I closed the door behind me. I didn’t want any unscrupulous people getting inside. Like me, apparently. Dirt crunches underneath my steps on the concrete floor; it’s clear this isn’t exactly a popular spot for locals. I’m looking for something to justify coming in here, so I can take it and get the hell out. But whatever it is, I don’t think it’s down here. I felt around the nearest wall. The rotten wallpaper crumbled in my hands as I moved them across in a sweeping motion. Eventually I found another door. I opened it, leading me into the stairwell.

I crept up the first step when I saw a light flash at the top of the stairs. It was flashing and erratic, causing the flight of stairs to glow unpredictably. If I didn’t want to leave before, I certainly do now. My legs move themselves up the stairs. I’m not trying to fight the compulsion anymore, just trying to slow it down. Running up as fast as I can is a bad idea, but it’s what I’m trying to do right now. About two stairs from the top, I heard a whisper.

“Mina.”

I thought my heart was going to stop beating at that moment. It took a second for the silhouette in front of me to mentally coalesce into a person. It was Rose, and she was holding a flashlight. I’m not thrilled to see her, but I acknowledge that this is a much preferable outcome to several alternate possibilities.

“Mina, it’s me. Come here.”

She grabbed my wrist and clumsily pulled me up the remaining stairs. She pushed me against the opposite wall, then shined the flashlight straight into my eyes. I closed them, of course.

“Yeah, it’s me, you don’t have to do that. Was it you making those crazy strobe lights a second ago?” I asked, maybe seeming more calm than I really was.

“No, this is the first time I’ve turned this on tonight. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now open your eyes.”

“What, why?”

She used her bony fingers to pull back my eyelids. It burnt like hell, and I was totally blinded.

“Jesus Christ, stop!” I yelled, trying to turn my head away from her.

It was so painful and so electrically bright that I felt like I might never see anything else again.

I felt like the blinding light went dark for just a fraction of a second. Then again, and again.

I don’t know what kind of optical illusion this is. It might be part of the brain’s natural defenses to having an asshole frying your eyes out. It was so bright, then so dark. It was a perfect rhythm, like pure white waves crashing and pulling from shore at a thousand times speed. It was giving me a migraine, but I couldn’t get away. Somehow. I don’t think she’s physically stronger than me, but the numbness in my body from before was now overwhelming. Somehow, I was losing my sense of agency. My thoughts were getting animalistic, base-level to my hierarchy of needs. One hundred percent of my brain power was being used up on handling the hyperstimulus it was receiving. Every photon had to be tracked and accounted for. I had nothing left to work with. Starting a motion to think or do anything was met by my brain’s equivalent of a busy signal. I’m saying this because it’s the only way I can rationally explain what happened next.

“Mina, listen to me. Think back two weeks ago. I sent you one of my essays. It was the one about H.G. Spector.”

What? I sort of remember, but why is she bringing that up now?

“He died in 1917, a few days after the new year. He was a soldier, just recently made it back home a week or so earlier.”

So fucking what? What is wrong with you? ...The train guy?

“He was riding on a train. Something happened in the engine room, and he went to go check. He was that kind of guy. When something was wrong, he always went to help. It was his sense of duty. It was his purpose. Do you remember what happened to him?”

What? No, not really. I skipped most of that essay, like I do all of them. I don’t remember anything about an engine room.

“You read it. I know for a fact that you did. Think harder.”

I didn’t fucking read it. I don’t know anything about 1917, I don’t know anything about Spector, I don’t know anything about trains, I don’t know what happened to his skin, I don’t know anything. I don’t know.

“He was caught in a boiler explosion. It incinerated him, mostly. Not all of him; it didn’t even kill him. Do you remember what he looked like? Do you remember the images I embedded?”

I don’t remember any of it. Not a fucking thing. I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember his route. I don’t remember the drawing of his face, I don’t remember his hands, I don’t remember his wife, I don’t remember her crying. I don’t see pictures in my mind. I don’t see his skin boiling off his bone. I don’t see anything, and I don’t remember anything. I never read it.

“You read it. You read every word. You studied every image; even though it wasn’t from that event, and even if you didn’t understand what you were looking at. You don’t think you remember. But you do.”