James had a schedule. He woke up at 6:15 every morning, spent the next hour showering, getting dressed, and making a quick breakfast that he could eat on the way to work. He then ran to catch the 7:25 train from Clapham South, up the Northern Line to Monument and Bank. James’ office was up Cannon Street; he got in the door by 8, and was sitting at his small desk with his old-fashioned rolodex calendar by 8:06. His job wasn’t exciting or dynamic, but it did pay well. Punching numbers and filing invoices as a billing clerk made for a pretty stagnant day-to-day, but he wasn’t looking for an especially challenging career. He found comfort in routine.
James would take his lunch break at 12:30, find an open bench in Abchurch Yard and spend approximately 20 minutes eating, then feeding the crumbs to the plucky pigeons that loitered around. After returning to the office, he worked until 8, then returned to the Bank station to catch the train home. It was well after his shift ended, but he wanted to avoid the crowds on the Tube.
Well, that was what he told himself.
The station was significantly emptier when he arrived, save for the attendants. The Northern Line platform usually had only himself, and maybe one or two other people, which he easily avoided by moving to a car further down the platform. When he boarded and took his seat, he took out whatever book he was reading and tried to squeeze in a chapter or two. A ride where he was not interrupted was rare, but that too had become part of his routine. This time, it was the small, squat bespectacled old woman in the knitted cardigan and brown buckle flats. She appeared in the seat beside him, like a heavy fog settling, vague and blurry around the edges.
“That’s a different one, isn’t it? From last week?” asked Mrs. Gilles. She asked this nearly every time he saw her, politely inquiring after any new or interesting authors that may have cropped up in the 45 years since she’d died. James did his best to answer, but his own knowledge was limited to the reviews that he read in the paper, and he questioned whether she even remembered any of it anyways.
“Yes. You can get these at the corner store. Fast reads. Get through them real quick, so it’s not really that impressive,” he answered. Mrs. Gilles waved a ethereal hand.
“Eh, wouldn’t matter. I was always such a slow reader. I suppose it didn’t help that I could barely see a meter in front of me!” She laughed and nudged at her outrageously thick glasses.
“You still can’t,” came another voice, this one gruff and smoky. “Always running into things around the car, though not that it really matters.”
“Oh, hush,” said Mrs. Gilles.
James looked up to see a burly man in a bright and heavy workman’s jacket lazily hanging onto an overhead rail. His beard was thick and wiry and he still had a smear of dirt across his forehead.
“I haven’t seen you on the track in a bit, Patrick,” James said, “Where’ve you been?”
Patrick shrugged and looked away. His translucent face was tighter than normal, pinched in a way that James didn’t usually see on the faces of those who have been dead for decades, and therefore had very little to worry about.
The car was filled with other characters as well. Such as Newton, the manic-looking homeless man in the striped fedora, and Bette, the pinched woman in a cut pantsuit who James initially thought must be a Fortune 500 business woman, but was actually just a librarian. James saw them often, and had conversed with most of the ghosts on the Northern Line. It was why he waited so late to leave work; they never came out in the mornings, but after 6, the trains seemed to be packed with them. It was just easier to wait until most of the living had passed through before making his way home, so he didn’t make a fool of himself talking to things that everyone else couldn’t see. He learned that the hard way, back when he first got his job. The ghosts of London were unsurprisingly plentiful, and crowded these liminal spaces that were fairly uncommon back in his hometown of Chilton.
Now that James looked around the car, he noticed a good number of the others looking worried as well. They were quieter than normal, and seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time glancing out of the windows. There wasn’t much to look at besides the dark and dingy walls of the tunnels, and with how long they’ve been riding the Tube, James figured they had it memorized already.
Mrs. Gilles didn’t seem to take notice, still chattering on about her favorite author back in her day, Essie Summers, who wrote such romantic epics as A Bride in Flight and The Kindled Fire. James politely waited until a lull in her monologue before interrupting.
“Mrs. Gilles, is everything alright?”
She looked startled, and a tad bit guilty. “Why, of course! What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he gestured around the rest of the car, “Everyone looks so on edge. Did something happen?”
“Oh, well you’re here nearly everyday, dear. Nothing happens without you hearing about it,” she assured him. Out of the corner of his eye, James caught Patrick huff.
“Patrick? Is everything alright?”
Before the ghost could respond, the train jolted, and James had to catch himself before he passed through Mrs. Gilles. There was a moment where the lights flickered and everyone except James seemed to hold their metaphorical breath before it returned. Patrick glanced around the car, then back at him, before making some internal decision.
“There’s been some...talk,” Patrick said, “Around the stations. Some spirits have been seeing things, especially further down the line.”
“What, uh, kind of things?” he asked, a touch skeptically. If the spirits were wary, then he can’t even begin to imagine what it was.
“Things in the shadows, creeping along the tracks and the edges of the platforms. Not a ghost, we don’t think.”
“Then what is it?”
Patrick sighed and scratched at his beard. “Dunno yet. I saw some creepy shit when I was working on the tracks, like bodies and creeps hidin’ in the tunnels, but this don’t sound like that. Something...between.”
“Between living or dead?” James shuddered. Patrick shrugged again.
“Just watch yourself, yeah?” Patrick said, pinning him down with a stern look.
James noticed Mrs. Gilles watching him worriedly, wringing her shriveled hands together, and nodded.
#
James started seeing the dead back when he was ten years old, and living with his mother. Chilton was about an hour and a half outside of London, as a small farming town surrounded by fields and farms and split in half by the A34. His mother was a self-professed medium, with about as much insight as the ones you’d see on the TV. He never took much stock in what his mother said, as he thought of himself as a fairly mature and reasonable child, but didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Then he saw the ghost of their freshly dead neighbor, old Mr. Kip, mere days after he’d been buried in the church cemetary. He was just standing there (or floating there, as James noticed he was actually an inch or so off the ground) gazing out across the adjacent field. He had the fleeting thought that this could get bothersome, and just as most people didn’t believe his mother, they certainly wouldn’t believe him. Then James decided that it would be rude to bother him, and ran home to tell his mother.
She was so excited, she bought him a cake. After that, James figured it wasn’t so bad.
The ghosts in Chilton were limited to the cemeteries, so he really only had to interact with them there if he wanted to. Most were elderly, having just passed away due to old age, so their conversations weren’t the most lively ones. Once he grew older and had the chance to travel outside of town, he saw the changes that took place, in both the living and the dead. But none were so profound as London.
So many layers of history piled on top of one another, he was surprised the city could hold together while being crushed by such a spiritual weight. He could feel it in the air, thick and heavy like a fog, enough that it was hard to concentrate at first. He could hardly walk down the street without feeling claustrophobic, like just the force of it was pushing at him on all sides. Only then did he really lament his “gift.” He rarely saw them in the street. Just like back home, they stuck to certain spaces, like the cemeteries and the churches, and the Underground. It was like an airport, or a rest stop; a space in constant motion that was always in between one place and the next. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense that they would congregate there. They too, were in a constant transition, bordering the liminal threshold between life and death.
#
Over the next week, the spirits on James’ normal route were getting noticeably more nervous, until it came to a head that Thursday. Like Patrick, there were some individuals that came and went on certain routes, preferring to drift from one line to another to keep things fresh. But others, not unlike himself, appreciated routine, and were regular passengers on their trains. One of those was Mrs. Gilles, who, as far as James knew, had been riding the Northern Line long before he had arrived.
But she wasn’t here.
The energy in the car was sharp and oppressive, and James could feel the tension radiating from the others. He just stood in the aisle when he boarded and glanced around, too offput to sit down, when he was jumped from the side by Newton, who looked more manic than usual.
“It’s comin’! It’s comin’! Wotcher’ neck, seer!”
James twisted out of the way as the vagrant jumped up on the bench and continued raving.
“It’s there in the shadows! Waitin’! Waitin’ for you to leave! Mind the gap--”
“That’s enough outta you!” Patrick spat.
“What’s happening?” James asked, a bit frantically. Everything that he’d grown used to was crumbling around him as the other passengers began arguing with each other, Patrick included.
“It’s comin’, lad,” Newton said, mock seriously.
“What is?” he insisted.
“Ol’ Jacky,” Newton giggled, “Back, he is. Springheel’s comin’ for us!”
James mouthed the name in confusion for a moment before someone else piped up. Bette stood up from her seat and pointed a sharp and accusing finger at Newton.
“Shut up! Don’t say it!” she insisted, voice high and desperate, “He’s not!”
“Pipe down, for fuck’s sake!” Patrick bellowed, and everyone was cowed, even James. The car was oppressively quiet for a beat, save for the rattling of the wheels. The other spirits looked more downtrodden than James had ever seen them, and he was almost afraid to speak.
“...What happened to Mrs. Gilles?”
They all avoided his gaze and James felt that acidic tang of fear and worry at the back of his throat.
“She’s gone, James. For good,” Patrick said gruffly, though James heard a note of solemnity in his voice. “Sorry that you had to find out like this.”
“Gone?” he asked, bewildered, “...How is she just...gone?” He’d never heard of a ghost disappearing like this before. Then again, he’d never stayed long in such an overpopulated place like London.
“Overstayed ‘er welcome,” Newton huffed, nodding his head with a touch of finality. “So Jack had to take ‘er away.”
The rest of the car began to loudly protest, but James was tired and anxious and shot them all a sharp look. He rubbed at his face and sat heavily in one of the seats, not even bothering to pay attention to if he sat through Newton’s foot.
“And who’s Jack?”
No one answered. James never really considered ghosts having any superstitions, but apparently there was a lot he didn’t know. He turned to Patrick.
“You said something about seeing shadowy things around the stations, yeah?” he asked, “Does that have anything to do with it?”
Patrick sighed and hefted himself into the seat across from him. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You think?”
“It happens! Like, every decade or so,” Patrick said, “Just puts everyone on edge.”
James looked on in astonishment. “This is a regular occurence? People just get...taken? Of course everyone’s on edge!” He looked at Newton, who was hanging from the overhead bar. “You said she overstayed her welcome?”
“Yep! Stayed too long,” he said.
“Just, in general?” James asked, trying to work it out in his head. “She was around for, what? 45 years?”
“Give or take,” Patrick said, “The longest outta’ anyone here.”
For some reason, that surprised James. With as old as the city was, he figured that some older spirits loitered around the tracks as well. He was certain that he’d seen some around the cemeteries and such, so maybe it only applied to the Underground.
“I know I’ve only been around for a good few years, but--” he hesitated, “Does this only happen on the trains?”
“The trains are In Between,” Newton whispered conspiratorially. “If people don’t get a move on, they get the boot.”
In Between? James mulled over this a while, leaving the others to wallow in their grief and paranoia. Newton kept on muttering to himself, and Patrick just looked sad. Soon enough, his stop had arrived and he was roused from his thoughts by the bland, pleasant voice from the overhead speakers announcing Clapham South.
“Watch yer’self,” Patrick said wearily. James raised an eyebrow as he stood up.
“Ol’ Jacky likes to hang around Clapham,” Newton said matter-of-factly, “Mind the gap.”
“O-Oh,” he muttered, and felt a chill go down his spine. As the train pulled into the platform, he swayed on his feet for a moment before turning back to the others. “I don’t understand. If this only happens on the trains, why does anybody ride them?”
They were quiet for a minute, then a small and quiet voice piped up from the back, far enough that he wasn’t sure whose it was.
“It’s a heavy thing, to die. To have a chance to linger, even just for a little while… who wouldn’ t?”
#
Upon exiting the Clapham South station, James was faced with the edge of Clapham Common, a large triangular expanse of parkland that was only a few blocks from his own flat. However nice the scenery, he rarely ever visited, and he had even less reason to now. It was dark, the park now closed, and lit by only a scant few lights. The shadows that stretched across the lawn and into the bushes seemed warped and shifty, and James clutched his briefcase to his chest and hurried down the sidewalk. The air felt heavier tonight, and charged with something he hadn’t felt since he first came to London.
He crossed to the other side of the street, wary that something was watching him. He passed by the Tesco and the bookstore and was about to round the corner down his street when something caught his eye. In his periphery, he spotted a lone figure skirting the outside of the Common. Normally he would pass it off as another pedestrian, but this one was pale and ethereal, trailed by a heavy mist that seemed to settle down by her feet. Without thinking, he turned and ran across the street to where Mrs. Gilles was hovering by the Common fence.
“Mrs. Gilles? Mrs. Gilles!” Relief was evident in his voice as a smile spread unbidden across his face. “Mrs. Gilles! You’re alright! Everyone has been so worried--”
He stopped. Mrs. Gilles stood frozen in place, a glazed look over her face with her eyes turned in the direction of the Common. James took a step forward and called to her again, even reaching out and attempting to brush her shoulder. The effect was lost as his fingers passed right through her. He glanced up and followed her gaze past the fence, peering into the shadows and trying to find what she was focused on. Then, as if someone had sparked up a lighter, something did appear, and James felt that familiar weight on his mind. It was heavy and cold, like he was just doused in a bucket of cold water.
Past the fence in the shadows of a patch of bushes, two red lights peered out at him. They flickered like a flame in the wind, and James got the sinking feeling that they were actually eyes. They winked out for a split second, as if they had blinked, and suddenly they were a few meters closer. James couldn’t make out a distinct form in the shadows, but it was moving in a way that was attached to something. Something large and solid.
His mouth was dry, but the name came unbidden from his lips anyway.
“Jack?”
The shadow stopped and the eyes flickered again. Suddenly, something leaped up from the bushes and landed atop the tall metal fence that gated the Common. James had to catch himself from falling over in surprise, but had to catch himself again when he looked up. There, standing tall and upright on a single fence post, was a man. A sharp and wickedly warped man, in a black cloak with long disproportionate limbs and sharp metal tips on his fingers. He was dark and indiscernible like a shadow, and hazy in a way that made it hard to focus on him, not unlike the other ghosts James had met. But where the ghosts were opalescent and mist-like, this man was a distorted image of whoever he used to be, and seemed as heavy and choking as smoke.
“Jack?” James said again. His fiery eyes blinked again and a grin started to tear across his face. Something bluish-white leaked out and flicked out into the cold night air, only increasing when he spoke.
“Awfully plucky of you to say my name, boy,” Jack said. His voice was smoky and warbled, but undeniably intelligent. It echoed around the empty corner and gave James an immediate headache. “Not many dare speak it aloud.”
“A-And why is that?”
“They think I’ll hear,” Jack said, “And come for them. Rightly so, I suppose.”
“The ghosts, you mean?” Surreptitiously, he snuck a glance over at Mrs. Gilles. She hadn’t changed, still staring dully ahead.
“Well, I haven’t heard of any living folks crying about Springheel Jack lately,” Jack mused, scratching his cheek with one claw-tipped finger. He then grinned and bent down towards James at the waist. “Well, except for you, boy. But I suspect there aren’t very many like you.”
James swallowed heavily. He’d heard of Springheel Jack. He was just an old folklore legend from Victorian London that he’d read about in a book. It was a story on par with ghosts, so he never really paid it any mind. Jack huffed out a wheezy laugh and crouched down to sit on his heels, his abnormally long legs bowing out like a frog’s.
“This is nice,” he said, “I don’t often get a chance to talk with anyone. But, as delightful as this has been, I really must get a move on. I’ve been looking for others tonight, but looks like she’ll have to do.”
He reached out a crooked a sharp finger at Mrs. Gilles, who started to unconsciously move forward. James jumped and started frantically waving his arms.
“No! No, wait! Mrs. Gilles--”
“Has run out of time, boy,” Jack said, “Do me a favor and don’t get in the way.”
“No! What are you doing with her? Please!”
Jack considered him for a moment, then gracefully leapt down from the railing and onto the sidewalk beside James. He toward over them, a good eight or nine feet tall when he stood up straight, and James tried his best not to cower at the sight.
“How long have you had the sight, boy?” he asked.
James paused, then stuttered out, “A-About twenty years...sir.”
“Still fresh then,” Jack muttered, and James felt slightly indignant. “You think you’ve worked out the spirit world then, have you?”
“I--”
“Surely you’ve noticed how crowded London is?” Jack prompted, and James got the distinct feeling he was being lectured. He nodded.
“Then surely you realize,” Jack continued, “That there must be a system of transfer, my dear boy.” A wisp of blue flame shot out of his mouth as he huffed. “Most spirits make that decision on their own, and are willing to move on without any fuss, but some--” he gestured loftily to Mrs. Gilles, “--need some assistance.”
“But she’s--” James floundered as he searched for the right wording, “She’s a sweet old lady. She never did anything wrong.”
“This has nothing to do with right or wrong, boy. It is simply the way of things.”
“Then why did you abduct her?” James insisted. Jack laughed in a way that caused sparks to fly from his mouth, and James flinched.
“Do you think of me as a demon? Because I look this way?” Jack raised his clawed hands and feinted an attack. “Because the other spirits are frightened of me? A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. No, I am merely a shepherd.”
“A shepherd?”
“I must take action if they are unwilling to move on,” Jack said. He looked consideringly at Mrs. Gilles. “It’s not her fault, even if 45 years is a long time. She was attached to this world. Was probably very reluctant to leave her life behind.”
“...And all the others on the train?” James asked, his heart suddenly feeling very heavy.
“The same. Not yet ready to let go, so they bide their time in the In Between, until they are ready to admit it.”
James stayed quiet, thinking of all the ghosts that he had connected with during his time on the Tube. Eventually, they would all be forced to go, and disappear from this world for good. He watched Mrs. Gilles float lazily beside him, her orthopedic flats barely scuffing the concrete, and he sighed.
“Don’t take it too hard, boy. They’re already dead, this is just the next step,” Jack said. James shot him a half-hearted glare and the shadowy man laughed.
“It won’t hurt, will it? Be gentle with her,” James said, even though he knew how ridiculous it sounded. Jack laughed again and crooked his finger, leading a limp and glazed Mrs. Gilles forward and past the fence. Just as his figure was about to get swallowed up by the shadows again, Springheel Jack turned around and fixed his fiery gaze on James.
“I am content with being the devil, boy. But... I believe that these spirits could use another shepherd. Not many others have a gift like yours; why don’t you put it to use?”
Jack grinned again and spat a burst of blue flame into the air before turning back into the Common. James watched as both he and the pale figure of Mrs. Gilles got swallowed up by the shadows and disappeared, leaving him standing alone on the cold street corner.
He stood there for a while, considering those words, until his toes started to grow numb inside his Oxfords. James remembered the words spoken to him back on the train, and the distraught faces of the spirits as they considered their own post-mortem mortality. His mother celebrated his gift, encouraging him of all the good he could do with it, but he knew she was only thinking of the benefits that could be gained by the living.
Not the other way around. Nobody ever considered those.
...
Maybe someone should start.