The May Second Selected Writer is Andy Echevarria
THE REAL HERO
by Andy Echevarria
Do you believe in ghosts? I never did, until one incident seven years ago. Whether, upon reading this account, you’ll believe that what occurred was a dream or hallucination is up to you. Sometimes, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of daily life, we fail to notice these benevolent spirits. Other times, the appearance of a ghost is clear and undeniable, yet we may be tempted to dismiss the encounters as nothing more than a bad dream or the product of a harried imagination. As for me, after the encounter with the ghost, I can now confidently say that throughout this great big universe, there are things we can see and voices we can hear if we dare to listen and look closely enough.
On that morning, a day which will forever be etched in my heart and memory, I stood at the platform at Ronkonkoma Station, waiting for the train on the way to work. Around me, commuters listened to music, texted or talked on their cell phones.
I glanced at my watch: 7:30. The 7:15 to Penn Station was late.
The train rumbled into the station moments later. I found an empty seat beside an elderly lady with dark glasses. I noticed the Braille book on her lap. Then I looked down and noticed the Pomeranian with orange-reddish, velvety fur.
Passengers scowled as the doors closed; it looked like one of those rush hour trains in Japan, with every seat taken, and the rest (luckily that time I’d found a seat) packed like sardines.
I checked my own phone’s inbox: a message from my manager asking if I’d left the printer on. No, I texted. Seconds later came my his reply: then who did?
I instantly exited mail. No sooner had I clicked on music than I felt a pull at the bottom of my leg.
I looked down and noticed the Pomeranian with reddish-orange, velvety fur. The miniature creature barked once, then rested its head near the tip of my shoe. Probably a service pet, I thought.
Several minutes later we stopped at Central Islip. A live announcement came on and told us to disembark at the next station to wait for a connecting train. Fellow commuters cursed and sighed and glanced nervously at their watches. I left the train along with everyone else, agitated. Nonetheless, I tried to control my anger; no point in getting worked up, especially on the first day of the workweek.
I spotted the conductor and went up to him. I asked how long it would be until another train arrived.
“Should be here any moment,” he replied, though the grimace on his face indicated he wasn’t certain.
Soon another announcement: a ten-minute delay. I found a seat on a bench.
Suddenly I caught sight of the old lady and her dog. She balanced herself with a cane as she walked towards my direction, leading the dog on a leash.
I rose. “Ma’am?”
She stopped in front of me and sniffed a bit. “Thank you,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “So very nice of you, young man.”
“Most welcome,” I said.
“You know,” she began as she sat, “this is the second straight day we’ve had a delay.”
“It’s terrible when it happens on a Monday,” I said, surveying the station. Most of the others who were waiting moaned and a few cursed. “And no explanation from the LIRR. Nothing.”
A moment later I heard a train coming towards the station. As it made its way towards us, I saw, around me, frustration turn to hope.
But the train ran right past us.
I sighed and decided to avoid the conductor this time, knowing I’d most likely get the curt response “soon” if I asked him how long it would be until the next train.
I needed a diversion from the late train and so I surveyed the station.
I recognized a smattering of faces. There was Dave standing near the newspaper stand. He was dressed in his usual suit and tie and looked as effervescent as ever on his way to his brokerage firm. And there was Beverly. She wore a stunning purple dress and had tons of makeup on, eager and ready to make faces turn at the law office.
Needing my energy for the rest of the day—besides, Monday was too early in the week—I had little desire to approach either of my travel companions and risk an hour-plus conversation until we arrived at Penn Station.
I glanced at my watch: 7:37
A third train came into the station several minutes later, drowning out the robotic announcement—something about pickpockets and beggars.
I turned to the elderly lady. “May I help you?”
“Oh, I can manage, young man,” she said. “Thank you.” She rose and headed to the train.
I elbowed my way through a bevy of passengers and settled in the only empty seat I saw—and again found myself beside the elderly woman and her pet. I looked at the dog, supine on the floor, its small body swaying back and forth as the train moved.
The lady continued reading her book, her bony hands moving across the page. Then the hand stopped and, as the doors shut, she turned to me and said, “I’ve been a passenger since the forties,” the old lady said. “The system wasn’t as extensive. You didn’t have as many trains then. But the advantage is you had fewer delays.”
“I ride the train every day,” I said simply, trying to keep my volume down, as the car we were riding in was quieter than usual. “No other way to get to Manhattan it seems. I live out here on the island and the traffic to the city’s terrible. I’m considering driving to work from now on,” I said, regretting at the last moment I’d started a conversation with her, one that might drag on for the entire duration of the trip to the city.
For the next several minutes we rode in silence. Then the train rolled into Brentwood. A few passengers exited and others entered.
“I’ve come to warn…” The old lady was looking at me through those dark glasses. I saw only a faint outline of her eyes. She could be some lunatic, her words the result of a stupor brought about by an unquiet mind, or she could be someone vying for attention.
“I’ve come to warn...” she repeated.
Warn about what? I thought.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?”
“Just say my name when it happens,” she said.
I noticed the doors close and…“This is a robbery!”
The words were loud and firm. At the door stood a young man of about twenty. In his hands he held a gun. His stare was cold. And he had a large frame.
Everyone, including me, screamed, scrambled and ran towards the door that connected to the neighboring car. I’d never seen a crazier scene in my life.
In the melee I noticed the old lady had vanished.
“Gimme your money!” the young man screamed, and even though the train was traveling at full speed and the engines were roaring, I was able to hear his voice clearly.
By then, most of the passengers had made it to the other side.
I found it ironic that the robbery was being committed on a crowded train. Did the idiot think he’d be able to escape? Ever since September 11, cops were everywhere. The logical choice for someone who wanted to commit a robbery would be to target a mom-and-pop-type shop, not dozens of passengers during rush hour on the Long Island Railroad.
I heard the man coming up behind. I stopped and turned and swung. But he ducked and my fist flew over his head.
I kicked him in the groin, and the weapon fell. I watched helplessly as it slid across the moving train to the door. Then I swung with my best hand—my left—and hit him in the eye.
He appeared more surprised than hurt. He grimaced, then rushed towards me. I moved to the side as soon as I saw him charge, and he banged his head on the door.
I caught a glimpse of the neighboring car and watched as dozens of passengers screamed and stared at me, seeming wide-eyed with surprise. There I was, the reluctant hero, doing my best to prevent a tragedy on the LIRR.
The gun lay several feet away, near the door. I don’t think he saw it, or if he did, he wasn’t paying much attention to it. Instead, he looked at me stone-faced.
I ran to the gun, but as soon as I’d sprinted, his foot came in front of me. I tripped, hit my head against the door, then fell backwards on my back. I lay in a daze for a moment, asking myself if he’d come up to me any time now and put a bullet through me. I prayed it wouldn’t be the case.
By then the train had slowed down as it came into the next station. Passengers were still screaming as I lay on the floor, believing that perhaps those were the final moments of my life.
“So you wanna be a hero?” I heard him say, though I’d yet to feel the weapon against me.
I said nothing. Not that I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. My back hurt. My head throbbed. And I felt out of breath. I lifted a weak hand and touched my forehead and noticed fresh blood.
Finally, I spoke, “I’ve got a wallet in the back of my pocket. If you want, take it. I’ve got about eighty bucks.”
He walked around me, and I noticed his thick boots. As the train slowed, I feared he’d kill me and continue on to the rest of the passengers. Boots within inches from my face as I winced out in pain, I considered my next move.
Then I felt another boot come down on my back. The assailant pressed hard. The pain was excruciating.
“I don’t want your money!” he hollered.
I waited.
“Was gonna try to do this the nice way,” he growled, and his voice bore a tone of menace, “but since you wanna be Superman…”
I tried to turn but couldn’t. Not only was I in terrible shape, but the attacker proved to be a strong fellow, much more than I’d imagined.
I felt a heavy hand wrap the back of my neck.
“Get up!” he spat.
“I…I can’t,” I murmured.
He turned me over and pressed the gun against my temple.
“Please,” I pleaded. “You don’t want to do this.”
“But I do wanna to do this! I only needed some money, but since you tried to be a hero…”
Suddenly my eyes switched to someone else…with utter disbelief: the old lady and her dog! Right where they’d been seated. The feisty Pom barked furiously at us.
“Mrs. Dewberry.” That was the lady speaking. “Remember Mrs. Dewberry?” Then in the next instant she and the dog disappeared.
I looked up at the assailant. The man was sweating profusely.
He pressed the gun some more to my temple and the metal shook.
What if the gun went off? I wondered desperately. The assailant was obviously nervous. Then, in a fleeting moment of clarity, I thought of the old lady’s words: “just say my name.” It seemed ridiculous, that I should pronounce her name while being threatened with my life, but I had no choice.
“Mrs. Dewberry,” I muttered, expecting no reaction from the assailant other than a squeeze of the trigger.
But his face instantly turned ashen. The gun left my temple and he stood erect, hesitating. The train magically stopped.
Then an amazing thing happened: he began to fade out.
*****
Passengers interviewed by the police said the gunman fled the scene just after I’d punched him in the stomach. According to several of the witnesses, the assailant jumped on the tracks and ran towards a bushy area adjacent to the station.
During my questioning, I explained I didn’t see anyone get up and run. I told them the truth—that he’d simply disappeared into thin air. He asked me if I’d ever seen a “doctor” before, to which I replied no, never had, didn’t need to.
Finally, he told me I was free to go, but asked me to be available in case there was any further questioning to be done.
I avoided the LIRR on the way back home, taking a taxi instead.
*****
The Mayor contacted me two days later, congratulating me on my heroism. “You did a lot of good on that train,” he said over the phone. “The city would like to thank you formally for your valor. We’d be honored if you could attend an event in recognition of your outstanding heroism.”
The ceremony was held at the Waldorf-Astoria. A banner hung across the lobby of the hotel: “Rebecca Dewberry Foundation—awarding acts of heroism for ten years.”
There were hundreds in attendance, including dignitaries and survivors of what might have been a great massacre. At the reception, I was lauded for my bravery and heroism, and asked to speak.
It wasn’t easy making my way to the podium. I had crutches. My back pained me as it never had. Doctors said it would be at least another five weeks before I’d be able to discard the cast and walk on my own.
My speech lasted two minutes. I’d brought no notes, wanting to speak from the heart. I expressed my humble delight at preventing the tragedy. And thanked the people of the city for their wonderful gesture. Then, towards the end of the speech, I couldn’t help but express my unhappiness at the train delays and said the system could use some improvement.
But of course, I didn’t want to tell the Mayor or anyone else about the old woman whose magical words saved my life—and that of others as well—on that morning on the LIRR. What really mattered was everyone was safe.
As I made my way back to my seat, I thought I caught, from the corner of my eye, a glimpse of the old lady. She stood near the entrance of the auditorium, her dark glasses on. A shiver crawled up my spine.
And in the background the emcee was saying, “We’d like to thank the Rebecca Dewberry Foundation for all its help assisting victims of violent crime.” When I looked up there was a young woman at the podium, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. I heard her puff a loud sigh which was amplified by the microphone, and then she said, “Remember, it's almost twelve years ago to the day when she lost her life as the result of a robbery on the Long Island Railroad.”
A picture of a woman popped up on a screen behind the speaker. It was the old lady. But there was no reaction from the audience. I realized that for the ones who had been on the train with me that day, no one else seemed to have noticed her.
Before the incident on the train, I’d never believed in ghosts. But the miracle on that April morning changed all that.
I know in my heart somewhere—or perhaps everywhere—wanders the spirit of Mrs. Dewberry.
Andy Echevarria is a lover of the suspense genre, with a lifelong passion for writing. Currently he has work published with SNM Horror Magazine, The Horror Zine, and Static Movement. The satisfaction he derives from creating something out of nothing and letting it lead him into limitless other worlds is what he enjoys most about the process, and, if those who read his stories are genuinely terrified, then he's that much more satisfied. He lives in New York City.