i don't remember the year. 1890, or something close to that. i was traveling back from holiday in brighton alone as my sister had taken ill last minute and had to stay behind. i had taken a seat in one of the cars which for some reason was not especially crowded, despite it being summer. a man boarded at haywards heath with a gray portmanteau which he held guardedly in his lap. he took the seat across from me by the window, though we paid each other little mind beyond an initial nod of greeting. his face was ashen white and almost blue around the lips, and he tucked a couple greasy palms worth of black hair beneath a dirty bowler hat. he appeared frail to me and distracted, so i paid him no mind and soon fell asleep while reading a novel. voices woke me shortly before we pulled into salfords, and in fact, i thought we had already pulled into the station. but the voice was that of the gentleman alone, and i was only half awake when i realized this. i opened my eyes, and well, i will never forget what i saw: the man had opened the portmanteau and was holding it open in his lap, sort of pivoted upwards so that he could see directly into the bottom of it. and well, he was having a conversation with...something inside. a sort of muttered half conversation, spirited but casual, the kind you might have with an old friend over tea. but something in the eyes was positively wild and sent a chill down my spine. the eyes were wide, almost bulging from the man's skull, with an almost erotic fixation on its object. then at one point he reached into the bag, and i swear it to this day, began to fondle the object inside. this went on for mere seconds before he noticed me watching and those eyes--good heavens--locked on me. i fell flush, and all my weight felt as though it were falling to my feet which became stone anvils weighted to the floor. he slowly shut the portmanteau though the eyes remained engorged as they were. the gentleman smiled politely and closed the bag, setting it beside him. even now, i cannot be sure of what it was that i saw, but in the moment, in the darkening hush of the train car, i swore i saw three strands of blonde hair jutting out from the seam of the bag. the man said nothing but continued to stare for what felt like an eternity, his expression moving from a blank affect to an almost twisted smile. the whole thing unfolded in slow motion before my eyes until i felt on the verge of a scream. but then miraculously the train pulled into salfords. i smiled hurriedly, wishing to make nothing of the exchange, though i grabbed my valise and moved to another car where i found an older gentleman traveling with his wife. i took a seat before them and tried to disguise my panic, though my breath was quick and my skin damp to the touch. adrenline pumped through my body, and i spent the whole ride staring out the window at the passing sites of south london. the man got out at east croydon. i know because he stopped outside our train car and tapped three times on the glass to get my attention. he smiled and held up the portmanteau and waved slowly goodbye with his middle three fingers. the eyes were lit from within. and then he was gone, and as we pulled away from the station, i could see the bowler hat walking lifelessly into the crowds. i don't think i slept for a week after that. can't say why, or what part of it i even remember correctly. but a woman knows, they say, when danger is afoot. we have to. if we're not to end up in a portmanteau.