there, lost in Nevada, hot, and probably starving to the point of becoming a skeleton. The thought that he might be waiting out there for me to find him and bring him back home was distressing enough. I was packing the bag that hung on the coat rack next to the door with what I'd need to probably fly to St. Louis and drag his ass back home. I figured tomorrow would be the last day before I'd go there and scold him for being so stupid. Thankfully, Chris came back before I'd even finished that train of thought.
I saw him from the window, walking down the street, a few dozen feet away from the house. Normally I'd hear him walk up to the doorway and knock on the door a few times, waiting patiently for me to open the door, but this was different. For a moment I thought it might be a stranger, but the outline of his body in the wisps of thick low-lying clouds was unmistakable. Still, despite myself, I hesitated. There was something different about his body language. I stared out the window for a few more moments before reason overcame my gut instinct. Chris could be hurt, I thought. Or worse.
I flung the doorway open, but he didn't come right away. Instead he stood there, watching me intently, and when he didn't move I called out to him. "Chris," I greeted. "what's up, buddy".
The way he moved was... different. He moved like a zombie, his head was bowed to the ground, but his expression never changed. He didn't seem like his energetic self. The only way I could describe the look he gave me was "exhausted", like he had been awake for months. I mean, I don't blame him for being tired, he had been traveling by train ever since the idea first came into his brain.
He didn't wait for me to open the door for him, he just barged in, and went straight to bed. Just like that. No hand shakes, no high fives, not even a simple greeting. Went straight to the guest room to lie down, like he owned the place. I thought this was a bit rude for Chris to just barge in here to go lay in bed, but, he had been train-hopping ever since, so I thought this was the perfect time for him to rest from his adventures. But, there was something about Chris' appearance that was off... from a far distance, he looked normal, but from up-close, his facial features looked different. It was as if I was looking at somebody else. I went to the guest room to ask Chris if he was okay, and he didn't speak at all, he didn't even look at me as he laid there and faced the wall. He just nodded his head slightly up-and-down. I then asked him if he wanted something to eat, since he had been traveling by train, but he slightly shook his head no.
I was now starting to get suspicious, this wasn't like Chris; he'd usually come home from traveling, eat his supper and take a shower before watching Bar Rescue on Spike TV. He'd NEVER go to be early. I made the dumb decision to blow this off and go on with my day, hoping that Chris would wake from his nap.
I could have sworn I heard him walk in the night, the sound of footsteps against the carpeted floor coming up to the door of my bedroom, but they were slow and deliberate. They weren't like the quickness of Chris realizing I'd gone to bed and coming to pull his usual pranks whenever I'd go to sleep. I heard the noises stop outside of my bedroom, but I didn't hear him whispering to his video camera. I thought nothing of it and fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke in the morning, I figured it must've been a dream. Chris was still sitting in bed when I left him in when I went to bed. It was as though he didn't move a muscle the entire night, and when I said good morning, he didn't so much as look at me.
He did follow me into the kitchen, but he paused at the doorway when I put his food down on the table and filled a glass up with milk. Once again, he moved weirdly as he slowly made his way towards me. There was a nagging feeling that something was off putting about the way he looked that day. It was like he had gotten a little skinnier and paler overnight.
Chris gave me that look again, like when he was walking to the door the night before. He didn't come into the kitchen. I figured he must've been hungry being out in Nevada for so long, but he eyed me like he was waiting for me to come a little closer rather than touch the eggs and toast. It goes without saying, but after a few moments of a staring contest between me and my rugged friend, I asked, "Chris? Are you okay?"
Like last night, he nodded slightly. Not a single word. I didn't want to move closer to my friend to leave the kitchen door, but this was Chris, and the most damage he'd ever done was eat or drink from the garbage bin. Sure enough, as I passed him, he turned and his eyes met mine, but he didn't move towards me.
When I left for work the next day, I looked over at one of the TVs above one of the customers, and what I saw, made every fiber of my being tremble and quake. On the TV was a news broadcast, and the English subtitles read the following:
"We have breaking news: A few weeks ago in Nevada, there had been an incident around the United States Air Force facility known as Area 51. Reports state that something had broken out of the facility, and made it's way across the desert and came across a young man named, Christopher Ray Smith; a traveling train hopper from Richmond, Virginia, and mauled him to death before stealing his traveling equipment and wallet. Police found his body outside the Las Vegas area around the nearby highway, and stripped from his clothing. The workers in Area 51 recommended our crew to keep quiet about the whole situation, but we have managed to take snapshots of the murder, in question, as you can see here."
The scene changed to the actual photos of my best friend's murdered corpse, laying on the desert ground ass naked and blood all over the place.
"Whatever killed Christopher Smith has never been found and/or identified, so if you see anyone, or anything, that has Christopher's items around, please, contact your local authorities, immediately. Now, for the weather."
I cried for most of the way home, hands clenching the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I... I can't believe that... I can't-... Chris, I'm so, so sorry...
The next day was when everything went to hell, it must've been close to 4 or 5 in the morning when I heard it. The sound of singing. It was in Chris' voice as he, or "It", sang his favorite song, Poor Wayfaring Stranger. I broke out into a cold sweat when I realized that whoever butchered Chris, stolen his clothes and took his stuff, could've very well broken into my house. The door to my room didn't make a sound as I opened it slowly, thankfully. I waited a moment, listening to someone singing that song for a few more seconds before I dared poke my head out from the door frame to get a good look and whoever it was that could've hurt Chris.
The outside door was open. It as outside the front porch. Whatever it was that had impersonated my friend, it was singing, in my friend's voice.
I shit you not, it looked directly at me, and said "Miiiiiiiich-aaaaaeeellll" in the most ungodly voice I'd ever fucking heard, I closed the door just as softly as I'd opened it.
I don't know how long I waited with my back pressed up against the door. I knew I left my gun in the bag on the coat rack. I know I didn't sleep. I waited until I saw the sun break over the horizon, and then I waited some more, until it must've been mid-day and I finally got the balls to open the door again and make a break for the car. I wouldn't die in that place.
"Chris" was gone, and the door was wide open. His food was untouched, but the fridge was open, and all the meat was gone. I didn't bother packing my stuff. I just threw my bag over my shoulder, made my way to the Toyota as fast as I could, and turned on the ignition. I can't describe the feeling that overcame me as I realized that I'd have to confess to the police about what had happened. I mean, who the fuck is going to believe me, that a fucking alien had killed my best friend, and took his identity? They'd think I'm a fucking psycho! I don't think I could cope with the knowledge that whatever I allowed in my house, whatever disemboweled that man, could've done the same to others in the past.
I made my way down the road as fast as I possibly could without veering off into the sidewalk. I felt relief wash over me, thinking I was safe. But the knot in my stomach tightened each time I thought about what had happened. I called my friends, my mom, and my dad, and told them about my friend being dead, and they responded to me with the same thing; they saw it on the news. I pulled up on their driveway, I had never felt that much agony in my entire life. I told them everything, but I didn't describe to them about the alien-monster thing impersonating Chris, because... again, who would believe me?
I wish I could leave this off with a positive note. I wish I could tell you that I found Chris at home, unscathed. I wish I could tell you that was the end of it, a traumatizing experience that I'll get over with time.
Last night, I found it hard to sleep. I kept replaying the entirety of my friend's visit in my head. I figured I wouldn't be sleeping for a while, and laid there, listening to the wind through my open window.
I could've sworn I heard the singing I used to hear Chris sing, coming from outside my parents' house.
If you go train-hopping with your friends, I advise that you don't let them out of your sight for too long. What comes back might not be your friend.