Title: Dead Travel Second Class

By: Knorg

Feedback: paxgronk@hotmail.com

Category: Paranormal
Description: A young backpacking Englishman catches a night train across Romania, and finds some of the old stories are more than just stories. F/m-Mast, NC, Vampire.

“You British, eh?”

I looked up from the dog-eared lonely planet book to see a cheerful Romanian man dressed in a dark suit. He had a rather old fashioned look to him, with waistcoat and an apparent pocket watch chain. He looked a little out of place in the train waiting room, filled more with workers heading home. He didn’t look like a begger, and his English was good. I assumed he’d seen me reading the English language guidebook, and matched it with the slightly tacky Union Jack on my T-Shirt to guess my nationality. I’d gotten fed up of people guessing American.

“Yeah, I’m British. English, really. Just having a look round Europe before getting on with life.”

I indicated the backpack before me. He had smiled widely when I confirmed I was a British backpacker, and sat down beside me.

“Ahh! I like the British. You’re good people. One of my nieces, Eliza, she is living in London. My employer arranged for her to work in one of his business interests there. She’s actually gone to expand her education – she’s in night school some nights, working others. She tells me good things about your country. Tells me the food is good.”

I met his smile with a grin, as he told of his family – I’d met an American who’d told me he had a friend in London, then asked if I knew him. The Romanian gent had to be the only European who’d say something nice about English cuisine – out side the rat poison industry. I closed the guidebook on my knee and full turned my attention to the man. It was warm in the heated waiting room, though with the sun below the horizon it was getting increasingly cold outside. I knew it was going to be getting colder, and my train wasn’t due for another half an hour – and that was if it was on time. I figured it could’ve been worse – at least Virgin Trains wasn’t running the local franchise.

I was happy for the opportunity to converse in English with the friendly man, though wary for being taken advantage of as a tourist.

“You ought to go over and see her there. Try the food, even,” I suggested, though I could imagine his niece enjoying her time away from her family as much as I was mine.

“Try the food? That’s kind of you, but no. My work keeps me here. I have a harsh employer. Harsh but fair,” he added hurriedly. His English really was very good – he appeared to have a lot of practice.

He seemed to be the kind of man who’d be an employer, rather than an employee. I considered his suit, which was dark, and wondered what kind of professions might require such a thing.

“Undertaker, is it?” I asked, “Dealing with the dead?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied with a sigh, and changed the subject.

We talked until my train came in, he about his nieces and how proud of them he was, me about how I was enjoying wandering Eastern Europe, never quite sure where I’d like to go next, limited sometimes by visas. I told him I knew my family worried because they kept getting calls from me in different places. He explained he was waiting at the station to meet someone and arrange a special meal for his other niece, who still lived in Romania. He told me that he’d need to call her soon, and indicated the pay phone in the waiting room. My train came in, and as I stood to go and board it, he took my hand and shook it with his. His grip surprised me, but more so the coolness of his hand in the hot room. I boarded the train with a sense that there were some genuine people in the word, and that not everyone was out to rip off a tourist. I watched through the window as he strolled to the phone, to make his call.

**

The Train was quickly packed with people, those already aboard, and many from the station. The air was warm with the heat of human bodies. I had no idea where so many people had to go – perhaps there was a lot of local factories letting out at the same time, and people were off home? Perhaps people just lived out of ‘town’. That idea made sense, as there was quite a tired look in the eyes of the people pressed around me. I’d hoped to get a proper night train, for a long haul journey. It wasn’t to be – Instead, I’d managed to get this small train and a place booked in a tourist B&B over the phone, and would hopefully get to the B&B’s town in about five hours.

‘My legs’ll be killing me, time I get there,’ I thought, as I stood amid the packed bodies and gripped the rail above with my right hand. I had my backpack off and at my feet, so at least I would have a chance of seeing if someone tried to steal from it. All around me people were talking, or arguing, or just standing or sitting quietly. I thought I heard the odd snatch of English, but I might’ve been imagining it. I looked out the window at the dark fields and occasional small woodlands going by; I understood from the map that there were thicker forests coming. I think there are still wolves living wild in Romania.

An hour passed; the train had stopped once, and despite lots of passengers alighting at the station the train seemed more packed than ever. The talking around me was all melding together and I was feeling as if I was going to fall asleep on my feet. I closed my eyes a few times, though paranoia over my belongings forced them open. I felt as protective about my belongings as I would in a real crime infested third-world shithole, like Liverpool.

As my eyes flicked closed once again, the train screeched towards a halt. I had a tough grip on the bar, and stayed standing. I’m sure others fell, though with everyone packed tightly nobody could’ve fallen far. We seemed to be in forest, and I realised I could see the bulk of a castle above the trees, with lighted windows flicking in the darkness. I thought I could detect notes of fear and panic amongst my fellow travellers. Nearby, an old lady was holding a crucifix and muttering. I wanted to say, ‘Listen, if prayer could move trains, railtrack would be using it.’

I realised there really was a wave of panic moving down the carriages, starting at the front of the train. It soon became apparent that the internal lights were failing, turning off carriage by carriage. I was left standing in near darkness, and blinked my eyes as they adjusted to the gloom.

“Ah fuck this shit…” I muttered, assuming none around me would understand. In the darkness I could see movement outside, the carriage, further down the track. It took me a moment to realise that there was a platform there, with a tiny station building. I was staring at the dark shape of the building when it the station’s electric lights turned on - too brightly. I flinched, eyes tightly shut, and looked away.

I was just starting to relax again when the doors into the carriage were opened. I’d thought the little station was deserted, but now it looked as if we were taking on extra passengers; no, just one extra passenger. I could make out a silhouette shape against the bright lights outside. In the crowded carriage people seemed to make damn sure they were out of the way – it was like a juiced up group of local mafia thugs were coming aboard. That, or landed aristocracy. I studiously studied the floor between my feet, wondering what sort of man commanded this respect. The carriage descended into silence.

No, not quite silence. The woman with the crucifix was still muttering away, eyes tightly shut. I realised there were tears on her cheeks. I wondered if she owed the mafia some money. I raised my head again as the carriage doors shut and seconds later the train began to move anew. The station lights turned off outside, and the carriage lights returned. I could clearly see the new passenger. She was beautiful. A small voice in my head, the one that showed up to advice against drinking any cocktail that was smoking, was screaming that staring might cause offence. Don’t cause offence, it said, because with the way everyone else is reacting she probably has friends that could fold you up and put you in the luggage rack.

God, she was beautiful. She looked Romanian, late twenties, but tall – taller than my six foot, she was maybe 6’3” – and with smooth, pale skin. She was dressed in an old-fashioned black velvet dress, with patterns picked out in red. The arms ran down to her wrists, stopping with black lace above gloveless hands, and long slender fingers. The skirt was slinky and floor length, so I couldn’t tell what she had beneath. Low cut around a full, rounded bosom, I could see as finely formed a chest as any in England. Long black curls sank down her back, while her lips were a dark crimson against the whiteness of her face, and her eyes were quite piercingly green.

“Uh-oh.”

I realised I could see her eyes because she was looking into mine, matching my stare with a thoughtful face. I hoped she hadn’t caught me eying the curve of her breasts. I dropped my head as the little conscience voice in my head began to run through all the swear words I knew. Sweat broke out on my brow, as I realised people were moving in the carriage, making way for her to come my way. People were literally forcing themselves into seating spaces to avoid being an obstacle, all the while avoiding looking at her. I hadn’t seen locals acting this strangely since I visited the Isle of Man. I gripped the bar above my head with a now-damp palm and stared out of the window into darkness. The voice in my head was telling me I’d fucked up even worse than the time I pulled the Girl’s Rugby player, and then got too drunk to screw her when she wanted it.

I had space around me. People were moving away. I heard someone open the door into the next carriage and slip across. I wondered if dropping to my knees and begging for mercy would have any effect, save provoking laughter. People were terrified of the woman! The woman… the woman was behind me. I started to worry I was going to get shot in the back of the head – and I didn’t even love Big Brother yet! I felt her hands rest suddenly on my waist, and my knees trembled. My mouth was dry, and my face tinged red with embarrassment.

My English reserve and stiff upper lip came to my rescue. I decided the other passengers and the woman were just messing with me. I stilled my knees and pushed out my jaw slightly. I would pretend nothing was happening, the typical English response to being grabbed by an unfamiliar woman – or so the stereotypes tell us. Even through my T-shirt I realised that her hands were freezing. Of course, it had looked to be a cold night before she boarded the train, I’d felt it coming on even back in the waiting room. Now, without the bodies of the other passengers pressed closely around me, I was feeling some of the cold air from outside. I could see the other passengers’ eyes watching fearfully around, reflected in the window, but the lights weren’t good in the carriage. I couldn’t see myself too well, or the woman behind me at all.

I could feel her though, and bit off a startled yelp when she pushed her frozen hand down into my trousers. She snaked her hand inside my boxers. I gripped the bar so tightly that my knuckles went white. I felt her cold, cold, face besides mine, and kept my eyes forward. I was blushing redly, and then it occurred to me I was actually being sexually assaulted. I closed my eyes as she gently took my flaccid penis in her cold hand, and began to stroke it within the hot confines of my boxers. The sensation of her hand moving the foreskin of my limp penis soon had it hardening. I closed my eyes, shamed that my body was reacting to this molestation. It might seem like a cool idea to groped by a strange woman, but not in this situation. Not when I’d seen the reactions of the other passengers. Not with the other passengers, the ones who couldn’t get out of the way, watching. Reality is different to fantasy, and so as blood surged into my penis and brought a bulge to my trousers, I felt more pathetic than ever before.

I felt her push her other hand under my T-shirt, run her fingers lightly through the hairs on my belly. She pushed up, and painfully tweaked my left nipple. I winced, and thought about possible worse tortures to come. Incredibly, my penis just got harder in her hand as I apprehensively considered my future. I knew the other passengers were watching my public debasement. I overheard occasional whispers in Romanian. As my shame grew, so did my body’s arousal. She was gripping firmly now, masturbating me with more force as my lubricating precum leaked.

I knew my breathing had risen, that with my hard penis in her hand she had to know I was aroused, but still I kept my red-faced gaze forward and steady. She knew just how to hold me, just how to touch me – though we’d never met it was as if she had the skills of a long time lover. I determined I wouldn’t let her beat me, I wouldn’t give her what she wanted, I wouldn’t come for her. I wouldn’t show myself as nothing more than a piece of lustful male meat in public. In public! What manner of woman was she, that nobody interfered despite my obvious fear and discomfort?

I ground my teeth, I tried to think of the most boring images in the world, I told myself I was probably going to get my dick cut off and tossed out of the window. It didn’t work. I could feel her breasts – firm and shapely, but cold enough to chill me through both our clothes – press into my back as she reached her other hand down into my trousers, into my boxers, and cupped my tightening scrotum. It was a cold shock where her other hand had warmed as she masturbated me, and I was now helpless in her hands.

She whispered something in my ear, something I didn’t understand. Her voice was soft, soothing. Her hand was moving very fast now, drawing exquisite pleasures from me like I’d never experienced. My hips were jerking involuntarily, my fingers spasming in fists. I felt the energy building in my crotch and convulsed in her arms.

“OH GOOUHHH!!!!”

I climaxed forcefully, firing hot wet blasts of my seed into the confines of my boxers. My supporting arm dropped to my side, but she held my body up and continued to pump me, drawing out my climax with her skilful touch. A stain was spreading on my trousers, and my boxers were sticky by the time I was spent, limp in her arms. I closed my eyes, unable to face the gaze of the other passengers.

She continued to grip my scrotum as she raised her other hand to her mouth; I heard her lick my seed from her hand, and then felt her gently push my head to the side. She kissed my neck with cold lips, and I heard someone cry out in horror. I thought it was the praying lady. There was no justice in putting such a display on before an obviously religious person.

“Why?” I asked quietly, “Why did you do this to me?”

She answered in Romanian. And then she bit me.

There was a sharp pain in my neck as her teeth pieced my flesh and I tried to pull from her grasp. She tightened her grip on my balls, just for a moment, and I cried out, wordless, loud, pleading. I felt I could hear my blood pumping from my veins into her mouth, as she fastened her lips around the wound, licking, sucking, feeding. As I hung limply in her arms, helpless, I knew what manner of creature she was. I knew that the superstitions were true, after all. I wondered how many she’d got this way, and why she didn’t go after the other passengers. What was so special about me? I was nobody, and as she gorged herself on my life, I knew I would soon be nothing at all.

“Please…” I started to beg, my voice little more than a whisper. Hot blood was running down my neck to my shirt, pumping fast. She continued to feed; having taken my seed, she took my blood. I knew faith then, for the first time in my life. I didn’t want to be damned. My vision was dark. My eyes flickered. A tear started at the edge of my left eye and ran down my cheek.

I felt her twist my body in her arms. Her skin was warm now, warm and reddened. She supported me with one arm around my body and the other gently gripping my head. She licked the tear from my cheek and kissed my cold mouth with her bloody lips. I tasted my blood, my tear, and my seed.

I closed my eyes for the last time.

FIN.