Ben lives far from the East River now, in the Cincinnati, OH area with his family and dogs. His debut novel Stuck is due out in Fall 2023. Find him online right HERE.

DARK WATER JINN

by

Ben Young

Are you familiar with the word “jinx”? Or the adage that, if you dare say that terrible, unspeakable thing aloud, it’ll come true? Seems silly to most, but now I know where it comes from. And believe me, I’ll be watching my mouth very fucking carefully.

You see, we started thinking that way because there are things listening.

Things that feed off bad thoughts. Things with the power to make nightmares reality.

I’m no expert, mind you, so who’s to say if they’re all evil? Maybe some are good, like that blue one from the kid’s movie. But the one that lives under the East River, right here in NYC? Fugheddaboutit, that’s one sadistic piece of shit. And yes, I’ve considered that it may want me to tell this, like maybe that’s where its power comes from.

I don’t care. I gotta spill.

I’ve ridden that subway line no more than a half dozen times in ten years, the one running underneath the river out into Queens. But that’s the only place it really goes, so unless you wanna watch the Mets lose in person, why bother? Riding in a steel tube just to trade the bright activity of Midtown for a sea of aluminum siding? No thanks.

Worse though, far worse, for four minutes you’re traveling God knows how far underneath the river with no control whatsoever. You know how often those things break down? How many tunnels have flooded? Think about the constant pressure on those tunnels down there. I figure it’s a matter of time until catastrophe. A lot can happen in four minutes. Your whole life could end. Mine almost did.

All the terrible stories you hear about the subway, and the worst stuff isn’t even on the train with you. It’s out in the dark, in the tunnels. Or in my case, in the river water outside the tunnels.

Anyway, I’m riding to a job interview, this graffiti-covered silver chariot bouncing and jigging along, beneath those millions of gallons, all weighing down. We’re packed in like livestock, so tight you can’t pick your nose, claustrophobia revving, and I did it. I said the thing I shouldn’t have said.

Out loud.

I couldn’t help it, I was so nervous and spastic, and when I get like that, I got no filter. I turn to this lady next to me and I wanted it to be a joke, but when it comes out, it damn sure doesn’t sound like one.

“We better not get trapped down here. Haha. Anything could be in that water. And the walls’ve gotta give sometime.”

On cue, the train stops and the lights go out.

It’s so dark I can’t even tell which direction I’m facing anymore. Seconds pass like minutes, and I realize no one is pulling their phones out, you know? For the light. Then I notice it’s not so cramped anymore.

I wave my arms around, searching for a pole, a seat, a window. I call out “Hello” a few times, but no one answers. I take a few steps, trip over something, reach down to touch it and it feels like metal. Like a subway track. Somehow, the car is gone and the people are gone and it’s just me in the dark. In a tunnel under the full might of the East River.

Then there’s a noise, and I think it’s far off because it sounds small, but I have no idea how far. It’s… it’s a crumbling noise. Like a big car driving on gravel. Starts slow, but then it picks up speed. Faster, faster. Louder, louder. Then it’s a shattering noise and I know, I just know, it’s a giant hole forming in the wall somewhere up the tunnel. Then the water comes, an enormous, rushing cascade like someone uncapped Niagara down there.

It hits my feet, ice-cold, freezing my toes, and that gets me moving, but in seconds it’s up to my shins, still rising. I’m slogging through, muscles locking from the cold, looking for a ladder, or a doorway, maybe a platform to climb on. The sounds of rushing water are everywhere, and I’m moving, but on top of all that I get this sense there’s still too much splashing. Like there’s something else moving down there.

Then the emergency lighting turns on and all I can think is I was better off in the dark.

Tentacles everywhere.

They’re almost translucent, like elongated jellyfish that have never touched light.

I have just enough time to wonder if they’re all connected to one titanic body, or a thousand smaller ones, when one lashes out of the water in front of me, wraps around my face and squeezes. As it does, I get a better look and it’s not covered in rubbery suction cups, like you’re probably picturing. No, it’s got a hundred gnashing little mouths on it. Filled with teeth. Another one wraps around my leg, then one near my waist. They’re all biting, shredding, and I can’t move my limbs, so I bite back. Warm blood mixes with the cold water. Something screams and it might be me, but I can’t tell for sure.

My bite doesn’t faze it; it keeps ripping me all up. I feel myself fading and the water crests below my nose and I don’t know if I’d rather drown or be eaten.

I hear a low, gravelly voice say, “Next time.”

And it’s over. Just like that.

I’m back in the subway car, but this time I know I’m screaming and pulling the emergency stop.

Haven’t been back on that damn train since.

You may have guessed, I didn’t make that job interview, heh.

Hey, brother, while I gotcha here. Spare any change?